"Exit Malachi," he said presently in a soft ironical voice, but did not look up.
"By the holy poker, Pierre, where did you spring from?" asked Tarlton genially.
"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and—" Pierre responded, with a little turn of his fingers.
"And the wind doesn't tell where it's been, but that's no reason Pierre shouldn't," urged the other.
Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer. "He was a tough," said a voice from the crowd. "To-morrow he'll get the breakfast he's paid for." Pierre turned and looked at the speaker with a cold inquisitive stare. "Mon Dieu!" he said presently, "here's this Gohawk playing preacher. What do you know of Malachi, Gohawk? What do any of you know about Malachi? A little of this, a little of that, a drink here, a game of euchre there, a ride after cattle, a hunt behind Guidon Hill!—But what is that? You have heard the cry of the eagle, you have seen him carry off a lamb, you have had a pot-shot at him, but what do you know of the eagle's nest? Mais non.
"The lamb is one thing, the nest is another. You don't know the eagle till you've been there. And you, Gohawk, would not understand, if you saw the nest. Such cancan!"
"Shut your mouth!" broke out Gohawk. "D'ye think I'm going to stand your—"
Freddy Tarlton laid a hand on his arm. "Keep quiet, Gohawk. What good will it do?" Then he said, "Tell us about the nest, Pierre; they're hanging him for the lamb in the morning."
"Who spoke for him at the trial?" Pierre asked.
"I did," said Tarlton. "I spoke as well as I could, but the game was dead against him from the start. The sheriff was popular, and young; young—that was the thing; handsome too, and the women, of course! It was sure from the start; besides, Malachi would say nothing—didn't seem to care."