"Good God, mammy—it must have been Gray or me."
"One of you, shore. He said he saw you shoot at the same time, and only one of you hit him. I hope hit was you."
Jason turned—horrified, but she was calm and steady now.
"Hit was fitten fer you to be the one. Babe never killed yo' daddy,
Jasie—hit was Steve."
XLII
Gray Pendleton, hearing from a house-servant of the death of Steve Hawn, hurried over to offer his help and sympathy, and Martha Hawn, too quick for Jason's protest, let loose the fact that the responsibility for that death lay between the two. To her simple faith it was Jason's aim that the intervening hand of God had directed, but she did not know what the law of this land might do to her boy, and perhaps her motive was to shield him if possible. While she spoke, one of her hands was hanging loosely at her side and the other was clenched tightly at her breast.
"What have you got there, mammy?" said Jason gently. She hesitated, and at last held out her hand—in the palm lay a misshapen bullet.
"Steve give me this—hit was the one that got him, he said. He said mebbe you boys could tell whichever one's gun hit come from."
Both looked at the piece of battered, blood-stained lead with fascinated horror until Gray, with a queer little smile, took it from her hand, for he knew, what Jason did not, that the night before they had used guns of a different calibre, and now his heart and brain worked swiftly and to a better purpose than he meant, or would ever know.
"Come on, Jason, you and I will settle the question right now."