"Well, I ain't sorry. I'll go along," was the reply.
On the morning of the second day, another coroner's inquest sat in Badger. Slim Terry faced it. A greenish pallor showed near his eyes and around the corners of his mouth, but he talked composedly.
Coroner.—"Did you shoot Bud Walton?"
"Yes."
"Tell us about it."
The prisoner passed a hand over his forehead and down to his chin, as though to clear his thoughts.
"This feller Walton, judge, he done run me out of Badger. First, though, he run me out of the Fashion. I ain't been in this town for six months till the day of the shooting. Yes, I was scared of him. I ain't a fighter, gen'l'men. I come in that day, because somebody done sent for me."
Coroner.—"Who sent for you?"
Slim pondered this question. "I ain't a-going to tell that," he said. "Well, I laid quiet at ol' Raphael's place on the aidge of town until dark, and then I sneaked up back of the Fashion. Nobody seen me. Somebody'd told me Bud Walton would likely do for Thomas there that night, and I figured to get him from that back hall in the mixup. One of us was sure to nail him."
"Who told you this?"