“You are a dreadful murderer, Bob, a very considerable one,” continued the judge; “but I tell you to your face, and not to flatter you, there is more good in your little finger than in Johnny’s whole hide. And I’m sorry for you, because, at the bottom, you are not a bad man, though you’ve been led away by bad company and example. I calculate you might still be reformed, and made very useful—more so, perhaps, than you think. Your rifle’s a capital good one.”
At these last words the men all looked up, and threw a keen inquiring glance at Bob.
“You might be of great service,” continued the judge encouragingly, “to the country and to your fellow-citizens. You’re worth a dozen Mexicans any day.”
Whilst the judge spoke, Bob let his head fall on his breast, and seemed reflecting. He now looked up.
“I understand, Squire; I see what you’re drivin’ at. But I can’t do it—I can’t wait so long. My life’s a burthen and a sufferin’ to me. Wherever I go, by day or by night, he’s always there, standin’ before me, and drivin’ me under the Patriarch.”
There was a pause of some duration. The judge resumed.
“So be it, then,” said he with a sort of suppressed sigh. “We’ll see the body to-day, Bob, and you may come to-morrow at ten o’clock.”
“Couldn’t it be sooner?” asked Bob impatiently.
“Why sooner? Are you in such a hurry?” asked Mr Heart.
“What’s the use of palaverin’?” said Bob sulkily. “I told you already I’m sick of my life. If you don’t come till ten o’clock, by the time you’ve had your talk out and ridden to the Patriarch, the fever’ll be upon me.”