“On my soul!”
“Then, Randal—yer knows I stole that cash an’ sunk it all in minin’. An’—I wanted Ted killed jes’ now ’cause he would ’a’ given me up. An’ tell me God will furgive me fur all that.”
There was blood on Ted’s lip where he bit it, and his strong hands were working. Even in this hour Jimmie had no forgiveness for that day on the Mains cattle camp.
Randal was kneeling upright, and his face was dark. There was nothing in him but disgust, and a righteous anger. The heavy pressing dark of the shanty; the drunken shouts up the street, and the plop-plop of the guttering candle flame filled up the measure of squalid dread.
“I—can’t,” said Randal, briefly. “Before God I’d be lying if I told you that I thought you deserved forgiveness, Jimmie.”
Ted stopped with a little cry, pitiful as a mother’s.
“Jimmie—Jimmie, lad. Will yer take it from me? Oh, Jimmie, dear old chap! D’yer think as anythin’ cud change me, Jimmie?”
“Yer can’t!” cried Jimmie. “Yer dun’t know! I never run when Murray tolt me ’bout Buggy, fur I saw as I cud get yer inter trouble. I knew as yer’d take it ’fore yer put it outer me—an’ yer did. But I funked wi’ the boys—now yer know—git out!”
“I knowed that long ago. I knowed yer’d
