At the Pistols Point | Page 4

as he proceeded to write, in trembling characters, at Cattermole's dictation.
"'The real truth is that I, Samuel Fitch, shot James Savage with my own hand. The circumstances that led to my shooting him I will confess and explain hereafter. When he had fallen I heard a shout and someone running up. I got behind a tree, but I saw Harry Cattermole, the poacher, trip clean over the body. His gun went off in the air, and when he tried to get up again, I saw he couldn't because he'd twisted his ankle. He never saw me; I slipped away and gave my false evidence, and Harry Cattermole was caught escaping from the wood on his hands and knees, with blood upon his hands and clothes, and an empty gun. I gave evidence against him to stop him giving evidence against me. But this is the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God!'"
Cattermole paused, Fitch finished writing; again the eyes of the two men met; and those of the elder gleamed with a cunning curiosity.
"How--how did you know?" he asked, lowering his voice and leaning forward as he spoke.
"Two and two," was the reply. "I put 'em together as soon as ever I saw you in the box."
"That'll never be believed--got like this."
Will it not? Wait a bit; you've not done yet. 'As a proof of what I say '--do you hear me?--'as a proof of what I say, the gun which the wad will fit, that saved Henry Cattermole's life, will be found --'"
Cattermole waited until the old man had caught him up.
"Now," said he, "you finish the sentence for yourself!"
"What? " cried Fitch.
"Write where that gun's to be found--you know--I don't--and then sign your name!"
"But I don't know- "
"You do."
"I sold it! "
"You wouldn't dare. You've got that somewhere, I see it in your face. Write down where, and then show me the place; and if you've told a lie--"
The revolver was within a foot of the old man's head, which had fallen forward between his hands. The pen lay blotting the wet paper. Cattermole took the brandy-bottle, poured out a stiff dram, and pushed it under the other's nose.
"Drink! " he cried. "Then write the truth, and sign your name. Maybe they won't hang an old man like you; but, by God, I sha'n't think twice about shooting you if you don't write the truth!"
Fitch gulped down the brandy, took up the pen once more, and was near the end of his own death-warrant, when the convict sprang lightly from the table and stood listening in the centre of the room. Fitch saw him, and listened too. In the church they were singing another hymn; the old man saw by his watch, still lying on the table, that it must be the last hymn, and in a few minutes his wife would be back. But that was not all. There was another sound--a nearer sound--the sound of voices outside the door. The handle was turned--the door pushed--but Fitch himself had locked and bolted it. More whispers; then a loud rat-tat.
"Who is it?" cried Fitch, trembling with excitement, as he started to his feet.
"The police! Let us in, or we break in your door! "
There was no answer. Cattermole was watching the door; suddenly he turned, and there was Fitch in the act of dropping his written confession into the fire. The convict seized it before it caught, and with the other hand hurled the old man back into his chair.
"Finish it," he said below his breath, "or you're a dead man! One or other of us is going to swing! Now, then, under the floor of what room did you hide the gun? Let them hammer, the door is strong. What room was it? Ah, your bedroom! Now sign your name."
A deafening crash; the lock had given; only the bolt held firm.
"Sign!" shrieked Cattermole. A cold ring pressed the old man's temple. He signed his name, and fell forward on the table in a dead faint.
Cattermole blotted the confession, folded it up, strode over to the door, and smilingly flung it open to his pursuers.

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