“Would you have mercy on me if I were?”
“I should be sorry for you, but I couldn’t let you go.”
“You won’t believe me, but it’s the God Almighty’s truth: I didn’t know Joe intended to kill that sheep. He asked me to show him over the pass. I had no intention of killing anything. I wish to God you would let me go!” His voice was tense with pleading.
“How about this, Gregg?” called Ross. “Your guide insists he had no hand in killing the ram?”
“He fired first, and I fired and finished him,” retorted Gregg.
“’Twas the other way,” declared Edwards. “The beast was crippled and escaping—I killed him with my revolver. I didn’t want to see him go off and die—”
“I guess that settles it,” said Cavanagh, decisively. “You take your medicine with Joe. If the justice wants to let you off easy, I can’t help it, but to turn you loose now would mean disloyalty to the service. Climb back into your saddle.”
Edwards turned away with shaking hands and unsteady step. “All right,” he said, “I’ll meet it.” He came back to say: “There’s no need of your saying anything about what I’ve told you.”
“No, you are a stranger to me. I know nothing of your life except that I found you with Joe, with this pack on your horse.”
“Much obliged,” said he, with a touch of bitter humor.