"That man there—him, Slim Terry—he's lying to you, judge. Yes. He is. He's lying. He didn't kill Bud. He's lying, judge. He is; honest."
"Who killed him then?" said the coroner. The sheriff walked over and stood beside the girl.
"I did. I shot him. I—"
"Tilly, you're crazy. Stop her, sheriff. She ain't telling the truth. She's—" The prisoner made to shove her back.
"Order in the court!" Turner roared.
"Listen to me. I'm going to tell you. Yes, I am. I'm going to tell."
"Silence, gentlemen. Let's hear what she's got to say," the sheriff ordered.
"I knew Bud Walton was coming to the Fashion that night to look for Jeff Thomas." Tilly told her story gustfully, her voice shrill. "Yes, I knew it. I told Jeff so. Why shouldn't I? Bud told me. He'd been drinking the night before. That man sitting there was my fellow. He came to see me that afternoon, and I had to hide him in ol' Raphael's house like any dog. All because of Bud Walton. Yes."
"Go on. Quiet, please."
"Slim, he wanted to shoot Bud himself. So would you, judge, if you knew. But I said no. Do you know why he wanted to shoot? I'll tell you. Bud Walton was bad. Yes. He was. He was a bad man. He asked me to marry him, and when I laughed, he said he'd take me anyhow. Yes. That is what he said. He was bad. And I got afraid. He done run Slim out of town last year and there was nobody—oh, don't let 'em all stare at me that way, judge. I'm telling the truth. Before God, I am."