The sheet-iron stove was glowing hot. An oil lamp
hung from the ceiling. Billy was sitting so that the glow of this fell in
his face. It scintillated on the rings of steel about his wrists. Brokaw
was a cautious man, as well as a clever one, and he took no chances.
"I like storms--when you're inside, an' close to a stove," replied Billy.
"Makes me feel sort of--safe." He smiled a little grimly. Even at that it
was not an unpleasant smile.
Brokaw's snow-reddened eyes gazed at the other.
"There's something in that," he said. "This storm will give you at least
three days more of life."
"Won't you drop that?" asked the prisoner, turning his face a little, so
that it was shaded from the light.
"You've got me now, an' I know what's coming as well as you do." His
voice was low and quiet, with the faintest trace of a broken note in it,
deep down in his throat. "We're alone, old man, and a long way from
anyone. I ain't blaming you for catching me. I haven't got anything
against you. So let's drop this other thing--what I'm going down to--and
talk something pleasant. I know I'm going to hang. That's the law. It'll
be pleasant enough when it comes, don't you think? Let's talk
about--about--home. Got any kids?"
Brokaw shook his head, and took his pipe from his mouth.
"Never married," he said shortly.
"Never married," mused Billy, regarding him with a curious softening of
his blue eyes.
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