“A newspaperman.”
“I’ll not try my case in the newspapers, but in the courts of this
county.”
Hoping Hale might at least talk about himself, the reporter
asked, “How old are you?”
“I’m fifty-one years of age.”
“How long have you been in Oklahoma?”
“Twenty-five years, more or less.”
“You are pretty well known, aren’t you?”
“I think so.”
“Have large numbers of friends?”
“I hope so.”
“Wouldn’t they like to have a statement from you, even though
you merely say ‘I am innocent’?”
“I’ll try my case in the courts, not in the newspapers. Cold
tonight, isn’t it?”
“Yes. How’s the cattle business this season?”
“Been fair.”
“It’s a long trip from Pawhuska, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but we’ve had a car with curtains up.”
“Now about that statement?”
Hale declined again and was led away by authorities. If Hale had
momentarily been uneasy, he was confident by the time White
spoke to him—even cocky, evidently convinced that he remained
untouchable. He insisted that White had made a mistake. It was as
if White were the one in trouble, not him.
White suspected that Hale would never admit his sins, certainly
not to a lawman and perhaps not even to the God whom he so
often invoked. Ernest Burkhart offered the only chance for a