Suddenly Peter’s eyes shot in the direction of the door. A faint, distant sound reached them. It was a sound of bustle from the direction of the saloon. Eve heard too. They both understood.
“Oh, God!” she cried.
But Peter’s eyes were on Elia’s face once more. They were stern, and a curious light was in them.
“I seem to see it now,” he said slowly. “Jim denied his guilt because he was innocent. But he admitted 379 that the knife which killed Will was his, although no knife was found. He spoke the truth the whole time. He would not stoop to a lie, because he was innocent. Eve, that man was shielding the real culprit. Do you know any one that Jim would be likely to give his life for? I do.” Suddenly he swung round on Elia, and, with an arm outstretched, and a great finger pointing, he cried, “Why did you kill Will Henderson?”
Inspiration had come. A great light of hope shone in his eyes. His demand was irresistible to the suffering, demented boy. Elia’s eyes gleamed with a sudden cruel frenzy. There was the light of madness in them, a vicious, furious madness in them. Hatred of Will surged through his fevered brain, a furious triumph at the thought of having paid Will for all his cruelties to him swept away any guilty fears as he blurted out his reply.
“Because I hate him. Because he’s kicked me till I’m nigh dead. Because––I––I hate him.”
It was a tremendous moment, and fraught with such possibilities as a few minutes ago would have seemed impossible. There was a silence of horror in the room. The shock had left Eve staggered. Peter was calculating what seemed almost impossible chances. Elia––Elia was in the agonies of realizing what he had done, and battling with an overwhelming physical weakness.
The sounds of commotion at the saloon were more decided. There was the ominous galloping of horses, and the rattle of the wheels of a buckboard. Peter glanced at the window. The sky outside was lightening. Suddenly he shivered.
“You killed him. How? How?” His voice was tense and harsh, though he strove to soften it.