"Of course," roared out Jack, impatiently, "did you think I was talking of——?" Here Mr. Hamlin offered a name that suggested the most complete and perfect antithesis known to modern reason.
"I didn't kill him!" said Gabriel, quietly.
"Of course not," said Jack, promptly. "He sorter stumbled and fell over on your bowie-knife as you were pickin' your teeth with it. But go on—how did you do it? Where did you spot him? Did he make any fight? Has he got any sand in him?"
"I tell ye I didn't kill him!"
"Who did, then?" screamed Jack, furious with pain and impatience.
"I don't know—I reckon—that is——" and Gabriel stopped short with a wistful perplexed look at his companion.
"Perhaps, Mr. Gabriel Conroy," said Jack, with sudden coolness and deliberation of speech, and a baleful light in his dark eyes, "perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me what this means—what is your little game? Perhaps you'll kindly inform me what I'm lying here crippled for? What you were doing up in the Court House, when you were driving those people crazy with excitement? What you're hiding here in this blank family vault for? And maybe, if you've got time, you'll tell me what was the reason I made that pleasant little trip to Sacramento? I know I required the exercise, and then there was the honour of being introduced to your little sister—but perhaps you'll tell me WHAT IT WAS FOR!"
"Jack," said Gabriel, leaning forward, with a sudden return of his old trouble and perplexity, "I thought she did it! and thinkin' that—when they asked me—I took it upon myself! I didn't know to ring you into this, Jack! I thought—I thought—thet—it 'ud all be one—thet they'd hang me up afore this—I did, Jack, honest!"
"And you didn't kill Ramirez?"
"No."