Put _up_ that pistol, Bill.” Bill says: “I don't want to, Jake Packard.  I'm for killin' him--and didn't he kill old Hatfield jist the same way--and don't he deserve it?” “But I don't _want_ him killed, and I've got my reasons for it.” “Bless yo' heart for them words, Jake Packard!  I'll never forgit you long's I live!” says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering. Packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail and started towards where I was there in the dark, and motioned Bill to come.  I crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but the boat slanted so that I couldn't make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the upper side.  The man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when Packard got to my stateroom, he says: “Here--come in here.” And in he come, and Bill after him.  But before they got in I was up in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come.  Then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked.  I couldn't see them, but I could tell where they was by the whisky they'd been having.  I was glad I didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn't a treed me because I didn't breathe.  I was too scared.  And, besides, a body _couldn't_ breathe and hear such talk.  They talked low and earnest.  Bill wanted to kill Turner.  He says: “He's said he'll tell, and he will.  If we was to give both our shares to him _now_ it wouldn't make no difference after the row and the way we've served him.  Shore's you're born, he'll turn State's evidence; now you hear _me_.  I'm for putting him out of his troubles.” “So'm I,” says Packard, very quiet. “Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasn't.  Well, then, that's all right.  Le's go and do it.” “Hold on a minute; I hain't had my say yit.  You listen to me. Shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the thing's _got_ to be done. But what I say is