CHAPTER XXII
MURKY’S CONFESSION
Murky Nichols was a changed man. His spirit had been broken. No longer he assumed his defiant attitude, his blustering, cock-sure manner. His sins had found him out. He had been caught in the toils of the long-reaching arm of the police.
Whenever he was spoken to, he answered in monosyllables. For the most part, he sat brooding, eyes downcast, tormented by his thoughts. A short time before the police party prepared for its departure, he stirred from his lethargy and beckoned to Sergeant Richardson.
“There’s a few things I’d like to tell yuh. I know what yuh all think—that I’ve always been a bad egg an’ a crook. Yuh believe I’ve been runnin’ stolen fur through to the coast here fer a good many years. But that ain’t the truth.”
“What is the truth?” inquired Richardson.
“First, Sergeant, I’d like tuh ask yuh a question. How long do yuh think it’s been since I found out about the pass?”
“I can’t imagine, Murky. Tell me.”
“Eight years,” replied the outlaw. “It was eight years ago that I found it.”
“You found it?”
“Yeh,” drawled Nichols. “It was me. I was prospectin’ then an’, whether yuh believe it or not. I’d always been honest—never done a wrong thing. It was in the spring o’ the year. I’d been havin’ some hard luck the previous summer, pannin’ gold up along the Lobstick River. I was broke all the followin’ winter an’ when spring come Wandley staked me to a grubstake fer another try at gettin’ back what I’d lost.