Firio came with the eagerness of one who is restless for action. He leaned on the windowsill, his elbows spread, his chin cupped in his hands, his Indian blankness of countenance enlivened by the glow of his eyes, as jewels enliven dull brown velvet.
"Firio, I have something to tell you."
"Sí!"
There was a laboring of Jack's throat muscles, and then he forced out the truth in a few words.
"Firio," he said, "this is my trail end. I am going back to New York to-morrow."
"Sí!" answered Firio, without a tremor of emotion; but his eyes glowed confidently, fixedly, into Jack's.
"There will be money for you, and—"
"Sí!" said Firio mechanically, as if repeating the lines of a lesson.
Was this Indian boy prepared for the news? Or did he not care? Was he simply clay that served without feeling? The thought made Jack wince. He paused, and the dark eyes, as in a spell, kept staring into his.
"And you get P.D. and Wrath of God and Jag Ear and, yes, the big spurs and the chaps, too, to keep to remember me by."