“Anyhow, he’ll hang for it,” muttered Lena, when she came to herself in her decent room. Johnny’s mother was moaning over her. Lena pushed the old woman gently away, and commanded the retreating officer,
“Say, won’t he? Out with it!”
“Well,” replied the officer in a comfortable tone, “a good deal depends. Liquor men ain’t skerce in this county. He’d get twenty witnesses to swear to an alibi as easy as he’d get one.”
“Let ’em swear,” said Lena. “I see him do it. I saw him heave the stone.”
“That might alter the case, and again it mightn’t,” replied the officer; “it would depend on the value of the testimony—previous reputation, and so on.”
Lena groaned.
“But I caught him by the arm! I stood alongside of him. I was watching for it. I thought I’d be able to stop him. I’m pretty strong. I grabbed him—but he flung me off and stamped on me. I see him heave the rock. See! There’s the mark, where he kicked me. Then he ran, and I after him. I can swear to it before earth and heaven. I see him fling that rock!”
“You see,” observed the officer, “it ain’t a case of manslaughter just yet. The minister was breathing when they moved him.”
They carried him to his own rooms, for it was not thought possible to move him further. He had not spoken nor stirred, but his pulse indicated that a good reserve of life remained in him. The wound was in the lung. The stone was a large and jagged one, with a cruel edge. It had struck with malignant power, and by one of those extraordinary aims which seem to be left for hate and chance to achieve.