Roaring was on his feet, as were half of the men in the room. The judge continued to stare at Hashknife, whose voice rang like a bell in that crowded room.
“What do you mean, Hartley?” cried Roaring.
“Ask the judge; he knows.”
The old judge got slowly to his feet, his face white, his mouth half-open, breathing heavily. His right hand was in the drawer of his desk, clutching the heavy revolver.
“Be quiet!” cried Hashknife. “Let him talk!”
The judge wet his lips with his tongue.
“It’s time to tell,” he said. “Yes, it’s time. Hartley’s right. I hoped the jury—but that’s past. I killed Mallette. The gambling element warned me to get out of town. They swore to kill me. You all know it. I wouldn’t run. I—I waited for them to come after me. Mallette came. He flung open the door of my house and came in. I—I was sitting in my chair beside my table, and I shot once.”
His eyes went slowly around the room and he swallowed painfully.
“I never shot a man before,” he continued. “Wong Kee and I dragged him away. Better to have left him there and sent for the sheriff. But a man don’t know what he would do, until the time comes. Pete Conley is innocent. I killed in what I thought was self-defense.”
He lifted his head and his voice grew stronger.