Tom began where this story begins and told all about turning the Bible at Albaugh's; about the gambling in Wooden & Snyder's store and how he was led into it; about his visit to Hubbard Township to get money to pay Lockwood, and Rachel's revelation of Lockwood's treachery in telling Ike. Then he told of his anger and his threatening, his uncle's break with him, and his talk with Barbara the evening before the murder; and finally he gave a circumstantial account of all that happened to him on the camp-ground, and of his flight and arrest. "But," said Lincoln, who had looked closely and sometimes incredulously at Tom's face while he spoke, "why did you take a pistol with you to the camp-meeting?" "I did _not_. I hadn't had a pistol in my hands for a week before the shooting." "But Plunkett says there's a man ready to swear that he saw you do the shooting. They've got a pistol out of one of your drawers, and this witness will swear that you used just such an old-fashioned weapon as that." "Good Lord, Abe! who would tell such an infernal lie on a fellow in my fix? That makes my situation bad." And Tom got up and walked the stone-paved floor in excitement. "But the bullet will show that I didn't do it. Get hold of the bullet, and if it fits the bore of that old-fashioned pistol I won't ask you to defend me." "But there wasn't any bullet." Lincoln was now watching Tom's countenance with the closest scrutiny. "No bullet! How in creation did they kill him, then?" "Can't you think?" He was still studying Tom's face. "I don't know any way of killing a fellow with a pistol that's got no bullet unless you beat his brains out with the butt of it, and I thought they said George was shot." "So he was. But, Tom, I've made up my mind that you're innocent. It's going to be dreadful hard to prove it." "But how was he killed?" demanded Tom. "With buckshot." Tom stood and mused a minute. "Now tell me who says I did the shooting." "I never heard of him before. Sovine, I believe his name is." "Dave Sovine? W'y, he's the son of old Bill Sovine; he's the boy that ran off four years ago, don't you remember? He's the black-leg that won all my money. What does he want to get me hanged for? I paid him all I owed him." Lincoln hardly appeared to hear what Tom was saying; he sat now with his eyes fixed on the grating, lost in thought. "Tom," he said at length, "who was that strapping big knock-down fellow that used to be about your place--hunter, fisherman, fist-fighter, and all that?" "Do you mean Bob McCord?" "That must be the man. Big Bob, they called him. He's friendly to you, isn't he?" "Oh, yes!" "Well, you have Big Bob come to see me next Tuesday at the tavern, as I go back. I'll be there to dinner. And if you are called to the inquest, you have only to tell the truth. We won't make any fight before the coroner; you'll be bound over anyhow, and it's not best to show our hand too soon."