V
“You might go and talk to the guard a little bit, I’ll be all right in a few minutes. You know this is the first time I’ve ever told it, and I guss I’m a bit worked up.”
Hank got up, without looking at Jim’s face. His own was white as a corpse. He moved over to the little iron door and spoke to the guard.
“Could you give me a drink of water—or could you make it whiskey? I’m sure that would be better for Jim.”
The guard passed him a flask, and told him to just keep it. Hank took a drink himself and handed it to Jim.
“Well, I guess ‘twould do me good. I believe if I was out of here I wouldn’t never take any more, but I don’t see any use stoppin’ now; anyhow I’ll need a lot of it in the mornin’. Just ask the guard if any word has come for me. I s’pose he’d told me, though, if it had.” Jim held the bottle to his mouth long enough to drink nearly half of what was left.
Hank looked out at the silent corridors. Over in the court he could still hear the hammer and the voices of the workmen; from the upper tiers, the wild shriek of an insane man called on someone to save him from an imaginary foe. A solitary carriage rolled along the pavement and the voices of two or three men singing came up from the street below. A faint breath from the lake just stirred the heavy prison smell that seemed dense enough to be felt. The guard asked him how he was managing to pass the night. Hank answered that it was going much faster than he had thought.
“Poor fellow,” said the guard, “I’ll be kind of lonesome when he’s gone. He’s been a good prisoner.” This was the highest character that a guard could give.
“Well, Hank, if you are ready now, I’ll go on with my story. That whiskey kind of braced me up, and I s’pose you needed it too, after listenin’ so long. I must hurry, for I ain’t near through with what I wanted to say. I’ve thought lots about how I hit her, and I s’pose I ought to think it was awful, and it looks so to me now, and still it didn’t seem so then. I can’t help thinkin’ of what that feller said to us in his speech. He claimed that punishin’ people didn’t do no good; that other people was just as likely to kill someone if you hung anybody, as they would be if you let ‘em go, and he went on to say that they used to hang people for stealin’ sheep and still just as many sheep got stole and probably more’n there was after they done away with it. I don’t s’pose I ever should have thought anything about it if I hadn’t killed her, but, of course, that made me think a lot. I’m sure that I wouldn’t do such a thing again; I wouldn’t be near so likely to do it as I was before, because now I know how them things commence, and I’m awful, awful sorry for her too. There wa’n’t no reason why she should die, and why I should have killed her, and if there was anything I could do to change it, of course I would.
“But I can’t really see how hangin’ me is goin’ to do any good. If it was I might feel different, but it ain’t. Now, all my life I always read about all the murders in the newspapers and I read about all the trials and hangin’s, and I always kind of wished I could go and see one. But I never thought I’d go this way. Why, I was readin’ about a murder and how a feller was found guilty and sentenced to be hung just before I killed her. And do you s’pose I thought anything about it? If there’d been forty scaffolds right before my eyes I’d have brought down that poker just the same. I don’t believe anyone thinks of gettin’ hung when they do it; even if they did think of it they’d plan some way to get ‘round it when they made up their mind to do the killin’. But they don’t think much about it. I believe sometimes that the hangin’ makes more killin’. Now look at them car-barn fellers; they just went out and killed people regardless, same as some men go out to shoot game. I don’t believe they’d ‘ve done it if it hadn’t been so dangerous. And then you know when they hung the whole three of ‘em at once, and one feller cut his own throat so as to cheat ‘em, and they took him right up and hung him, too, though he was so weak they had to carry him onto the scaffold, and the doctors done ever’thing they could do to keep him from dyin’ just so’s they could hang him. Well, you know they hadn’t any more’n finished them until another gang of young fellers commenced doin’ just the same kind of thing, and they are in jail now for murder, and you know one of ‘em came in here one day and looked at the other ones before he done the killin’. I half believe that all the fuss they made ‘bout them fellers and hangin’ ‘em and printin’ it all in the newspapers did more to make the other ones do it than anything else. But I s’pose there ain’t no use hangin’ ‘em unless you put it all in the newspapers, for it won’t scare anyone from doin’ it unless people know they are hung.
