“And he did need killin’ so damn bad,” said Nick, “and you-all never said a word to deny it.”
“I don’t usually deny things I’m charged with,” said Mead.
“That’s so, Emerson, you don’t,” assented Tom.
“People are welcome to believe anything they like about me,” Mead went on, “and I don’t intend to belittle myself askin’ ’em not to. It’s all right, boys. I didn’t blame you for believin’ I’d done it But I did think you’d notice he’d been shot in the back. I’m goin’ out now. I’ll see you later.” And he hurried off down Main street to find Pierre Delarue.
CHAPTER XXVI
The February sunshine lay warm and bright and still over Las Plumas and the sky bent low and blue and cloudless above the town. Bright feathered birds were darting through the orchards and trilling their nesting songs, the peach tree buds were showing their pink noses, and the promise of spring was everywhere. In the big, wide hall of Pierre Delarue’s house Marguerite stood beside the door of her room, talking with Emerson Mead, while he clumsily buttoned her gloves. She was dressed in a traveling gown, and as his glance wandered over her figure his eyes shone with admiration. Tall though he was and superb of physique, her head reached his shoulder and her figure matched his in its own strength and beauty.
“Tom and Nick look as forlorn as two infant orphans,” he was saying to her. “You would think I had died instead of getting married. Nick has hinted that he means to go on a spree, and Tom says he’ll lock him up in their room and sit on his chest for a week if he tries to make that kind of a break.”
“Do you think he will?” Marguerite asked.