At the Pistols Point | Page 4

seconds
passed; then Fitch caught up the pen. "Go on!" he groaned. "I'll write
any lie you like; that'll do you no good; no one will believe a word of
it." Yet the perspiration was streaming down his face; it splashed upon
the paper 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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