“You don’t know me, Moran,” he said. “I’m Calvin Harte. It’s queer how things work out sometimes. No man could down me as long as I used my brains—but I lost my head for the one time in my life and here I am. I’d seen the girl before. I was sent here to get you and saw her again. She went to my head. I hung around watching her, planning to kill you and take her for myself. Indecision downed me. It never fails. You lose your decision, and you lose your life.”
“Who sent you after me?” Moran demanded.
Harte smiled and shook his head.
“Even now I can’t squeal on my own breed,” he said. “I never tried to play both ends against the middle but only played one end—the losing end.” After a short silence he reverted to his original question. “How is it that a dog can tell when a man kicks out?” he asked. “You’re a naturalist, they tell me, so you should know.”
It all seemed an unreal dream to Moran; Betty kneeling there with her dead and this man inquiring on odd subjects as calmly as if he had a hundred years of life ahead instead of seconds. Harte guessed the thought.
“I’d rather die talking than thinking,” he said.
