Part 45 (2/2)
”Brent ain't to be relied on, when it comes to this business,” he said, at last.
”Now, look-ee-heah,” the sheriff bristled again, ”I don't let no man make Brent out a liar; I don't kyeer who he is!”
”I ain't makin' Brent out a liar, Jess; but you don't know how this thing is! The night after I killed Tusk, Brent came in my room an' said he's goin' to take the blame. He said he was doin' it for the fun of the thing; but I knew better'n that from somethin' I heard one time. I knew he was doin' it for Miss Jane. I reckon I was so blame thankful I didn't think of it then--not till I went to his room later. But he was sittin'
in the dark, lookin' out the window, an', as he didn't hear me, I slipped back.”
The sheriff's face was a study, but no one could have described the look on another face pressed close to the folds of the library window curtains. Only the angels knew why her eyes grew wide and wonderingly deep with a new sort of tears that never before had bathed them. The imps of h.e.l.l may have surmised why her nails again pressed into her palms when Dale added:
”I was afraid he might be sorry for havin' made that promise; an', not wantin' him to change his mind, I never went back. You see, it looked like there might a-been a leetle chance one time of his takin' the teacher away--so jail was the best place for 'im. I wouldn't be tellin'
you this, but--but there's other things to be considered.”
”Are you drunk?” Jess suddenly asked.
”No, I ain't drunk! Come on; I'll go!”
”Don't be so danged fast, young feller,” the sheriff advised. ”When did you kill Tusk?”
”Last week. Come on, Jess.”
”Say, are you crazy?”
”No, I'm not crazy, neither!”
”Then I am,” Jess spat decisively. ”Not a mile from this heah gate I seen Tusk no moh'n half hour ago! When I hollered at 'im, he ducked an'
run!”
Dale's tongue went again to his lips. He stared at the sheriff with about as much surprise as the sheriff was staring at him. Finally he said:
”I must a-missed 'im. Ruth was lookin' at me, an' maybe that throwed me off. But, anyhow, you want me for killin' Bill Whitly nine year ago!”
The sheriff's jaws dropped.
”Say,” he whispered, ”what you tryin' to do--commit suicide? or write yohse'f a invite to the pen?”
”I ain't hankerin' for neither,” Dale answered in a dejected voice.
”Wall, you're hankerin' for somethin', that's a fac'! You jest shet up with them ghost stories! The Cunnel don't want nothin' like that, scarin' the wimmin-folks! I wa'n't sheriff nine year ago, no-how,” he thoughtfully fingered his chin, ”an' I reckon if the statters of limintation was looked up we'd find they'd done run out on that old fracas.”
Zack, who had come in answer to the bell, was lingering inside the door with his eyes rolling and every nerve a-tingle. At this last expression of relenting from the man of law, he stepped out.
”Mawnin', Ma.r.s.e Jess,” he bowed. ”Ef you'se'll let me rest yoh hat, I'se gwine fetch sumfin good fer de heat. De Cunnel'd be proud ef you'd 'cept it, an' powerful outraged wid me ef I let you go home 'thout it!”
Jess left the porch to have a word with his man, and during the minutes he was away Dale watched him with serious interest. There was something more on the mountaineer's mind which had not been said; some further part of his duty lay before him; so, as the sheriff returned, and at the same moment Zack reappeared with refreshments, he announced:
”An' there was Tyse Brislow I killed on the raft goin' down to Frankfo't!”
”Good Lawd, Ma.r.s.e Dale,” the negro exclaimed in terror, ”is you still tellin' 'bout all dem mens you'se shot up?”
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