“It’s no use,” continued Bob, as if he did not hear the judge’s remark; “it must out. I fo’t agin it, and thought to drive it away, but it can’t be done. I’ve put a bit of lead into several before now, but this one——”
“What’s that?” cried the judge, chucking his cigar away, and looking sternly at Bob. “What’s up now? What are you saying about a bit of lead? None of your Sodoma and Lower Natchez tricks, I hope? They won’t do here. Don’t understand such jokes.”
“Pooh! they don’t understand them a bit more in Natchez. If they did, I shouldn’t be in Texas.”
“The less said of that the better, Bob. You promised to lead a new life here; so we won’t rake up old stories.”
“I did, I did!” groaned Bob; “and I meant it too; but it’s all no use. I shall never be better till I’m hung.”
I stared at the man in astonishment. The judge, however, took another cigar, lighted it, and, after puffing out a cloud of smoke, said, very unconcernedly—
“Not better till you’re hung! What do you want to be hung for? To be sure, you should have been long ago, if the Georgia and Alabama papers don’t lie. But we are not in the States here, but in Texas, under Mexican laws. It’s nothing to us what you’ve done yonder. Where there is no accuser there can be no judge.”
“Send away the nigger, squire,” said Bob. “What a free white man has to say, shouldn’t be heard by black ears.”