“You talk like a fool,” said Shefford, sharply, and he strode right up to Joe.
“See here, Shefford, we've been pards. You're making it hard for me. Reckon you ain't square.”
Shefford shot out a long arm and his hand clutched the Mormon's burly shoulder.
“Why am I not square? What do you mean?”
Joe swallowed hard and gave himself a shake. Then he eyed his comrade steadily.
“I was afraid you'd kill him. I reckon I can't blame you. I'll help you get away. And I'm a Mormon! Do you take the hunch?... But don't deny you killed him!”
“Killed whom?” gasped Shefford.
“Her husband!”
Shefford seemed stricken by a slow, paralyzing horror. The Mormon's changing face grew huge and indistinct and awful in his sight. He was clutched and shaken in Joe's rude hands, yet scarcely felt them. Joe seemed to be bellowing at him, but the voice was far off. Then Shefford began to see, to hear through some cold and terrible deadness that had come between him and everything.
“Say YOU killed him!” hoarsely supplicated the Mormon.