n his pocket and
his failure to get it out threw him into a rage and he died. I told the
coroner that he was shot through the breast, and I slyly contrived not
to be placed upon my oath. They had Alf's confession, and that was
enough. And no one cared to strip the dead man to examine the wound. It
was a piece of humbuggery, as all coroners' inquests are, and so the
verdict was given. I am a mean man; I acknowledge it--I am narrow and
vindictive, but I would have made a confession of the manner of Dan's
death rather than to see Alf hanged. I knew that there would be a new
trial; I intended to leave the community and I resolved to defer my
statement until just before going. That about covers the case, I think."

"Will you go with me to a justice of the peace, write out your statement
and swear to it?" I asked, striving to be calm.

"Certainly. Old Perdue is a justice. We'll go over there."

The moon was still high as I galloped toward town with the statement in
my pocket. I went straightway to Conkwright's house and with the
door-knocker set every dog in the town to barking.

"Why, what on earth is the matter?" the Judge asked as he opened the
door. "Oh, it's you, is it, Bill? I've got a negro here somewhere, but
Gabriel might blow a blast in his ear and never stir his wool. Come into
the library."

He lighted a lamp, and I handed him the doctor's statement. He read it
without the least show of surprise; and, putting the paper into his
pocket, he sat down, closed his eyes, and with his thumb and forefinger
pressed his eye-lids.

"Etheredge is going to leave in the morning," I said.

"He ought to be sent to the penitentiary. But let him go. Penitentiary
is better off without him. In the morning we will have several of our
leading doctors exhume the body to verify the statement. I'll attend to
it. Yes, sir. A certain form must be observed. A jury will be impaneled,
the statement will be read, and the judge will, in a sort of a charge,
declare that the prisoner is innocent. Some things are strange after
all. A venomous scoundrel, but let him go. Yes, I'll attend to
everything in the morning. You'd better sleep here."

"No, I'm going to the jail and then to the telegraph office."

CHAPTER XXI.

CONCLUSION.

How soft had been the day, how tender the tone of every voice. The road
under the moon was white and from a persimmon tree in an old field came
the trill of a mockingbird. Two happy men were riding tow