The words “oil people” were ringing in her ears. What connection could Spurrier have had with them: what enmity could they have had for him?
But out of the confusion of her thoughts another thing stood forth with the sudden glare of revelation. This man might die before he finished and if he could not tell all he knew, he must first tell that which would clear her husband’s name. Though that husband had turned his back on her, her duty to him in this matter must take precedence over the rest.
“Joe Givins—” began Colby once more in laborious syllables, but peremptorily the girl halted him.
“Never mind Joe Givins just now,” she commanded with as sharp a finality as though to her had been delegated the responsibility of his judgment. “You said you knew who killed Captain Comyn. Who was it?”
The eyes in the wounded and stricken face gazed up at her in mute appeal as a sinner might look at a father confessor, pleading that he be spared the bitterest dregs of his admission.
Glory read that glance and her own delicate features hardened. She leaned forward.
“I brought you in here and succored you,” she asserted with a sternness which she could not have commanded in her own behalf. “You’re going before Almighty God—and unless you answer that question 280 honestly—no prayers shall go with you for forgiveness.”
“Glory!” The name broke in shocked horror from the bearded lips of the preacher. “Glory, the mercy of God hain’t ter be interfered with by mortals. Ther man’s dying!”
Upon him the young woman wheeled with blazing eyes.
“God calls on his servants for justice to the living as well as mercy to the dying,” she declared. “Sim Colby, who killed Captain Comyn?”