“This denial,” said the president, “can avail you nothing. Your life for many years has been a continuous career of crime. It is necessary that you should die. You had better improve the little time left you in preparation.”
Helm looked hopelessly around, but saw no glance of sympathy in the stern features of his judges. Beckoning to a person standing near, he whispered,
“Can I see you alone for a few minutes?”
The man, supposing that he was desirous of obtaining spiritual counsel, replied,
“I will send for a clergyman.”
“No,” was the instant rejoinder. “I want no clergyman. You’ll do as well.”
Stepping into the inner room, Helm closed the door, and, turning to the man, in an anxious tone asked,
“Is there no way of getting out of this scrape?”
“None. No power here is available to save you. You must die.”
“Well, then,” said he, “I’ll admit to you that I did kill a man by the name of Shoot, in Missouri. When I left there I went to California, and killed another chap there. I was confined in jail in Oregon, and dug my way out with tools given me by my squaw.”