“But, of course what I think about it don’t make any difference, so I’d better hurry on. Well, after she fell over I stood still for a few minutes waitin’ for her to get up. Of course I thought she’d get right up again, and mebbe come back at me. But she didn’t move. Then I thought she was scarin’ me, and I just sat down for a few minutes to show her that I wa’n’t goin’ to be fooled in no such way. Still she didn’t stir. Then I commenced to be half scart and half mad. I didn’t think it was right to try to make me believe I had done anything like that. So I said, ‘When you’ve laid there long enough you’d better get up.’ Then I said, ‘What’s the use of playin’ theater, you can’t fool me. I’m goin’ to bed and when you get ready you can come along.’ But I didn’t go to bed; I just sat still a little longer, and then I stepped over by her head and looked down at it, and I thought it didn’t look right, and then I was scart in earnest. Just then I heard the kid cry, and I didn’t want him to come out, so I locked the outside door and took a good look to see that all the curtains was clear down, and went in to see the kid. I lit a candle in the bedroom and talked with him a little; told him ever’thing was all right and to go to sleep, and I’d come in again in a minute or two. Then I went back to the settin’ room to see her.
“Before I looked at her face I looked down to her feet to see if maybe they hadn’t moved, for I didn’t want to look at her face if Icould help it. And I thought mebbe this would be the best way. But the feet was just where they was before; then I looked at her hands and they hadn’t moved, so I knew I just had to look at her face. I hadn’t examined her very close before, I was so scart, and I never could look at blood or dead folks, but of course this was different; so I got down on the floor close up to her face, and I seen the great welt along her forehead and top of her head and across the temple, and ‘twas all covered with blood and a lot of it had got on the floor. Her eyes was wide open. I knew they didn’t see anything. They looked just as if they’d been turned to glass, before she’d had time to shut ‘em. I felt of her wrist to see if her pulse was goin’. At first I thought it wa’n’t, and then I thought I felt it go a little, and I never felt so good in all my life. I pushed my finger down harder, but I couldn’t get it again. Then I felt of her heart and it was just the same way. I leaned over to her ear, and asked her to please wake up, that I was awful sorry, and I didn’t know what I was doin’, and if she’d just speak I’d be good to her all my life and do ever’thing I could for her, and then I asked her to do it on account of the boy, but still she didn’t move. Of course I was almost scart to death by this time; first I thought I’d call the neighbors and send for a doctor and then I thought that was no use. If she wa’n’t dead I didn’t need him, and if she was I must try to do somethin’ so no one would find it out. Then I began to think what could be done to bring her to. I never had much experience with people that got hurt, except the ones I’d seen at the railroad, and I wa’n’t just sure what to do with anyone in this fix. But I’d read somethin’ about it somewhere, and so I went into the back room and drew some water into a pail and took an old cloth and got down on the floor and commenced washin’ her head. But I couldn’t see the first sign of life. Then I looked around for some whiskey and found a little in a bottle in the closet and poured some in her mouth, but it all run right out, and she didn’t move.
“Of course I never went to school very much but no matter how good an education I had I don’t s’pose I could tell you how I felt so you’d know it yourself. I never s’posed I’d do anything to get into any trouble, and I always thought I was different from criminals. But here I was in the house with her dead, and I’d killed her, and what would happen to me? I just pictured the headlines in the newspapers and the boys callin’ ‘all about the Jackson murder,’ and me tried for murder and hung, and the kid goin’ ‘round the rest of his life knowin’ that his father had killed his mother and then got hung.
“At first I just set paralyzed and sort of held my head in my hands and moaned, and wondered if mebbe it wa’n’t a dream and if I couldn’t wake up, and then I thought I’d go and give myself up to the police and be done with it, and then I thought I might just as well kill myself, so I went and got an old razor, that I used to shave with sometimes, and tried to get up my nerve to cut my throat. But somehow I couldn’t put the edge over my wind-pipe. I wish though now that I had. Did you ever try to kill yourself? Them people that say it’s only cowards that kill themselves don’t know what they’re talkin’ about. I’d like to see them try it once. I’d have killed myself only I didn’t have the nerve. It wa’n’t because I cared anything about livin’; but I just couldn’t cut my own throat. Then I thought mebbe she wa’n’t dead, and I’d lookagain. So I done just the way I had before,—commenced at her feet to see if they’d moved, then when I got up to her hands I thought one of ‘em had moved, and my heart just gave a great big jump. Then I remembered that I’d picked it up, when I’d felt for her pulse and had put it down in a different place. Then I looked up to her face and it was just the same. It was white as a sheet, all except the long red and black welt and the blood, and her eyes wide open, and lookin’ right straight up to the ceilin’ starin’ just like a ghost. Then I felt of her hands and feet, and they was cold as ice and she was stiff, and I knew it was all off and she was dead.
