And afterwards he could hear them talking — not to him so much — he had proved too reticent thus far — but to some of the others.
Poor Pasquale.
This whole business of the death penalty was all wrong.
The warden thought so.
So did they.
He was working to have it abolished.
But that man!
His prayers!
And now he was gone.
His cell over there was empty and another man would be put in it — to go too, later.
Some one — many — like Cutrone, like himself — had been in this one — on this pallet.
He sat up — moved to the chair.
But he — they — had sat on that — too.
He stood up — only to sink down on the pallet again.
“God!
God! God! God!” he now exclaimed to himself — but not aloud — and yet not unlike that other man who had so terrorized him on the night of his arrival here and who was still here.
But he would go too.
And all of these others — and himself maybe — unless — unless.
He had seen his first man die. ? Chapter 31
I n the meantime, however, Asa’s condition had remained serious, and it was four entire months before it was possible for him to sit up again or for Mrs. Griffiths to dream of resuming her lecturing scheme.
But by that time, public interest in her and her son’s fate was considerably reduced.
No Denver paper was interested to finance her return for anything she could do for them.
And as for the public in the vicinity of the crime, it remembered Mrs. Griffiths and her son most clearly, and in so far as she was concerned, sympathetically — but only, on the other hand, to think of him as one who probably was guilty and in that case, being properly punished for his crime — that it would be as well if an appeal were not taken — or — if it were — that it be refused.
These guilty criminals with their interminable appeals!
And with Clyde where he was, more and more executions — although as he found — and to his invariable horror, no one ever became used to such things there; farmhand Mowrer for the slaying of his former employer; officer Riordan for the slaying of his wife — and a fine upstanding officer too but a minute before his death; and afterwards, within the month, the going of the Chinaman, who seemed, for some reason, to endure a long time (and without a word in parting to any one — although it was well known that he spoke a few words of English).
And after him Larry Donahue, the overseas soldier — with a grand call — just before the door closed behind:
“Good-by boys.
Good luck.”
And after him again — but, oh — that was so hard; so much closer to Clyde — so depleting to his strength to think of bearing this deadly life here without — Miller Nicholson — no less.
For after five months in which they had been able to walk and talk and call to each other from time to time from their cells and Nicholson had begun to advise him as to books to read — as well as one important point in connection with his own case — on appeal — or in the event of any second trial, i.e. — that the admission of Roberta’s letters as evidence, as they stood, at least, be desperately fought on the ground that the emotional force of them was detrimental in the case of any jury anywhere, to a calm unbiased consideration of the material facts presented by them — and that instead of the letters being admitted as they stood they should be digested for the facts alone and that digest — and that only offered to the jury.
“If your lawyers can get the Court of Appeals to agree to the soundness of that you will win your case sure.”
And Clyde at once, after inducing a personal visit on the part of Jephson, laying this suggestion before him and hearing him say that it was sound and that he and Belknap would assuredly incorporate it in their appeal.
Yet not so long after that the guard, after locking his door on returning from the courtyard whispered, with a nod in the direction of Nicholson’s cell,
“His next.
Did he tell you?
Within three days.”
And at once Clyde shriveling — the news playing upon him as an icy and congealing breath.
For he had just come from the courtyard with him where they had walked and talked of another man who had just been brought in — a Hungarian of Utica who was convicted of burning his paramour — in a furnace — then confessing it — a huge, rough, dark, ignorant man with a face like a gargoyle.
And Nicholson saying he was more animal than man, he was sure.
Yet no word about himself.
And in THREE DAYS!
And he could walk and talk as though there was nothing to happen, although, according to the guard, he had been notified the night before.
And the next day the same — walking and talking as though nothing had happened — looking up at the sky and breathing the air.
Yet Clyde, his companion, too sick and feverish — too awed and terrified from merely thinking on it all night to be able to say much of anything as he walked but thinking:
“And he can walk here.
And be so calm.
What sort of a man is this?” and feeling enormously overawed and weakened.
The following morning Nicholson did not appear — but remained in his cell destroying many letters he had received from many places.
And near noon, calling to Clyde who was two cells removed from him on the other side:
“I’m sending you something to remember me by.”