Butch, I knowed this ud come. I knowed it. You’ll git sent up. And it ain’t right. You ain’t done nuthin’ wrong. It’s jist a law. W’at the hell’s a law? W’at’s it good fer? Why’n’t it agin the law everwhur else to sell whiskey? Them men whur they have their corner saloons all polished up—a-makin’ it criminal to sell a man a drink—w’at’s right about it? (_With scorn._) Oh, yes! I know. Pertectin’ the Indians! They don’t want the Indians to git all lit up like _they_ do all the time—ever day, ever night, regular. (_With disgust._) Hell! Indians! I ain’t saw two Indians since I come to Indian Territory. Now they’ll git you. I’ve knowed it. They’ll stick you fer sellin’ the stuff to the poor fools that’s too skeered, and too weak, and too damn big a cowards to go up to Kansas City or Joplin and bring in their own whiskey, like a man. They’ll send you to jail—the only man that’s got guts enough to do it. You’ll git ten year or more. W’at’ll I git? I’ll git off—that’s w’at I’ll git. I’ll git left here to rot! BUTCH Shet up! (_He goes up the steps and listens intently. Then he comes down._) Let up on yer jail stuff. You’ll have me skeered. And I got to keep my senses. Listen t’ me. I been follered before. The last bunch o’ guys laid in wait close to the Holler whur the whiskey’s at. Did that stop me frum gettin’ the whiskey and gettin’ out with it? Did that stop me frum sellin’ it regler to Joe Hurd’s Curio Store at Claremont? I been follered lots o’ times and you know it. I been follered lots o’ times ’count o’ selling whiskey. It ain’t nuthin’ new to me. But this time I’m follered and it ain’t on the ’count o’ whiskey! They’s sump’n else.... ELLY Butch! You got to tell me! W’at is it, w’at’ve you done? BUTCH Easy, easy! ELLY You wuz skeered! I never see you like that before. You’ve done sump’n. Tell me w’at it is. W’at’ve you done? BUTCH Lay off, take it easy.... ELLY Butch.... BUTCH Christ’s sake! You’re a mad womern! Keep yer shirt on! Mebbe I ain’t done _nuthin’_. Mebbe I jist been foolin’ myself. Mebbe—for all I know, they ain’t nuthin’ to git excited about. ELLY (_suddenly_) Butch! You got blood on yer coat! (_She stands a moment, terrified._) You’re hurt! Why’n’t you tell me? Quick, lemme fix it—I didn’t know. BUTCH I ain’t hurt. ELLY You’re bleedin’. BUTCH It ain’t my blood. (ELLY _draws back, her hand at her face, confused_.) I killed a man. ELLY (_sickened_) Oh! (_With terrible conviction._) You’ll hang fer it, Butch Adams! Why’d you go and do it? Who wuz it? BUTCH (_begins in a hard voice, but becomes more and more excited_.)