The question, so earnest and searching, had the contrary effect on him. It changed him back to his careless self. He laughed in the way of one who deprecates another's illusion or passing fancy. This added to her conviction that he did not realize, that he was incapable of realizing, his position.
"Do you think I am about to die?" he asked softly.
"With Pete Leddy firing at you twenty yards away—yes! And you pose—you pose! If you were human you would be serious!"
"Pose?" He repeated the word. It startled him, mystified him. "The clothes I bought to please Firio, you mean?" he inquired, his face lighting.
"No, about death. It is horrible—horrible! Death for which I am responsible!"
"Why, have you forgotten that we settled all that?" he asked. "It was not you. It was the habit I had formed of whistling in the loneliness of the desert. I am sorry, now, that I did not stick to singing, even at the expense of a sore throat."
Now he called to Leddy, and his voice, high-pitched and powerful, seemed to travel in the luminous air as on resilient, invisible wires.
"Leddy, wasn't it the way I whistled to you the first time we met that made you want satisfaction? You remember"—and he broke into a whistle. His tone was different from that to Leddy on the pass; the whistle was different. It was shrill and mocking.
"Yes, the whistle!" yelled Leddy. "No man can whistle to me like that and live!"
Jack laughed as if he appreciated all the possibilities of humor inherent in the picture of the bloodthirsty Leddy, the waiting seconds and the gallery. He turned to Mary with a gesture of his outstretched hands: