Part 32 (2/2)

There wasn't much common sense in chokin' a man's life down his throat for two weeks, only to jerk it out again at the end of a rope, an' we found ourselves in somethin' of a complication.

”What do ya think we ort to do to ya?” asked Tank.

”Lynch me,” sez Badger, without openin' his eyes; ”but I don't intend to wait for it. I don't blame ya none, fellers. I did ya all the dirt I could; but I don't intend to furnish ya with no circus performance-I'm goin' on.”

He began to breathe different, an' his face began to get purplish an'

ghastly. ”Can he kill himself that way?” I asked the Friar.

”I don't know,” sez the Friar. ”I think 'at when he loses consciousness, nature'll take holt, an' make him breathe the most comfortable way-but I don't know.”

”Let Olaf take a look at his flame,” sez Horace; so Olaf looked at Badger a long time.

Olaf hadn't wasted much of his time on Badger. He wasn't long on forgiveness, Olaf wasn't; an' ever since the time 'at Badger had been so enthusiastic in tryin' to have him lynched for killin' Bud Fisher, Olaf had give it out as his opinion that Badger was doomed for h.e.l.l, an' he wasn't disposed to take any hand in postponin' his departure.

Olaf was the matter-o'-factest feller I ever knew. The' don't seem to be much harm in most of our cussin', but when Olaf indulged in profanity, he was solemn an' earnest, the same as if he was sayin' a prayer backwards.

”It don't look like Badger's flame,” sez he after a time. ”It's gettin' mighty weak an' blue, an' the's a thick spot over his heart which shows plainer 'n the one over his wound.”

”I move we give him a fresh start,” sez Horace.

”He'd ort to be lynched,” sez Tank. ”I don't see why we can't try him out now, an' if we find him guilty, why he can kill himself if he wants to, or else get well again an' we'll do it for him.”

Neither what Horace said nor what Tank said called out much response.

We knew the' wasn't any one could say a good word for Badger-face an'

so he well deserved his stretchin'; but on the other hand, there he was turnin' gray before our eyes, an' it went again' our nature to discard him, after havin' hung on to him for two weeks. The Friar left the side of the bed an' retired into a corner, leavin' us free to express ourselves.

”I don't see how we can let him go free,” sez Tank. ”He sez himself 'at he ort to be lynched; an' when a feller can't speak a good word for himself, I don't see who can.”

”Badger-face,” sez Horace, ”you're the darnedest bother of a man I ever saw. First you infest us until we have to shoot a hole through you, an' then we have to nurse you for two weeks, an' now you're diggin' your heels into our consciences. I give you my word we won't lynch you if you get well. We'll turn you over to the law.”

Badger's thin lips fell back over his yellow teeth in the ghastliest grin a live man ever hung out. ”The law,” sez he with bitter sarcasm, ”the law! Have you ever been in a penitentiary?”

”No,” sez Horace, ”I have not.”

”Well, I have,” sez Badger. ”I was put in for another feller's deed; an' they gave me the solitary, the jacket, the bull-rings, the water-cure, and if you'll roll me over after I'm dead, you can still see the scars of the whip on my back. I've tried the law, an' I'll see you all d.a.m.ned before I try it again.”

Badger-face was as game as they generally get. As soon as he stopped talkin' he began to breathe against his heart again. Horace stood lookin' at him for a full minute, an' then he lost his temper.

”You're a coward, that's what you are!” sez Horace. ”I said all along 'at you were a coward, an' another feller said so too, an' now you're provin' it. You can sneak an' kill cows an' cut saddles in the dark, but you haven't the nerve to face things in the open. Now, you're sneakin' off into the darkness o' death because you're afraid to face the light of life.”

This was handin' it to him purty undiluted, an' Badger opened his eyes an' looked at Horace. His eyes were heavy an' dull, but they didn't waver any. ”d.i.n.ky,” sez Badger-face, ”the only thing I got again' you is your size. I've been called a lot o' different things in my time; but you're the first gazabo 'at ever called me a coward-an' you're about the only one who has a right to, 'cause you put me out fair an'

square. I wish you had traveled my path alongside o' me, though. You ain't no milksop, but after you'd been given a few o' the deals I've had, you'd take to the dark too. You can call me a coward if you want to, or, after I'm gone, you can think of me as just bein' dog tired an' glad o' the chance to crawl off into the dark to sleep. I don't want to be on your conscience; that's not my game. All I want is just to get shut o' the whole blame business.”

He talked broken an' quavery, an' it took him a long time to finish; but when he did quit, he turned on his bad breathin' again. Horace had flushed up some when Badger had mentioned milksop; but when he had finished, Horace took his wasted hand in a hearty grip, an' sez: ”I take it back, Badger. You ain't no coward. I only wanted to taunt you into stickin' for another round; but I think mighty well o' ya. Will you agree to cut loose from the Ty Jones crowd an' try to be a man, if we give you your freedom, a new outfit, and enough money to carry you out of the country?”

It was some time before Badger spoke, an' then he said: ”Nope, I can't do it. Ty knows my record, an' he's treated me white; but if I quit him, he'll get me when I least expect it. Now understand, d.i.n.ky, that I don't hold a thing again' you, you're the squarest feller I've ever met up with; but I'm not comin' back to life again. From where I am now, I can see it purty plain, an' it ain't worth the trouble.”

”You could write back to Ty that you made your escape from us,” sez Horace.

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