“Jean, Jean!” he muttered in desolation of spirit, “I wish she were here now.” Then, to Fitzpatrick: “You said there was a certificate. Where is it? Who has it? Who is the woman?”
“That I won't tell you.”
In one bound, Donald had leaped to the side of the bunk. He seized the factor by his wounded shoulder, and shook savagely, growling between his teeth: “You won't, eh, you won't tell me? I'll see about that!”
The old man, in mortal agony, strove to writhe out of the iron clutch. He tried to call for help, but the pain was too great for words. Finally, a bellow like that of a wounded bull escaped from between his grinding teeth.
“Ye-es, stop—I'll tell—oh, my God—stop!”
Donald released his hold, and the factor, with closed eyes, dropped back, half-fainting, upon the bunk, where he lay breathing stertorously.
“Speak! Who is the woman?” Donald commanded.
“Maria, the old squaw,” came the gasping reply.
“Has she the certificate?”
“Yes, I think so; I'm not sure. She had it last summer.”