“You couldn’t remove these things, could you?” he said, holding out his fettered hands.
“No,” answered the trooper, sharply.
“Ah!” sighed Jake, “I feared it was agin the rules. You couldn’t let me have the use of a file, could you, for a few minutes? What! agin’ rules too? It’s a pity, for I’m used to brush my teeth with a file of a mornin’, an’ I like to do it before breakfast.”
Jake interlarded his speech with a variety of oaths, with which we will not defile the paper, but he could extract no further reply from the trooper than a glance of scorn.
Left to himself, Jake again went to the window, which was a small cottage one, opening inwards like a door. He opened it and looked out. The sentinel instantly raised his carbine and ordered him to shut it.
“Hullo! Silas, is that you?” cried Jake in surprise, but paying no attention to the threat, “I thought you had quit for Heaven durin’ the last skrimidge wi’ the Reds down in Kansas? Glad to see you lookin’ so well. How’s your wife an’ the child’n, Silas?”
“Come now, Jake,” said the trooper sternly, “you know it’s all up with you, so you needn’t go talkin’ bosh like that—more need to say your prayers. Stand back and shut the window, I say, else I’ll put a bullet through your gizzard.”
“Well now, Silas,” said Jake, remonstratively, and opening the breast of his red shirt as he spoke, “I didn’t expect that of an old friend like you—indeed I didn’t. But, see here, if you raaly are goin’ to fire take good aim an’ keep clear o’ the heart and liver. The gizzard lies hereabout (pointing to his breast) and easy to hit if you’ve a steady hand. I know the exact spot, for I’ve had the cuttin’ up of a good bunch o’ men in my day, an’ I can’t bear to see a thing muddled. But hold on, Silas, I won’t put ye to the pain o’ shootin’ me. I’ll shut the window if you’ll make me a promise.”
“What’s that?” demanded the trooper, still covering the outlaw, however, with his carbine.
“You know I’m goin’ to my doom—that’s what poetical folk call it, Silas—an’ I want you to help me wind up my affairs, as the lawyers say. Well, this here (holding up a coin) is my last dollar, the remains o’ my fortin’, Silas, an’ this here bit o’ paper that I’m rappin’ round it, is my last will an’ testimonial. You’ll not refuse to give it to my only friend on arth, Hunky Ben, for I’ve no wife or chick to weep o’er my grave, even though they knew where it was. You’ll do this for me, Silas, won’t you?”