"We didn't keep track of the time, sir," Daley explained.

"But you were in this general vicinity on the day Mr. Lyon was murdered?"

"Aye, we passed through there on Saturday," Daley said. "Where the turnpike road comes down close to the river."

"Mr. Lyon's saddled horse was discovered by a . . ." Here the man paused as he riffled through several papers until he found the one he was looking for. He read from it. "Discovered by a Mr. John Bliss, a farmer, in whose pasture the victim's horse had wandered. When the owner didn't appear to claim the horse, foul play was suspected and a search was conducted on Sunday morning but which turned up nothing. According to witnesses," and here Blake angled the paper for better reading light, "a pistol was later discovered near the river, and the search was resumed Sunday night by means of lanterns. Eventually a second pistol was found covered with blood and hair, and soon thereafter a body was discovered submerged near the banks of the river. Now, according to Dr. Merrick, the examining physician who opened the body, Mr. Lyon had been shot in the side but that the ball hit a rib and didn't prove lethal. The victim was subsequently dispatched by being bludgeoned to death by said pistols and by his submersion in the water." Blake stopped reading and looked up at them. "These are the facts I have to work with, gentlemen."

The lawyer removed a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. Though the cell was chilly, sweat rolled down his face. His eyes appeared inflamed, glowing from some inner heat.

"Did either of you own a pistol?" he asked.

"No," they both replied, almost in unison.

"Neither of you purchased a pistol from a certain dry-goods establishment of a . . ." He paused to look over the papers again. "A Mr. Syms, of Boston?"

"No, sir," replied Halligan. "We did not."

"According to Josiah Bardwell, who was among the posse that arrested you, you have pockets in your coats that are made for the purpose of carrying a weapon."

"True enough, we got pockets there," Daley said. He opened up his coat to show Blake the pocket on the inside of his greatcoat. "They're but for carryin' our bottles."

"Your bottles?"

"Aye, sir. A feller gets awful thirsty trampin' about the countryside. There ain't no crime in that."

"Hmmm," the lawyer said, pinching his lip and writing something in his tablet. "Help clarify one point for me, Mr. Daley. The first count in the indictment says you were the one to have administered the lethal blow to the deceased."

"I done what, sir?" Daley asked.

"You struck and killed Marcus Lyon with the aforementioned pistol."

"No, sir. I done no such a thing. Like I told you, I don't own a pistol."

"Well, how did they conclude that it was you and not Mr. Halligan that struck the blow?" he asked.

"I dunno. When they brung us back to Springfield, they put us in a room and asked a lot of questions. They said somethin' about a gun. 1 don't recollect plainly. But I told 'em, like I'm telling you, 1 had no gun and I niver struck nobody."

Blake took off his glasses and squeezed the pink bridge of his nose. He looked up finally and asked of Halligan, "Where were you headed the day of the murder?"

"To New York, sir," he replied.

"What was your business there?"

Halligan shrugged. "I was keeping Dom company. Thought I'd look for work."

"And you?" he asked of Daley.

"I had to collect a debt from a friend."

"What was this friend's name?"

"Sweeney, sir. Matthew Sweeney. He owed me from back home. For a cow I sold him when we left to come here."

Blake wrote this down.

"And yet when the posse arrested you in Rye, New York, they found a sizable amount of money on you already."

Daley hesitated before replying. "Yes, sir. I had some money on me. It was . . . money I earned."

"Yet a number of the bank bills in your possession," Blake continued, "were drawn on the very same banks as those stolen from the victim. How do you explain that?"

"I ... I couldn't rightly say," he replied.

"Don't you think it odd?"

"I suppose," Daley replied, glancing over at Halligan.

Halligan held his gaze. Don't be stupid, Dom, he thought. Stick to our story.

"Mr. Daley," said Blake, "if I am to represent you to the best of my ability, you shall have to be completely forthright with me. Your very life may well depend upon it."

"I cannot explain it, sir. I can only tell you it was me own money."

"You're certain of that?"

"Aye," he replied. Yet he didn't sound convincing, and Blake's prying stare lingered on him for several seconds.

"And you?" he asked, turning to look now at Halligan. "How did you come to be in possession of such a sum of money?"

"Same as Dom," Halligan said. "I earned it."

Blake pulled on his lower lip and sighed nasally. "Do either of you recollect passing Mr. Lyon along the turnpike road?"

