"You see he hasn't anything to say," Harold gloated. "I asked you a question, Joe—about Virginia. Didn't I tell the truth?"
The girl flinched, then caught herself with a half-sob. She resolved to make one more appeal. "Oh Harold—please—please be careful what you say," she pleaded. "You're drunk now—but don't forget you were a gentleman—once. Don't drink any more. Don't let these Indians drink any more, either."
"A gentleman once, eh? So you don't think I'm one any more. But Bill, there—he's one, ain't he? It seems to me you've been getting kind of bossy around here, lately—and the women of we northern men don't behave that way."
"I'm not your woman, thank God—and I ask you to be careful."
"And I repeat that warning." Bill spoke gravely, quietly from his chair. "You're acting like a rotter, Harold, and you know it. Shut up the bottle and try to hold yourself—and then remember what you've been saying. Remember that I'm still here—and if I'm not able to avenge an insult now, the time is coming when I will. And I've got one weapon now that I won't hesitate to use. I mean—an answer to a question of a while ago. If you want to keep her love, be careful."
The Indians turned to him, the murder-madness darkening their faces. Pete's hand began to steal toward his hip. He had no ancestral precedent for the use of a miner's pick for such work as faced him now. And he held high regard for the thin, cruel blade.
"Do you think I care?" Harold answered. "Tell her if you want to—all about Sindy and everything else. Do you think I'm ashamed of it? I've heard all I want to from you too—and I'll say and drink what I please."
Bill had no answer at first. He had thought that this threat might bring Harold to time; he had supposed that the man valued Virginia's love as much as he, in a similar position, would have valued it. Harold turned to the girl. "So you're not my woman, eh?"
"No, no, no! I never will be!" The girl's eyes were blazing, and she had forgotten her fear in her magnificent wrath. "I suppose—you were a squaw man. These Indians are your own friends."
Harold smiled cruelly. "Yes, a squaw man. And these are my friends. Don't you suppose I've known—for the last week—you were just fooling me along, all the time fondling Bill? Sindy at least was faithful—and her form wouldn't take anything from yours."