Newt Spooner rose, and stretched his arms. His food and rest had refreshed him, and the red spots had gone out of his cheeks.
"What for," he inquired coolly, "air ye a-tellin' me all this-hyar business?"
The Deacon's grave eyes clouded, but otherwise his expression did not change.
"We figured you'd be interested, son. You were the first Spooner they ever put behind penitentiary bars. This man did it. We figured that when we came to punish these fellers—" He broke off with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Ye 'lowed ye mout git me ter kill 'em?" Newt spoke with absolutely no betrayal of interest.
"Jest the lawyer, Newt," interpolated Red Newton ingratiatingly. "He's your'n. Hit's yore right ter punish him."
The late convict wheeled on the speaker, and his face blackened and lowered.
"The hell hit is!" he screamed. "I hain't aholden nothin' 'g'inst ther lawyer. He didn't do nothin' but what he had a license ter do. I knows who I'm atter. You folks wants two men killed, an' you wants me ter be ther feller ter go ter the penitentiary fer doin' hit. What the hell did any of ye do fer me last time? What the hell do I owe any of ye, wuth goin' back thar fer?"
For a moment, a general silence of dazed astonishment followed the outburst. It was the Deacon who broke it at last.
"All right, son," he said almost gently. "Every man accordin' to his lights. I reckon you ain't goin' to tell anybody what you've heard?"