"No," Daley replied. "I mean, we might a passed him, but I couldn't say for sure."

"He was . . ." Blake repositioned his glasses on his nose and fumbled through the papers. "Going east on 'a bright bay horse.' With new saddlebags."

"I don't remember any rider on a bay horse, Mr. Blake," Daley replied.

"But the prosecution has several witnesses that can place both of you just to the east of the murder site at approximately noon on the ninth. You had to have passed him, Mr. Daley."

"Not," Halligan interjected, leveling his gaze on Blake, "if he was already killed."

The lawyer looked at him and frowned, annoyed at being interrupted.

"The state has a witness, a young boy by the name of Laertes Fuller, who saw you, Mr. Daley, with this very same horse. He swears that you led a bay horse under an apple tree, which was up on a hill near the spot where Lyon was slain. And he spied another man," he said, turning to look at Halligan, "pushing said horse from behind, though he couldn't recognize the second man. What do you say to that, sir?"

"I dunno, Mr. Blake," Daley replied. "He's got to be lyin' then."

"What possible reason could the boy have to lie, Mr. Daley?"

"Maybe he mistook us for somebody else. With them as done this terrible thing."

"But after you were brought back to Springfield, he picked you out of a group. He identified you as the man leading the dead man's horse, did he not?"

Halligan snorted. "Huh!" "What is it, Mr. Halligan?" the lawyer asked, turning to look at him.

"We were the only ones in irons."

"What do you mean?"

"When they brought us back to Springfield they didn't bother removing the irons. The lad who picked us out of the group saw us with them on. It wouldn't have been hard for him to think we were the guilty ones already."

"Hmmm," said Blake, scribbling in his tablet. "Yes, that would make sense."

"Anyways, it'll be our word against that boy's," Daley said. "We'll just get up on that witness stand and say he's lying."

"You won't be permitted to take the stand."

"Why not?" Daley asked, on his long face an expression of outraged incredulity.

"The accused isn't allowed to testify in a capital trial. It will fall to me to state your case and to challenge the prosecution witnesses during cross examination."

Blake spent another hour asking them questions. About Daley's friend Sweeney, whom they were to meet in New York; at which inns they stayed before reaching Wilbraham and where they stayed afterwards; to whom they spoke during their journey westward; if they ever got drunk or were in fights or if there was any sort of other damaging evidence that could be brought against their character. When he asked if they'd ever been in trouble with the law before this, Halligan told him of the time he'd spent in prison back in Ireland.

"You struck the man?" Blake asked.

"Aye. But he had it coming."

"And here? Have you ever been in trouble here?"

"No sir. Nothing before this."

"Well, I doubt they will have your records from Ireland."

At last, Blake said that would be all for today. He was feeling rather fatigued from his long ride and needed to rest for a while. He stood and put his coat and hat on.

"I shall return early tomorrow," he said, as he gathered up his notes and papers. "We have a good deal of work to do, gentlemen." "Sir," Daley said, "have you had no word if me family will be at the trial?"

"I have had no communication from them whatsoever."

Daley sighed, his eyes downcast.

Blake then went to the cell door and called for the turnkey. Before he left, though, he turned and said, "I won't mislead you. Our chances are not promising. The evidence against you is quite damaging. They have some two dozen witnesses and we have none. But it is not entirely hopeless. There are some points in our favor. And I will do my best. You have my word on that."

After he was gone, Halligan said in an undertone, "We got to stick to our story about the money."

"I didn't tell him nothin', Jamy."

"For a minute there, I thought you might."

Daley sat silently for a moment, hunched over on the edge of his bunk, his elbows resting on his knees. "Maybe we ought to," he said finally. "Tell 'em the truth."

Halligan stared across at his cellmate. "Have you lost your wits man?"

"Mr. Blake said we have to tell him everything if he's to do his best for us."

"We don't even know if we can trust him."

"He seems like a decent sort."

"Dom, use your head. Do you really think they'll believe it happened like that?"

"But it's the truth."

"To hell with the bloody truth. If we tell 'em we were lying before, we got no chance a'tall. None. We might as well just skip the trial, and they can take us out and hang us and be done with it. Don't you see, we're just a couple of lyin', thievin' Irishmen to them."

Daley shook his head. "Hell, I wish I'd never laid eyes on that blasted money. The devil's own hand in it, I tell you."

