"Hain't thet es good a reason es any?"
The voice on the bed did not rise but it took on a new note.
"Thar couldn't handily be but jest ... one better one ... Bas."
"What mout thet be?"
"Ther right one. Ther reason of a sorry craven thet aimed at a killin' ... an' sought ter alibi hisself."
Rowlett stood purple-faced and trembling in a transport of maniac fury with which an inexplicable fear ran cross-odds as warp and woof. The other had totally deluded him until the climax brought its accusation, and now the unmasked plotter took refuge in bluster, fencing for time to think.
"Thet's a damn lie an' a damn slander!" he stormed. "Ye've done already bore witness afore these folks hyar thet I sought ter save ye."
"An' I plum believed hit ... then. Now I knows better. I sees thet ye led me inter ambush ... thet ye planted them peanut hulls.... Thet ye writ thet letter ... an' jest now ye stole hit outen my pocket."
"Thet's a lie, too. I reckon yore head's done been crazed. I toted ye in hyar an' keered fer ye."
"Ye aimed ter finish out yore alibi," persisted Maggard, disdainfully. "Ye didn't low I seed ye steal ther letter ... but I gives ye leave ter tek hit over thar an' and burn hit up, Rowlett—same es them peanut hulls.... I hain't got no need of nuther them ... nur hit."