“I mean, you infernal skunk, that afore ye leave this groun’, ye’ve got to make a clean breast o’ it, an’ clar me o’ the crime o’ murder.”
“What murder?” inquired Stebbins, prevaricatingly.
“Oh! you know what I’m talkin’ about! ’Twant no murder. ’Twar only a suicide; an’ God knows it broke my own heart.” Holt’s voice was husky with emotion. He continued, after a pause: “For all o’ that, appearances wur agin’ me: an’ you invented proofs that wud a stood good among lawyers, though thur as false as yur own black heart. Ye’ve kep’ ’m over me for years, to sarve yer rascally designs. But thur’s neither law nor lawyers hyur to help you any longer. Thur’s witnesses o’ both sides—yur own beauties down yander; an’ some hyur o’ a better sort, I reck’n. Afore them, I call on ye to declar that yur proofs wur false, an’ that I’m innocent o’ the crime o’ murder!”
There was a profound silence when the speaker finished. The strange and unexpected nature of the demand, held every one in breathless surprise. Even the armed men at the bottom of the vallon said not a word; and perceiving that, by the defection of Holt, there was almost gun for gun against them, they showed no signs of advancing to the protection of their apostolic leader. The latter appeared for a moment to vacillate. The fear depicted upon his features was blended with an expression of the most vindictive bitterness—as that of a tyrant forced to yield up some despotic privilege which he has long wielded. True, it mattered little to him now. The intended victims of his vile contrivance—whatever it may have been—were likely to escape from his control in another way; but, for all that, he seemed loth to part with even the shadow of his former influence. He was not allowed much time for reflection: scarce the opportunity to look round upon his Danites, which, however, he did—glancing back as if desirous of retreating towards them.
“Stan’ yur groun’!” shouted the squatter in a tone of menace—“stan’ yur groun’! Don’t dar to turn yur face from me! Ef ye do, ye’ll only get the bullet in yur back. Now, confess! or, by the etarnal God! you hain’t another second to sit in that seddle!” The quick threatening manner in which the speaker grasped his gun, told Stebbins that prevarication would be idle. In hurried speech, he replied: “You committed no murder, Hickman Holt! I never said you did!”
“No! but you said you would; and you invented proofs o’ it? Confess you invented proofs, an’ kep’ ’em over my head like a black shadder? Confess that!” Stebbins hesitated. “Quick, or ye’re a dead man!”
“I did,” muttered the guilty wretch, trembling as he spoke. “An’ the proofs wur false!”
“They were false—I confess it.”
“Enuf!” cried Holt, drawing down his gun. “Enuf for me. An’ now, ye cowardly snake, ye may go wi’ yur beauties yander. They’ll not like ye a bit the wuss for all this. Ye may go—an’ carry yur conscience along wi’ ye—ef that ’ll be any comfort to ye. Away wi’ ye!”
“No!” exclaimed a voice from behind, and at the same time Wingrove was seen stepping out from the rock. “Not yet adzactly. I’ve got a score to settle wi’ the skunk. The man who’d plot that way agin another, hain’t ought to live. You may let him off, Hick Holt, but I won’t; nor wud you eyther, I reck’n, if you knew—”