“If you don’t mind I’ll just take a little more of that whiskey before I go on; the whole thing’s been a little wearin’ on me and I think it’ll brace me up a bit. You’d better have some, too. That guard is a good feller, considerin’ the place he’s in. I believe if you hadn’t come I’d told my story to him. I didn’t feel as if I could go without tellin’ someone how it really was. You see no one ever made the least bit of allowance for me in the trial, and I got tired of talkin’ to my lawyer all the time. He always said that what I told him didn’t amount to anything, and he was so well educated that he couldn’t understand me anyhow.
“When I was sure that she was dead, I just throwed myself over on the floor, and laid my face flat down on my arm and give up. I’m sure I cried and I thought they could hear me next door, but I guess they didn’t. Anyhow I cried without payin’ any attention to ‘em. I must have laid this way for ten or fifteen minutes without once lookin’ up, and she was right close to me, and I could just reach out my hand and touch her. And I hadn’t begun to think what I’d do. Then after I’d laid a while, I just thought mebbe I’d ought to pray. It had been a long while since I’d prayed. Of course, I hadn’t paid much attention to such things when I was all right; I guess there ain’t many people that does, except women and children, but I always really believed in it, just the same as I do now. I kind of thought that God knew that I wasn’t wicked enough to kill her, and have all this trouble, and bring all that misery on the kid; so I thought I’d try him. I didn’t know much about prayers except only the ones I’d learnt long ago, and they didn’t any of ‘em seem to fit this case. But I didn’t need to know any prayers; I just got down on my knees and prayed myself. I begged God to have her come back; I told him how good she was, and how the boy needed her and what a hard time I’d always had, same as I told you, only not near so long, and I apologized the best I could for not goin’ to church more reg’lar and not ever prayin’ to him, and I asked him to forgive me for the time I kicked her, and the other things I’d done, and I promised if he only would let her come back I’d always be good and take care of her and the boy, and never do anything wrong and always go to church and confessional, and love God and Jesus and the Virgin and all the saints, and quit politics and drinkin’, and do right. I prayed and prayed, and I meant it all, too. And I don’t believe it was all for myself, ‘though I s’pose most of it was, but I really felt awful sorry for her, as I have ever since, and I felt awful sorry for the boy, who never had anything at all to do about it all.
“Then after I quit prayin’ I got up slow, thinkin’ that it might havedone some good, and that mebbe she’d be all right, so I started in, just as I had before, with her feet to see if they’d moved. I s’pose the reason I done this way was that if I saw her head first and knew she was dead ‘twould be all off the first thing; and when I commenced with her feet I always had some hope till I got clear up to her head. Well, her feet hadn’t moved a bit. Then I went to her hands, and they was just in the same place, and I began to feel it wa’n’t any use to look at her head; but I did. And there it was just as white as that plaster-Paris lady, and her eyes lookin’ straight up.
