The little man covered his face with his hands and sobbed.
“O, I ain’t a-blamin’ her, Hank,” he blubbered. “Never was a better woman. I ain’t blamin’ her.”
He rocked himself back and forth for some time. His sobbing ceased. Suddenly he raised his face and the flames of hell glittered in his tear-washed eyes.
“I’m a white-livered coward, so I didn’t go in and kill him. He was a big man, and I ain’t no fighter. I run; don’t know why. Didn’t feel sore nor achy in my legs no more. I run and run and run till my breath give out, then I fell down and the stars swum ’round and went out. Then after awhile I was up and walkin’, and nothin’ would stand still. Things danced round and round me and the air was full of little spiteful, spittin’ lights and sounds like devils a-laughin’. And by and by I come to ol’ man Leclerc’s place. Don’t know why I went there. Nothin’ there but the place.
“I went in and laid down on the floor all broke up. And when I went to sleep, I dreamed of killin’ Donahan. I woke up and it was mornin’.
“First thing I heard was the rattle of some Red River carts goin’ north. I guess it was the devil that whispered somethin’ in my ear then. I run out and told a big lie to the bull-whackers. ‘Man a-dyin’ in here! Go as fast as you can to the next post and tell Father Donahan to come down to see the pore devil through with it!’
“Guess I looked like I’d been settin’ up for a week, so the bull-whackers believed it and went on north a-whackin’ their bulls into a swingin’ trot.
“Well, Donahan come all right.”
Here the little man lapsed into a stubborn silence. He leaned against the wall and for several hours there was no sound in the cabin but that of heavy breathing.
At length Hank got up and walked over to the little window. A dull grey blur had grown up in the East. It would soon be time. Hank sighed.