At the Pistols Point | Page 3

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 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