“Hit war Severance,” he mumbled. “I fought back—I reckon I kilt him, too.”
Glory gazed in bewildered alarm about the house. Brother Bud Hawkins was at Uncle Jimmy Litchfield’s place, and she must get medical help, though she feared that the wounded man would be dead before her return.
When she came back with the preacher, who also “healed human bodies some,” Colby was still alive but near his passing.
“Ef thar’s aught on your conscience, Sim,” said the old preacher gently, “hit’s time ter make yore peace with Almighty God, fer ye’re goin’ ter stand afore him in an hour more. Air ye ready ter face Him?”
The dying man looked up, and above the weakness and the suffering that filled his eyes, showed a dominating expression of terror. If ever a human being needed to be shriven he thought it was himself.
They had to bend close to catch his feeble syllables, as he said: “Git paper—write this down.”
The preacher obeyed, kneeling on the floor, and though the words were few, their utterance required dragging minutes, punctuated with breaks of silence and gasping.
“Hit warn’t John Spurrier—thet kilt Captain Comyn back tha’r in the Philippines.... I knows who done hit——” He broke off there, and the girl closed her hands over her face. “I sought ter kill Spurrier—but I warn’t with them—thet attackted him hyar—an’ wounded ther woman.”
Once more a long hiatus interrupted the recital and 279 then the mangled creature went on: “Hit was ther oil folks thet deevised thet murder scheme.”
The preacher was busily writing the record of this death-bed statement and Glory stood pale and distraught.