“I hope they’ll keep him from thinking of the matches,” I said, bitterly. It seemed to me at that moment that Jessie showed more concern for the out-worn garment of the dead than she did for the safety of the living.
Big Jim had gone back into the cavern; he, too, had evidently been searching it, for when, at the sound of our approaching footsteps, he appeared at the entrance, it was with father’s coat in his hands. Jessie went boldly to his side.
“I want that coat, if you please,” she said firmly.
Jim backed off a little, holding the coat out at arm’s length, and examining it critically.
“Whose is it?” he asked.
“It was my father’s; it is ours; please give it to me.”
Big Jim shook his head. “No; your dog done tore my coat half offen my back; your sister made way with my tonic—I’m ’bleeged to take it for my lungs—an’ she’s got my gun an’ fixin’s, an’ won’t give ’em up. I reckon as I’ll jest keep this coat till she forks them things over.”
“Give him his things, Leslie,” Jessie commanded.
“No,” I remonstrated; “no, Jessie, if I do he will shoot Guard; I’m sure of it.”