That Maggard would ever leave that bed save to be borne to his grave seemed violently improbable, and if his silence could be assured while he lay there, success for the plotter would after all be complete. Yet Rowlett pretended to ponder the proposition which he burned ardently to accept.
"Why air ye willin' ter make thet compact with me?" he inquired dubiously, and the other answered promptly:
"Because ter send ye ter sulter in ther penitenshery wouldn't pleasure me ner content me ... no more then ter see ye unchurched fer tale-bearin'. Ye've got ter die under my own hands.... Ef ye makes oath an' abides by hit ... ye needn't be afeared thet I won't keep mine, too."
For a brief interval the standing man withheld his answer, but that was only for the sake of appearances. Then he nodded his head.
"I gives ye my hand on hit. I sw'ars."
Something like a grunt of bitter laughter came from the bed.
"Thet hain't enough ... fotch me a Bible."
"I don't know whar hit's at."
"I reckon they've got one—in a godly dwellin'-house like this. Find hit—an' speedily ... or I'll call out."
Rowlett turned and left the room, and presently he returned bearing a cumbersome and unmistakable tome.