The man's suddenly whitened face made his unshaven beard seem to bristle over his face like some wild animal's. “Well, ef you kalkilate to blow me, you've got to blow Wade and his widder too. Jest you remember that,” he said whiningly.
“I've thought of that,” said Brooks coolly, “and I calculate that to prevent it is worth about that hundred dollars you got from that poor woman—and no more! Now, sit down at that table, and write as I dictate.”
The man looked at him in wonder, but obeyed.
“Write,” said Brooks, “'I hereby certify that my accusations against the late Pulaski Wade of Heavy Tree Hill are erroneous and groundless, and the result of mistaken identity, especially in regard to any complicity of his in the robbery of John Stubbs, deceased, and Henry Brooks, at Heavy Tree Hill, on the night of the 13th August, 1854.'”
The man looked up with a repulsive smile. “Who's the fool now, Cap'n? What's become of your hold on the widder, now?”
“Write!” said Brooks fiercely.
The sound of a pen hurriedly scratching paper followed this first outburst of the quiet Brooks.
“Sign it,” said Brooks.
The man signed it.
“Now go,” said Brooks, unlocking the door, “but remember, if you should ever be inclined to revisit Santa Ana, you will find ME living here also.”