GUILTY
He took his stand upon the simple confession that it was he who had
killed the deer. He knew that he could not say more without saying too
much. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not make
him say more. Fortunately, he did not have to say more, or much more,
because Farmer Sands availed himself of the occasion to preach a homily
on the evil of boys carrying firearms.
“Who you be, anyways?” he demanded shrewdly.
Westy’s one fear was that Luke would speak and spoil everything. For a
moment, he seemed on the point of speaking. Probably it was only the
sight of his little daughter that deterred him from doing so. It was a
moment fraught with peril to Westy’s act. Then, it was too late for Luke
to speak and Westy was glad of that.
He was on his way to Chandler between the game warden and the farmer.
“Well, who you be, anyways?” Farmer Sands repeated.
It was Terry, the game warden, who answered him across Westy’s shoulder.
“Why, Ezrie, he’s jus’ one of them wild west shootin’, Indian huntin’,
dime novel readin’ youngsters what oughter have some sense flogged inter
him. I’d as soon give a boy of mine rat poison to play with as one of
these here pesky rifles. It’s a wonder he hit him, but that’s the way
fools allus do. What’s your name, kid? You don’t b’long round here?”
Westy, albeit somewhat frightened, was self-possessed and shrewd enough
not to beguile his escort with an account of himself.
“I told you all I’m going to,” he added. “I was going through the woods
and I saw the deer and killed him. Then, I went through to Barrett’s and
I was going to come along this road to Chandler. If I have to be taken
to a judge, I’ll tell him more if he makes me. Please take your hand off
my shoulder because I’m not going to try to run away.”
“Yer been readin’ Diamond Dick?” asked Farmer Sands, squinting at him
with a look of diabolical sagacity.
“No, I haven’t been reading Diamond Dick,” said Westy.
“Wasn’t yer stayin’ up ter Nelson’s place?” the game warden asked.
“Yes, he’s my uncle,” said Westy.
“He know yer got a gun?”
“Sure, he does.”
“Well, you’d better ’phone him when you get to Chandler if you don’t
want ter spend the night in a cell.”
Westy balked at the sound of this talk, but he only tightened his sweaty
palm in his pocket and said, “He didn’t kill the deer. Why should I
’phone to him?”
Farmer Sands poked his billy-goat visage around in front of Westy’s face
and stared but said nothing.
In Chandler, the trio aroused some curiosity as they went through the
main street and Westy felt conscious and ashamed. He wished that Mr.
Terry would conceal his flaunting badge. As they approached the rather
pretentious County Court House, he began to feel nervous. The stone
building had a kind of dignity about it and seemed to frown on him.
Moreover in the brick wing he saw small, heavily barred windows, and
these were not a cheerful sight.
What he feared most of all was that once in the jaws of that unknown
monster, the law, he would spoil everything by saying more than he meant
to say. He was probably saved from this by the dignitary before whom he
was taken. The learned justice was so fond of talking himself that Westy
had no opportunity of saying anything and was not invited to enlarge
upon the simple fact that he had killed a deer. Probably if the local
dignitary had known Westy better he would have expressed some surprise
at the boy’s act but since, to him, Westy was only a boy with a gun
(always a dangerous combination) there was nothing so very extraordinary
in the fact of his shooting a deer. Fortunately, he did not ask
questions for Westy would not have gone to the extreme of actually
lying.
He stood before the desk of the justice, one sweaty palm encircled about
his precious fortune in his pocket, and felt frightened and ill at ease.
“Well, my young friend,” said the justice, “those who disregard the game
laws of this state must expect to pay the penalty.”
“Y-yes, sir,” said Westy nervously.
“It’s an expensive pastime,” said the justice, not unkindly.
“Yes, sir,” said Westy.
“I can’t understand why you did it, a straightforward, honest-looking
boy like you.”
Westy said nothing, only set his lips tightly as if to safeguard himself
against saying too much or giving way to his feelings.
“A boy that is honest enough to speak up and confess—to do such a
thing—I can’t understand it,” the justice mused aloud, observing Westy
keenly.
“It’s lettin’ ’em hev guns that’s to blame,” observed the game warden.
“It’s dressin’ ’em all up like hunters an’ callin’ ’em scaouts as duz
it,” said Farmer Sands. “They was wantin’ me ter contribute money fer
them scaouts, but I sez—I sez no, ’tain’t no good gon’ ter come of it,
dressin’ youngsters up ’an givin’ ’em firearms an’ sendin’ ’em out ter
vialate the laws.”
“They seem to know how to tell the truth,” said the justice, apparently
rather puzzled.
“He was gon’ ter hide in Luke Meadows’ place when we catched him
red-handed an’ he wuz sceered outer his seven senses an’ that’s why he
confessed,” said Farmer Sands vehemently.
“Nobody can scare me into doing anything,” said Westy, defiantly. “I
told because I wanted to tell and the reason you didn’t give money to
the boy scouts was because you’re too stingy.”
This was the second time on that fateful day that Westy had shot and hit
the mark. It seemed to amuse both the judge and the game warden.