Badger-face was as game as they generally get. As soon as he stopped talkin’ he began to breathe against his heart again. Horace stood lookin’ at him for a full minute, an’ then he lost his temper.
“You’re a coward, that’s what you are!” sez Horace. “I said all along ’at you were a coward, an’ another feller said so too, an’ now you’re provin’ it. You can sneak an’ kill cows an’ cut saddles in the dark, but you haven’t the nerve to face things in the open. Now, you’re sneakin’ off into the darkness o’ death because you’re afraid to face the light of life.”
This was handin’ it to him purty undiluted, an’ Badger opened his eyes an’ looked at Horace. His eyes were heavy an’ dull, but they didn’t waver any. “Dinky,” sez Badger-face, “the only thing I got again’ you is your size. I’ve been called a lot o’ different things in my time; but you’re the first gazabo ’at ever called me a coward—an’ you’re about the only one who has a right to, ’cause you put me out fair an’ square. I wish you had traveled my path alongside o’ me, though. You ain’t no milksop, but after you’d been given a few o’ the deals I’ve had, you’d take to the dark too. You can call me a coward if you want to, or, after I’m gone, you can think of me as just bein’ dog tired an’ glad o’ the chance to crawl off into the dark to sleep. I don’t want to be on your conscience; that’s not my game. All I want is just to get shut o’ the whole blame business.”
He talked broken an’ quavery, an’ it took him a long time to finish; but when he did quit, he turned on his bad breathin’ again. Horace had flushed up some when Badger had mentioned milksop; but when he had finished, Horace took his wasted hand in a hearty grip, an’ sez: “I take it back, Badger. You ain’t no coward. I only wanted to taunt you into stickin’ for another round; but I think mighty well o’ ya. Will you agree to cut loose from the Ty Jones crowd an’ try to be a man, if we give you your freedom, a new outfit, and enough money to carry you out of the country?”
It was some time before Badger spoke, an’ then he said: “Nope, I can’t do it. Ty knows my record, an’ he’s treated me white; but if I quit him, he’ll get me when I least expect it. Now understand, Dinky, that I don’t hold a thing again’ you, you’re the squarest feller I’ve ever met up with; but I’m not comin’ back to life again. From where I am now, I can see it purty plain, an’ it ain’t worth the trouble.”
“You could write back to Ty that you made your escape from us,” sez Horace.
“That’s the best idee you’ve put over,” sez Badger, after he’d thought it out; “but I haven’t enough taste for life to make the experiment. Don’t fuss about me any more. I don’t suffer a mite. I feel just like a feller in the Injun country, goin’ to sleep on post after days in the saddle. He knows it’ll mean death, but he’s too tired out to care a white bean.”
“Have you ever been in the army?” asked the Friar from his place in the corner. We all gave a little start at the sound of his voice, for it came with a snap an’ unexpected.
Badger’s lips dropped back for another hideous grin. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve been in both the penitentiary and the army—and they’re a likely pair.”
“Did you have a buck-skin bag?” asked the Friar, comin’ up to the bed.