“Then I felt sure ‘twas all off. I’d done everything I could think of, and I’d prayed just as hard as I knew how, and I was sure no one ever meant it more’n I did or wanted it any more, and I knew, of course, God had seen the whole thing and could do it if he wanted to and that he didn’t want to, and that she was clear dead. I kind of half set and half laid down on the floor a little while longer, tryin’ to think about it and what I was goin’ to do. But I couldn’t make any plans; I kep’ thinkin’ about how it had all happened, and it begun to seem as if it wa’n’t really me that hit her with the poker, but as if both of us was somebody else and I was sort of dreamin’ about it all. Ain’t you ever had them kind of feelin’s when somethin’ awful has happened? But, of course, nothin’ like that ever happened to you. I thought most about that beefsteak, and how I stopped and bought it, and didn’t go in and get a drink, and all the time it seemed to me just as if that was where I made my big mistake. And then I thought how awful near I come to goin’ into the saloon instead of the butcher-shop, and then some of the time I’d kind of feel as if mebbe I was goin’ into the saloon after all, and it wa’n’t goin’ to happen. Don’t you know how it is when anybody’s died or anything happened? You think about everything that’s done, so as to see if mebbe you can’t make it come out some other way after all? Well, that’s the way I done about every little thing, and every word we both spoke till I hit her with the poker. Another thing where I almost missed killin’ her was that poker; that coal pail didn’t belong in the settin’ room at all, but ought to have been in the kitchen, and I don’t know how it ever got in there. Mebbe the boy lugged it in for a drum. You know he didn’t have many playthings, or mebbe she started a little fire in the settin’ room, for ‘twas the first cold day. I don’t see how it could have been that either, for she was washin’ that day and wouldn’t have any time to set in there. But I don’t know as it makes any difference; the coal pail was in the settin’ room and the poker was in the pail, and they was right before my eyes at the time. If they hadn’t been I never would’ve used the poker. When she stood up and told me to kill her, I’d most likely struck her with my fists and that would only knocked her down. But anyhow it didn’t do any good to go over it, for I couldn’t go into the saloon instead of the butcher-shop, and I couldn’t get that coal pail out of the settin’ room, and it had all been done—and she was dead! And I’d killed her! After I’d went over this a long time I made myself stop so I could do somethin’ that would be some use, for I knew there was lots to be done before mornin’, and I hadn’t a minute to lose. I knew I must get up off’n the floor and try to act like a man, and not give up, no matter how bad it was. But before I got up I thought I’d just take one more look to make sure that there wa’n’t no use. So Iwent over her again, just as I’d done before, and it came out the same way anyhow. I didn’t much think it was any use then and would’ve just about as soon begun at the head and got through with it right away.
“After I had looked her over again I got up and set down in a chair to make up my mind what to do. I hadn’t been there very long when I knew I couldn’t figure it out; ‘twas too much for me the way I was, and so I thought I’d just quit tryin’ and do a few things first. And then I wondered what time ‘twas. I hadn’t thought anything about the time before, but I s’posed it must be almost mornin’ for just then I heard an express wagon drive along the street, and anyhow it seemed an awful long while since I got home. The clock was right up on the mantel-piece and tickin’ loud, but I hadn’t thought of lookin’ at it before and didn’t even know it was in the room. I looked up and seen it was goin’ and that ‘twas only a quarter to twelve. I was surprised that it wa’n’t no later, and wondered how it could be, and just then it struck and I kind of kep’ count because I was sort of thinkin’ of the clock and it stopped strikin’ at nine. Then I thought somethin’ must be wrong with the clock too, and I looked back again and seen that I’d made a mistake in the hands and ‘twas only nine o’clock. I couldn’t believe this was so, but the clock was goin’ all right. Then I kind braced up a little and thought what was to be done. First, I looked ‘round the room. I told you, didn’t I, that we et in the settin’ room? It was a settin’ room and a dinin’ room both. Sometimes we et in the kitchen, but that was pretty small. The table stood there with the dirty dishes just as we’d got through eatin’. There was the plates and knives and forks, and the teacups and the big platter with some of that steak left, and the gravy gettin’ kind of hard like lard all ‘round it. The coal pail was there and standin’ ‘round the table where we’d set to eat, except the rockin’ chair which was over by the stove. I looked at all them things, and then I looked down at the floor, and there she lay with her head over toward the closet door and her feet up almost under the table. It was an awful sight to look at her on the floor, but there wa’n’t nothin’ else to do, so I looked her all over as careful as I had before, then I got kind of scart; I hadn’t never been in a room alone with anyone that was dead, except at the morgue; but, of course, this was worse than anything of that kind. I’d always heard more or less about ghosts and haunted houses and things like that, and didn’t believe anything of the kind, but they seemed to come back now when I looked over where she was layin’. I was afraid of ever’thing, not of people but of ghosts and things I couldn’t tell nothin’ about. I knew she was dead and must have gone somewhere, and most likely she was right ‘round here either in the bedroom lookin’ at the boy or out here seein’ how I felt and what I was goin’ to do with her. Just then I heard somethin’ move over by the closet and it scart me almost to death. I knew it must be her and couldn’t bear to see her unless she could come to life on the floor. Finally I looked around to where I heard the noise and then I seen it was the curtain; the window was down a little at the top. I went and put up the window, and then hated to turn ‘round and look back where she lay. Then I went to the bedroom door and opened it about half way just so the light wouldn’t fall on the bed and wake him up, but so I could hear him breathe and it wouldn’t be quite so lonesome. Ever’thing was awful still and like aghost except the clock, after I got to thinkin’ of it. Then it ticked so loud I was almost ‘fraid they’d hear it in the next house. When I got the bedroom door open I thought I must do somethin’ about her and the room before I made up my mind what plan to take about myself.
