“Have you nothing to say, Peter Conley?”
“I didn’t kill him, Judge; that’s all I say.” Hashknife got slowly to his feet, facing the judge.
“If you don’t mind, Judge,” he said slowly, “I’d like to speak for Pete Conley.”
“I object!” snapped Ryker hotly.
“You look like you had once before,” said Hashknife. “I’m kinda surprized at all that red on your handkerchief, Ryker; I thought you’d bleed yaller.”
Ryker turned appealingly to the judge, but the judge did not look at him.
“What did you want to say, Hartley?” he asked.
“Why not sentence the guilty man?”
“The guilty man?” It was a whisper— a hoarse whisper.
“The man who killed Joe Mallette by mistake, Judge. The man who dragged Joe Mallette from your door and took him across that vacant piece of ground, draggin’ his boots full of gravel. Mallette was so drunk that he made a mistake in houses, Judge. You’re safe; you shot because you thought he had come to fulfill that warnin’. Tell the truth!”