“I could ’a’ got away, Freel.” he went on. “But you wasn’t to blame for what was bein’ done t’ me. You was only doin’ your duty.”
Freel motioned for another drink, and the man gave him a generous portion.
“Duty!”
Freel’s voice was so low that the crowd shifted in closer to hear what he was saying.
“I was doin’ my duty, Sarg? No, I wasn’t. I was glad the judge gave you life, instead of the rope. I’ll tell you why.”
Freel’s eyes shifted around the crowd, and he nodded.
“Remember the day Cleve Hart was killed? I got shot that day—just a scratch. I was in that sheep-herder’s cabin when Cleve Hart came. He—they told me he had said things about the woman who lived there.
“I picked up the shotgun and came out. Maybe he didn’t recognize me, but he shot. I killed him and rode away.”
“You killed him!” exclaimed the judge. “You?”
“Me,” admitted the sheriff. “I—got—scared—afterwards. I’m—a—coward, judge.”