“Thanks, Peter, old friend,” he said. And then added with a whimsical touch: “I’m tired to death of hearing your dear old voice. You’ve said such a heap to-night. Get along. I don’t want you any more. You see you’re too big, and you sure take up too much room––in my heart. So long.”
So he had been driven from his friend’s side, and out into the blackest night he had ever known.
Yes, it was an old, old man that now lurched his way across the market-place toward his hut. He was weary, so weary in mind and spirit. There was nothing now left for him to do but to go home and––and sit there till the dawn. Was there no hope, none? There was none. No earthly force could save Jim now. It wanted less than an hour to dawn, and, between now and then–––
And yet he believed Jim could have saved himself. There was not a man in that room, from Doc Crombie downward, but knew that Jim was holding back something. What was it? And why did he not speak? 367 Peter had asked him while the farce of a trial was at its height. He had begged and implored him to speak out, but the answer he received was the same as had been given to the doctor. Jim had told all he had to tell. Oh, the whole thing was madness––madness.
But there was no madness in Jim, he admitted. Once when his importunities tried him Jim had shown him just one brief glimpse of the heart which no death penalty had the power to reveal.
Peter remembered his words now; they would live in his memory to his dying day.
“You sure make me angry, Peter,” he had said. “Even to you, old friend, I have nothing more to say of this killing than I have said to Doc, and the rest of ’em. I’ve done many a fool trick in my time, and maybe I’m doing another now. But I’m doing it with my eyes wide open. There’s the rope ahead, a nasty, ugly, curly rope; maybe plaited by a half-breed with dirty hands. But what’s the odds? Perhaps there’s a stray bit of comfort in that rope, in the thought of it. You know the old prairie saw: ‘It isn’t always the sunniest day makes the best picnic.’ Which means, I take it, choose your company of girls and boys well, and, rain or shine, you’ll have a bully time. Maybe there’s a deal I could say if I so chose, but, in the meantime, I kind of believe there’s worse things in the world than––a rawhide rope.”
It was just a glimpse of the man behind his mask of indifference, and Peter wondered.
But there was no key to the riddle in his words, no key at all. Somehow, in a vague sort of way, it seemed to him that Eve Henderson was in a measure the influence behind Jim. But he could not see how. He was well 368 aware of Jim’s love for her, and he believed that she was less indifferent to him now than when Will had been running straight. But for the life of him he could see no definite connection between such a matter and the murder. It was all so obscure––so obscure.
And now there was nothing left but to wait for the hideous end. He lurched into his hut, and, without even troubling to light his lamp, flung himself upon his bed.