The words came slowly and thickly.
“I no—get well.”
“Oh, Mother!”
Unheeding the wail, perhaps not hearing it, she went on, stopping often between words:
“I steal—from you—my little girl. I bad woman, Susie. It is right I die. I take de money—out of de bank dat MacDonald leave us—to give to Smith. De hold-ups steal de money on—de road. I have de bad heart—Susie—to do dat. I know now.”
“You mustn’t talk like that, Mother!” cried Susie, gripping her hand convulsively. “You thought you’d get it again and put it back. You didn’t mean to steal from me. I know all about it. And I’ve got the money. Mr. Ralston found a check you had thrown away—you’d signed your name on it in the wrong place. When we saw the date, and what a lot of money it was, and found you had gone to town, we guessed the rest. It was easy to see Smith in that. So we held you up, and got it back. We knew there was no danger to anybody, but, of course, we felt bad to worry and frighten you.”
“I’m glad,” said the woman simply. She had no strength or breath or time to spare. “Dey’s more. I tell you—I kill Smith—if he lie. He lie. He bull-dog white man. I make de strong medicine to kill him—and I get de poison in my arm when de bandage slip. Get de bottles and de knife behind de lookin’-glass—I show you.”
Susie quickly did as she was bid.
“De lemon bottle is de love-charm of de Sioux. One teaspoonful—no more, Little Coyote’s woman say. De other bottle is de bad medicine. Be careful. Smith—make fool—of me—Susie.” What else she would have said ended in a gurgle. Her jaw dropped, and she died with her glazing eyes upon Susie’s face.
Susie pulled the gay Indian blanket gently over her mother’s shoulders, as if afraid she would be cold. Then she slipped a needle and some beads and buckskin, to complete an unfinished moccasin, underneath the blanket. Her mother was going on a long journey, and would want occupation. There were no tears in Susie’s eyes when she replaced the bottles and the skinning knife with the discolored blade behind the mirror.