"You t'ink-a he's not-a sufficiently kill? I go over to da car and bring-a you da proof, si?"
"You'll come wid me," raved the big contractor. "'Tis out av your clumsy hands, now, ye black-hearted blunderin' cross betune a Digger Indian and a Mexican naygur! Come on, I say!"
The back room of the commissary to which the MacMorrogh led the way held three men; Eckstein, and the two younger members of the contracting firm. They had heard the fusillade in the camp street and were waiting for news. Brian MacMorrogh gave it, garnished with many oaths.
"The pin-brained omadhaun av a Mexican has twishted a rope for all av us! He's let Ford come back, alive; let him get to the very dure av the prisident's car! Then, begorra! he must mades show himself under the electhrics and open fire on the man who was kicking at the dure and looking sthraight at him!"
Eckstein asked a single question.
"Did he get him? If he's dead he can't very well tell who shot him."
"That's the hell av it!" raged the big man. "Who's to know?"
Eckstein spat out the extinct cigar stump he was chewing.
"We are to know—beyond a question of doubt, this time. Who is in the Nadia, besides Ford?"
"The two naygurs."