"What's done is done," Halligan said. "We stick to our story. Agreed?"

Daley hesitated but finally nodded.

Strange how at first it had seemed like a wondrous gift. It was Daley who had spotted the purse, as he stopped to urinate down by the river.

There, in the high weeds a few feet off the turnpike road, lay a silk purse stuffed with money. Nearly one hundred dollars in bank bills, some loose coins. A fortune for a pair of poor Irishmen. A gift from God, Daley would later call it. An answer to his prayers. Halligan thought it simply a matter of luck. At first, Daley talked of finding its rightful owner, inquiring along the way, perhaps even turning it in at the next tavern they came across. Halligan argued why look a gift horse in the mouth. But even Daley knew they wouldn't be giving it up. And why should they? They'd found it. It was rightfully theirs now. Lady Luck, which had been so long absent from both of their lives, had decided to shine her sweet light on them. After all, this was America. The fair land of opportunity. So they kept the money and treated themselves to a bottle of rum and a splendid meal at the next inn. Daley talked of putting down his half on that farm he'd always dreamed of. Halligan didn't know what he'd do with his share. Perhaps he'd buy a good horse and head out west, wide open country where a poor man could still make his fortune. Later, sitting in that tavern in Rye, New York, watching ships ply the water of The Sound, he'd had a very odd thought: Perhaps he could send for her: Aye, but would she come1 Or, after all this time, was it too late for such a possibility? Still, he thought, he would buy a ticket once they reached New York, to prove he was serious, and send it to her: He'd write a letter, too, apobgizing for his foolishness, telling her he'd finally come to his senses and asking her to join him. It was a crazy idea, he knew, but the thought thrilled him nonetheless.

Then the posse came swooping down on them, and they were charged with the murder of a man they'd never laid eyes on, and the wonderful gift turned suddenly into a curse. If they told the truth now, the preposterous tale of happening upon a purse of money just lying there, who would believe them? They hardly believed it themselves. The authorities would conclude what any reasonable person would: that they had held Marcus Lyon up and then killed him when he'd put up a fight. No, that would be pure suicide. They couldn't tell anyone that. So when asked about the money, Halligan told them it was theirs, earned by the sweat of their brow. Later though, on the long ride north, the heavy manacles biting into his flesh, Halligan kept wondering at their bad luck. How had the purse of money come to be lying by the side of the road in the first place? Had it fallen from the dead man's pocket during the struggle with the real thieves? Had whoever robbed and killed him dropped it in their haste to get away? Had they hid it there thinking to retrieve it later? No answer seemed plausible. But more importantly, why them? Of all the travelers passing on the road that day, why had it been their lot to find it? Halligan was not a believer in omens or in signs or in the usual sort of superstitious nonsense that most of his fellow Irish adhered to, but it seemed almost too coincidental even for him. It was as if it had been planned by some unseen agency whose sole purpose was to see the two men standing on the gallows. As they rode back to stand trial, what puzzled him most of all was whether he'd actually have sent a ticket to Bridie or not. He supposed he'd never know now.

That evening, Daley and Halligan talked well into the night. Though excited by the prospect of their trial looming ahead of them, they avoided the subject. Instead they spoke of home, their childhoods. Better times. The Maamturk Mountains in the spring. A rainbow Halligan had once seen off over Ballinskellig's Bay. Fishing on the Eriff. The sweet taste of bonny-clabber over a steaming lumper. Drinking hot whiskeys with sugar after a cold day working in the fields. Playing games of hurley on a Saturday afternoon.

"I was pretty fair at hurling," Daley said.

He told Halligan how it was after a hurling match that he met his wife at a small out-of-the-way shebeen where he'd gone to have a pint. A scrip-scrape man was playing fiddle, and he had gotten up to sing along.

"Finola come up to me later and said I had a wonderful voice. I fell in love with her then and there."

Halligan nodded, trying to picture the scene. Daley standing there, the big lout tongue-tied, and falling in love with some bog-girl because she liked his voice, of all things. Still, he had to smile inwardly at the thought.

"Have you never had a special girl, Jamy?" Daley asked him.

"I liked my freedom too much."

"Someday you'll be wanting a wife, mark my words."

Someday, Halligan thought ruefully. Like there would be a someday for them.

"What about a family?" Daley asked.