Sam obeyed. Very carefully he went over the incidents of the morning. He described his cautious advance through the thick growth, his ascent of the first ridge, his discovery of the dark object across the ravine. In detail he explained how he had conquered his attack of “buck fever”; how he had taken aim and fired; how he had been overcome by consternation when the head of a man appeared. He did not deny that he had been slow in crossing the gully. In fact, he made no attempt to present his case in a more favorable light than it deserved.
Mr. Parker did not interrupt the story.
“Sam,” he said, at its close, “this is an extraordinary yarn of yours. It is borne out in part by the empty cartridge shell. I can see, too, that one barrel of the gun has been discharged. Also I am fully convinced that you have tried to present the exact truth about the shooting. I shall assume that the facts are as you have stated them. I don’t need to add that they make the case very serious.”
“I—I’m afraid it is, sir.”
“Yet you haven’t hesitated to make confession?”
Sam moved uneasily. “I—I—oh, but I did hesitate, sir. It was a hard pull to bring myself up to the point. I guess I walked miles and miles before I was ready to come back and tell you everything.”
“I wonder,” said Mr. Parker meditatively, “I wonder if it occurred to you that you might run away from all the trouble.”
The boy reddened. “It did occur to me, sir. And—you may think it a funny way to put it, but it’s true—my legs just seemed to be determined to carry me down to the railroad station. And they did! I was there a long time, looking at time-tables.”
“But finally they lost interest?”
“Yes, sir. I’d reasoned it out that there could be no use in bolting; it wouldn’t help anybody.”