"Decided what?" Phelps asked, staring at him.
"To help you. I don't know yet how we can manage it."
Phelps looked at him quietly for a few minutes. Then he turned away silently, and went to the bunk, sitting down on it, and letting his head fall into his hands.
"So you think I'm doin' right," he murmured, his face still lowered. "I'm kinder glad you do."
"Of course it is right. It's the only thing. I don't think I could look the world in the face again if you were to be hanged." He moved over to the bunk, and sat down beside Phelps. The candle had burned low, and the wick, spluttering in the melted tallow, left the room in a fitful gloom.
"I never killed any man unless I had to," Phelps continued slowly. "I didn't mean to kill old Puckett that night. He jest held on so tight I had to git away somehow." He ended with a deep groan.
In the long silence the candle gave a last flicker and went out. Except for a narrow square of light from the window, half obscured by the heavy, ominous looking bars, the room was now in total darkness.
Finally Phelps stretched out his arms and rising, went back to the table. "But I reckon it's all regrettin' to no use now," he murmured, picking up the piece of paper on which he had written, and folding it carefully. "I wants you to send this to my old mother. She lives up in South Ca'lina. I've wrote her name on here. I wants you to send this with it, too." He pushed his hand into his woollen shirt, and pulled out a leather pocketbook. "In here's receipts for all my money in a New 'leans bank. I want she should get all of it. I've been sendin' her money all along, but I never let her know whar I was." He leaned across the table, closer to Sargent till he could see his face more distinctly. "I don't want her to know what happened to me." His voice sank to a whisper. "Can't you jest tell her I died, or something? That's jest what made me give in to you to-day—you telling 'bout Puckett's wife left all alone with nobody to take care of her when she was gettin' old and feeble. It put me to thinkin' 'bout my old ma, all by herself. I didn't care after that what you folks did with me. I felt, somehow, like nothin' made no difference any more. When I thought 'bout the way I had run away from that poor old soul and left her all by herself, somethin' inside me went all to smash. I didn't have a drop of fightin' blood left in me.... You see that's what you done for one man, youngster. 'Tain't agoin' to hurt ye any, neither.... Now don't stay here no longer. Jest go along home. Here's my hand. Forget all 'bout me, and don't never blame yourself. It had to be some day and—after all—it won't be the gallows." He walked around the table and handed the package to Sargent.
"I don't understand," Sargent exclaimed, not moving from his seat on the bunk. "Why give me the package now? The other matter," he lowered his voice, "is so much more important. How are you going to manage it? I must know, so as to help you."
Phelps looked down at him, his lips moving into a kindly smile. "It's easy enough. I don't mind; as soon as you're gone I'll do it. Trust me to know the easiest way. I'm a sure shot, and I'm not the one to fail on myself."