--But
it happened. I killed him. I got away. She and the baby are down in the
little cottage again--down in York State--an' I know she's awake this
minute--our wedding day--thinking of me, an' praying for me, and counting
the days between now and spring. We were going to South America then."
Brokaw rose to his feet, and put fresh wood into the stove.
"I guess it must be pretty hard," he said, straightening himself. "But
the law up here doesn't take them things into account--not very much. It
may let you off with manslaugher--ten or fifteen years. I hope it does.
Let's turn in."
Billy stood up beside him. He went with Brokaw to a bunk built against
the wall, and the sergeant drew a fine steel chain from his pocket. Billy
lay down, his hands crossed over his breast, and Brokaw deftly fastened
the chain about his ankles.
"And I suppose you think THIS is hard, too," he added. "But I guess you'd
do it if you were me. Ten years of this sort of work learns you not to
take chances. If you want anything in the night just whistle." It had
been a hard day with Brokaw, and he slept soundly. For an hour Billy lay
awake, thinking of home, and listening to the wail of the storm. Then he,
too, fell into sleep--a restless, uneasy slumber filled with troubled
visions. For a time there had come a lull in the storm, but now it broke
over the cabin with increased fury. A hand seemed slapping at the window,
threatening to break it.
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