“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Bill’s laugh was in itself a threat. “Say! I got about as much heart as them stone men we’re after. You wait and see how much heart I’ve got for you—you hound!”
“It’s murder!” Jack Huntley’s voice rose to a shriek. “You wouldn’t stand by and see him kill a man that—that’s all shot up—” His eyes turned glassily to Abington.
“Why shouldn’t I?” Never had Abington’s voice been more casually brutal. “You’re going to die anyway, you know.”
“Yeah, and you won’t die so darned peaceful, either,” Bill added darkly.
“Of course you can save yourself a good deal of suffering,” Abington pointed out in his calm professional tone, “by writing a full confession. In that case I should feel obliged to protect you from Bill’s vengeful nature.”
“It’s worse than Injuns!” Huntley cried, his fear rising to panic.
“Not if you write the truth,” Abington pointed out, taking from an inner pocket a water-warped notebook. “Here’s a fountain pen which may contain enough ink, unless you wax overeloquent. Write the truth, Huntley. I’ll take care of Bill.”
“You’ll have a hell of a time, professor, if he don’t clean his dirty soul right down to the bottom!”
“I’ll have to be raised up,” whined the sick man, darting furtive glances here and there as if, even yet, he hoped by some miracle to escape.
“For legal purposes,” Abington directed, holding Huntley up and giving Bill a quelling look, “begin like this: ‘I, Jack Huntley, of sound mind—and of my own free will—do hereby confess—that on the—’”