"There comes a time when this girl who is the last of my blood, is sad. No more laugh; no more sing. Me not know why. Me ole man. Mebbe-so me blind ole fool. Me never think of—that! When she is dead—then me hear of you!"
The Indian paused. Blake spoke, moistening dry lips.
"I hadn't anything to do with Mary."
"You lie!" the old man returned. "You bring shame on her and on me. So me kill you."
There was no passion in his voice; but there was finality, judgment inexorable. It was the logical conclusion, worked out, demonstrated according to his rules.
Blake's face blanched. In fancy, as he stared at it, he could see the red stab of flame leap and feel the shock of lead. Was there no way of escape? He glanced around. There was nothing save the mountain wilderness, the serene heights of the peaks, the blue autumn sky, a soaring golden eagle. His eyes came back to the rifle muzzle. His mouth opened, but words would not come.
"Mebbe-so you like pray?" Paul Sam suggested calmly. Blake found his voice.
"I have money," he said. "Look! lots of money. Take it. For God's sake, don't kill me. I didn't mean—I didn't know—"
For the first time a glint of bitter anger leaped into the old man's eyes.
"Money!" he said. "You think I take money for a dead woman of my blood and for my shame. Now me kill you all same wolf!"