“First I went and hunted up the cat. I’d always heard about that, so I went into the kitchen and there she was sleepin’ under the stove. I couldn’t help wishin’ I was the cat, although I had never thought of any such thing before. Then I took her in my hand and went to the outside door and threw her out in the yard and shut the door tight. Then I came back in the settin’ room and thought about what had to be done. I looked over again at her and then I saw her eyes still lookin’ right up at the ceilin’, and round and shinin’ like glass marbles. I thought that wa’n’t the way they ought to be and that all the dead folks I’d ever seen had their eyes shut. So I went over and got down by her head and kind of pushed the lids over her eyes, same as I’d always heard they did, and put some nickels on ‘em to keep ‘em down. I don’t know how I done it, but I felt as if it had to be done, and, of course, they wa’n’t no one else to do it, and nobody knows what they can do until they have to. And then I saw that there was a good deal of blood on her face, and I wanted her to look decent though I didn’t know then what would be done with her, and I went into the kitchen to the sink and got a pan of water and some soap and an old towel, and washed all the blood off that I could find, and wiped her face careful to make her look as well as I could. Once or twice while I was doin’ it I kind of felt down to her heart, but I knew it wa’n’t no use. Still I thought it couldn’t do any hurt, and that God might’ve thought I wa’n’t scart enough so he waited; but I didn’t feel nothin’ there. Then I kind of smoothed back her hair like I’d seen her do sometimes. ‘Twas all scattered round on the floor and pretty full of blood. I couldn’t very well get the blood out, but I fixed the hair all back together the best I could. Then I noticed that her jaw kind of hung down and I pushed it up and tied a towel around it to keep it there, and then she looked pretty well, except that great long gash over her face and head where the poker went.
“Then I thought I’d have to fix up the room and the floor a little bit. I sort of pushed back the chairs and the table so I could get a little more room, and then moved her a little way and straightened her out some. First before I moved her I got that paper I’d been readin’ and laid it on the floor and then I took up her shoulders and lifted ‘em over to one side and laid her head on the paper. Then I moved the rest of her over to match her head and shoulders. There was a lot of blood on the floor where she’d been, and I knew I had to do somethin’ about that.
“There was a nice Japanese rug on the floor, and her head had struck just on the edge of it over by the door. I’d bought her the rug for a Christmas present last year, and she liked it better’n anything she had in the house, but it was beginnin’ to wear out some. A part of the blood was on the floor and a part on the rug. So I went and got another pan of water and the soap and towel and washed the floor; then I washed the rug the best I could, and lifted it up and washed in under it, and then threw away the water and got some more and washed it all over again. When I seen that the last water was a little bloody I thought mebbe I’d better go over it again, so I got some more water and went overit the third time, then I threw the water out and washed the towel as good as I could, and went back in and looked ‘round the room to see if there was anything else to do. Just then I noticed the poker that I hadn’t thought of before. I took it to the kitchen and washed it all over and then dried it and then put it in the stove and covered it with ashes, and then laid it down on the hearth; then I went back in and seen that ever’thing was finished and that she was all right, and there wa’n’t nothin’ to do except to make my plans. But before I go on and tell you what I done with her, let me speak to the guard a minute.”
Hank and Jim got up once more and looked out through the bars. The guard was still sitting on the stool and asked what he could do.
“What time is it?” said Jim.
“Oh, it’s early yet, only a little after twelve,” he replied. “Wouldn’t you like a little more whiskey? I’ve got another bottle here, and I can get all I want down to the office. If I was you I’d drink it. I don’t think whiskey does any hurt. I’m always arguing with that other guard about it. He’s bug-house on whiskey.”
Jim took the whiskey and then turning to the guard, with an anxious face, said, “You’re sure nothin’ has come for me?”
“No, there’s nothin’ come.” But after a few minutes he added, “I’ll go over to the telephone pretty soon and call up the telegraph office and make sure.”
Jim’s face brightened a little at this. “I’m much obliged. It might be sent to me, and it might be sent to the jailer or the sheriff. You’d better ask for all of us.”