“Why, why—that you might have killed him.”
“Why, that’s nothin’ to be afraid of!” said Nebraska. “Anyone’s likely to get killed, Monk. You’re likely to have to kill someone almost any time! Why, look at my old man. He’s been killin’ people all his life—ever since he’s been on the police force, anyway! I reckon he’s killed more people than he could remember—he counted up to seventeen one time, an’ then he told me that there was one or two others he’d clean lost track of! Yes!” Nebraska continued triumphantly, “and there was one or two before he joined the force that no one ever knowed of—I reckon that was way back there when he was just a boy, so long ago he’s plumb lost track of it! Why my old man had to kill a nigger here along—oh, just a week or so ago—and he never turned a hair! Came home to supper, an’ took off his coat, hung up his gun and cot-tridge belt, washed his hands and set down at the table, and had got halfway through his supper before he even thought of it. Says to my maw, all of a sudden, says—‘Oh, yes! I clean forgot to tell you! I had to shoot a nigger today!’ ‘That so?’ my maw says. ‘Is there any other news?’ So they went on talkin’ about first one thing and then another, and in five minutes’ time I’ll bet you both of them had forgotten clean about it!…Pshaw, Monk!” Nebraska Crane concluded heartily, “you oughtn’t even to bother about things like that. Anyone’s liable to have to kill someone. That happens every day!”
“Y-y-y-yes, Bras,” Young Webber faltered—“b-b-but what if anything should happen to you?”
“Happen?” cried Nebraska, and looked at his young friend with frank surprise. “Why what’s goin’ to happen to you, Monk?”
“W-w-why—I was thinking that sometimes you might be the one who gets killed yourself.”
“Oh!” Nebraska said, with a nod of understanding, after a moment’s puzzled cogitation. “That’s what you mean! Why, yes, Monk, that does sometimes happen! But,” he earnestly continued, “it’s got no right to happen! You ought not to let it happen! If it happens it’s your own fault!”
“L-l-let! Fault! How do you mean, Bras?”
“Why,” Nebraska said patiently, but with just a shade of resignation, “I mean it won’t happen to you if you’re careful.”
“C-c-careful? How do you mean careful, Bras?”
“Why, Monk,” Nebraska now spoke with a gruff, though kind, impatience, “I mean if you’re careful not to let yourself be killed! Look at my old man, now!” he proceeded with triumphant logic—“Here he’s been killin’ people in one way or ’nother goin’ on to thirty years now—leastways way before both you an’ me was born! An he’s never been killed his-self one time!” he triumphantly concluded. “And why? Why, Monk, because my old man always took good care to kill the other feller before the other feller could kill him. As long as you do that, you’ll be all right.”
“Y-y-yes, Bras. But if you g-g-get yourself in trouble?”
“Trouble?” said Nebraska, staring blankly. “Why what trouble is there to get into? If you kill the other feller before he kills you, he’s the one who gets in trouble. You’re all right; I thought anyone could see that much!”
“Y-y-yes, Bras. I do see that. But I was thinking about getting arrested…and being locked up…and having to go to jail—that kind of trouble.”
“Oh, that kind of trouble!” Nebraska said a little blankly, and considered the question for a moment. “Well, Monk, if you get arrested, you get arrested—and that’s all there is to that! Why, pshaw, boy—anyone can get arrested; that’s likely to happen to anybody. My old man’s been arrestin’ people all his life. I reckon he wouldn’t have any notion how many people he’s arrested and locked up!…Why yes, and he’s even been arrested and locked up a few times himself, but he never let that bother him a bit.”