He shook the written confession in his face.
"Now, will you kindly tell me what that means?" he demanded. "What
sort of a gallery play were you trying to make?"
Cahill shifted his sombrero guiltily. "I was trying to get you out of
the hole," he stammered. "I--I thought you done it."
"You thought I done it!"
"Sure. I never thought nothing else."
"Then why do you say here that YOU did it?"
"Oh, because," stammered Cahill, miserably, "'cause of Mary, 'cause
she wanted to marry you--'cause you were going to marry her."
"Well--but--what good were you going to do by shooting yourself?"
"Oh, then?" Cahill jerked back his head as though casting out an
unpleasant memory. "I thought you'd caught me, you, too--between
you!"
"Caught you! Then you did--?"
"No, but I tried to. I heard your plan, and I did follow you in the
poncho and kerchief, meaning to hold up the stage first, and leave it
to Crosby and Curtis to prove you did it. But when I reached the
coach you were there ahead of me, and I rode away and put in my time
at the Indian village. I never saw the paymaster's cart, never heard
of it till this morning. But what with Mame missing the poncho out of
our shop and the wound in my hand I guessed they'd all soon suspect
me.
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