"I wasna thinking o' that. A man flying from justice is condemned by the act."
"It would have made no matter. There is only one verdict and one end possible."
"Have you then confessed the murder?"
He awaited the answer in an agony. It came with a terrible distinctness. "Whaley lived thirty hours. He told. His brother-in-law has gone on with the cattle. Four of the drivers are come back as witnesses. They are in the house."
"But you have not yourself confessed?"
"Yes. I told Sheriff Gillelands I shot the man. If I had not done so you would; I knew that. I have at least spared you the pain and shame of denouncing your own son!"
"Oh, David, David! I would not. My dear lad, I would not! I would hae gane to the end o' the world first. Why didna you trust me?"
"How could I, father?"
He let the words drop wearily, and covered his face with his hands. After a pause, he said, "Poor Lulu! Don't tell her if you can help it, until—all is over. How glad I am this day that my mother is dead!"
The wretched father could endure the scene no longer. He went into the outer room to find out what hope of escape remained for his son. The sheriff was full of pity, and entered readily into a discussion of David's chances. But he was obliged to point out that they were extremely small. The jury and the judge were all alike cattle men; their sympathies were positively against everything likely to weaken the discipline necessary in carrying large herds of cattle safely across the continent. In the moment of extremest danger, David had not only refused assistance, but had shot his employer.