When the fever started to leave, he got so weak ’at Horace thought he was goin’ to flicker out, an’ he felt purty bad about it. He didn’t regret havin’ done it, an’ said he would do just the same if he had it to do over; but it calls up some mighty serious thoughts when a fellow reflects that he is the one who has pushed another off into the dark. On the night when it seemed certain that Badger-face would lose his grip, we all went into his room an’ sat around waitin’ for the end, to sort o’ cheer him up a little. Life itself is a strange enough adventure, but death has it beat a mile.
Along about nine o’clock, Badger said in a low, trembly voice: “What’d you fellers do to me, if I got well?”
He didn’t even open his eyes; so we didn’t pay any heed to him. When he first got out of his head, he had rambled consid’able. Part o’ the time he seemed to be excusin’ himself for what he had done, an’ part o’ the time he seemed to be gloatin’ over his devilment; but the’ wasn’t any thread to his discourse so we didn’t set much store by it. After waitin’ a few minutes, he quavered out his question again, an’ the Friar told him not to worry about anything, but just to set his mind on gettin’ well.
Badger shook his head feebly from side to side an’ mumbled, “That don’t go, that don’t go with me.” He paused here for a rest, an’ then went on. “I’ve been in my right mind all day, an’ I’ve been thinkin’ a lot, an’ tryin’ some experiments. I can breathe in a certain way which makes me easier an’ stronger, an’ I can breathe in another way which shuts off my heart. I don’t intend to get well merely for the pleasure o’ gettin’ lynched; so if that’s your game, I intend to shut off my heart an’ quit before I get back the flavor o’ life. It don’t make two-bits difference with me either way. What d’ ya intend to do?”
He had been a long time sayin’ this, an’ we had exchanged glances purty promiscuous. We hadn’t give a thought as to what we would do with him, providin’ he responded to our efforts to save his life; but it was purty generally understood that Badger had fitted himself to be strung up, just the same as if he hadn’t been shot at all. Now, though, when we came to consider it, this hardly seemed a square deal. There wasn’t much common sense in chokin’ a man’s life down his throat for two weeks, only to jerk it out again at the end of a rope, an’ we found ourselves in somethin’ of a complication.
“What do ya think we ort to do to ya?” asked Tank.
“Lynch me,” sez Badger, without openin’ his eyes; “but I don’t intend to wait for it. I don’t blame ya none, fellers. I did ya all the dirt I could; but I don’t intend to furnish ya with no circus performance—I’m goin’ on.”
He began to breathe different, an’ his face began to get purplish an’ ghastly. “Can he kill himself that way?” I asked the Friar.
“I don’t know,” sez the Friar. “I think ’at when he loses consciousness, nature’ll take holt, an’ make him breathe the most comfortable way—but I don’t know.”
“Let Olaf take a look at his flame,” sez Horace; so Olaf looked at Badger a long time.