At the Pistols Point | Page 3

a safe thing to come out o' that cold parlour o'
yours. So that was me you was locking out, was it? Yet you pretend
you don't know why I come! You know well enough. You know--you
know!"
The convict had seated himself on the kitchen table, and was glaring
down on the trembling old man in the chair. He wore a long overcoat,
and under it some pitiful rags. The cropped head and the legs swinging
in the striped stockings were the only incriminating features, and old
Fitch was glancing from the one to the other, wondering why neither
had saved him from this horrible interview. Cattermole read his
thoughts, and his eyes gleamed.
"So you think I've come all the way in these here, do you?" he cried,
tapping one shin. "I tell you I've walked and walked till my bare legs
were frozen, and then sat behind a hedge and slipped these on and
rubbed them to life again! Where do you think I got these rotten old
duds? Off of a scare-crow in a field, I did! I wasn't going to break into
no houses and leave my tracks all along the line. But yesterday I got a
long lift in a goods train, or I shouldn't be here now; and last night I did
crack a crib for this here overcoat and a bit o' supper, and another for
the shooter. That didn't so much matter then. I was within twenty mile

of you! Of you, you old devil--do you hear?"
Fitch nodded with an ashen face.
"And now do you know why I've come?"
Fitch moistened his blue lips. "To--to murder me!" he whispered, like a
dying man.
"That rests with you," said the convict, fondling his weapon.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Confess!"
"Confess what?" whispered Fitch.
"That you swore me away at the trial."
The old man had been holding his breath; he now expelled it with a
deep sigh, and taking out a huge red handkerchief, wiped the moisture
from his face. Meanwhile, the convict had descried writing-materials
on a chiffonnier, and placed them on the table beside the brandy-bottle
and the tobacco-jar.
"Turn your chair round for writing." Fitch did so. "Now take up your
pen and write what I tell you. Don't cock your head and look at me! I
hear the psalm-singing as well as you do; they've only just got started,
and nobody'll come near us for another hour. Pity you didn't go too,
isn't it? Now write what I tell you, word for word, or, so help me,
you're a stiff 'un!"
Fitch dipped his pen in the ink. After all, what he was about to write
would be written under dire intimidation, and nobody would attach any
importance to statements so obtained. He squared his elbows to the
task.
"'I, Samuel Fitch,'" began Cattermole, "'do hereby swear and declare
before God Almighty'--before God Almighty, have you got that

down?--'that I, Samuel Fitch, did bear false witness against my
neighbour, Henry Cattermole, at his trial at Bury Assizes, November
29th, 1887. It is true that I saw both Henry Cattermole and James
Savage, his lordship's gamekeeper, in the wood at Wolborough on the
night of September 9th in the same year. It is true that I was there by
appointment with Savage, as his wife stated in her evidence. It is not
true that I heard a shot and heard Savage sing out, "Harry Cattermole!"
as I came up and before ever I had a word with him. That statement
was a deliberate fabrication on my part. The real truth is--but hold on!
I'm likely going too fast for you--I've had it in my head that long! How
much have you got down, eh?"
"'Fabrication on my part,'" repeated old Fitch, in a trembling voice, as
he waited for more.
"Good! Now pull yourself together," said Cattermole, suddenly cocking
his revolver. "'The real truth is that I, Samuel Fitch, shot James Savage
with my own hand!'"
Fitch threw down his pen.
"That's a lie," he gasped. "I never did! I won't write it."
The cocked revolver covered him.
"Prefer to die in your chair, eh? "
"Yes."
"I'll give you one minute by your own watch."
Still covering his man, the convict held out his other hand for the watch,
and had momentary contact with a cold, damp one as it dropped into
his palm. Cattermole placed the watch upon the table where both could
see the dial.
"Your minute begins now," said he; and all at once the watch was
ticking like an eight-day clock.

Fitch rolled his head from side to side. "Fifteen seconds," said
Cattermole. The old man's brow was white and spangled like the snow
outside. "Half-time," said Cattermole. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty