“But we can’t be flying about like a parcel of wild geese, because of your fever,” said the procurador.
“Certainly not,” said Bob humbly.
“It’s an ugly customer the fever, though, Mr Whyte,” observed Mr Trace; “and I calculate we ought to do him that pleasure. What do you think, Squire?”
“I reckon he’s rather indiscreet in his askin’s,” said the judge, in a tone of vexation. “However, as he wishes it, and if it is agreeable to you,” added he, turning to the Ayuntamiento; “and as it’s you, Bob, I calculate we must do what you ask.”
“Thankee,” said Bob.
“Nothing to thank for,” growled the judge; “and now go into the kitchen and get a good meal of roast beef, d’ye hear?” He knocked upon the table. “Some good roast beef for Bob,” said he to a negress who entered; “and see that he eats it. And get yourself dressed more decently, Bob—like a white man and a Christian, not like a wild redskin.”
The negress and Bob left the room. The conversation now turned upon Johnny, who appeared, from all accounts, to be a very bad and dangerous fellow; and after a short discussion, they agreed to lynch him, in backwoodsman’s phrase, just as coolly as if they had been talking of catching a mustang. When the men had come to this satisfactory conclusion, they got up, drank the judge’s health and mine, shook us by the hand, and left the room and the house.
The day passed more heavily than the preceding one. I was too engrossed with the strange scene I had witnessed to talk much. The judge, too, was in a very bad humour. He was vexed that a man should be hung who might render the country much and good service if he remained alive. That Johnny, the miserable, cowardly, treacherous Johnny should be sent out of the world as quickly as possible, was perfectly correct, but with Bob it was very different. In vain did I remind him of the crime of which Bob had been guilty—of the outraged laws of God and man—and of the atonement due. It was no use. If Bob had sinned against society, he could repair his fault much better by remaining alive than by being hung; and as to anything else, God would avenge it in his own good time. We parted for the night, neither of us convinced by the other’s arguments.
We were sitting at breakfast the next morning, when a man, dressed in black, rode up to the door. It was Bob, but so metamorphosed that I scarcely knew him. Instead of the torn and bloodstained handkerchief round his head, he wore a hat; instead of the leathern jacket, a decent cloth coat. He had shaved off his beard too, and looked quite another man. His manner had altered with his dress; he seemed tranquil and resigned. With a mild, submissive look, he held out his hand to the judge, who took and shook it heartily.
“Ah, Bob!” said he, “if you had only listened to what I so often told you! I had those clothes brought on purpose from New Orleans, that, on Sundays at least, you might look like a decent and respectable man. How often have I asked you to put them on, and come with us to meeting, to hear Mr Bliss preach? There is some truth in the saying, that the coat makes the man. With his Sunday coat, a man often puts on other and better thoughts. If that had been your case only fifty-two times in the year, you’d have learned to avoid Johnny before now.”