“Heredity,” he said slowly. Then he looked up at Hashknife. “Do you believe in it, Hartley?”
“Not much.”
Lila was looking at old Rance, her eyes wide.
“I didn’t, Hartley. Jim Stevens did. He was educated, dyin’ from consumption, but one of the whitest men God ever made. His wife went insane. Tried to kill him. They took her to the asylum, where she died.”
Old Rance sighed heavily and shook his head wearily.
“I’ve kept still all these years, boys, but I’m tellin’ it now. I was broke. My wife was dead and I had a kid to take care of, so I robbed a bank. But they blocked me, and I had to drop the money.
“I got away and headed for my shack. I knew I was caught, but I aimed to put up a fight. As I went through the doorway, I thought they had beat me to it. A man was there, and I shot him.”
Old Rance looked around at the tense faces of the men.
“Yeah, I shot him; It was Jim Stevens—he came to see me. Poor old Jim—my only friend at that time. I told him what had happened and he forgave me. He said it didn’t make any difference. I reckon I was half-crazy. And then he asked me if they had recognized me.
“I didn’t think they had. And then he made me a proposition. Boys, it was a sneakin’ thing to do; but I put my coat and hat on him, strapped my belt on him, took my extra gun and fired it down through a hole in the floor; so it wouldn’t make much noise.