Recollecting the Indian trophies that hung on the walls of Loseis’ room, Conacher went in there. Loseis, following, saw him take down a bow, and test the string.
“It has hardened some,” he said: “But it will do.”
Loseis, getting the idea, smiled. “But would they dare to come out and get it?” she asked.
“Oh, curiosity is a strong motive,” said Conacher. “And anyway, I have suspected every night that they came part way across the square at the darkest time before the moon comes up, to make sure that we didn’t slip out.”
They sat down to concoct the letter. “You must write it,” said Conacher. “It would be more effective.”
After a couple of hours’ work and many drafts, they produced the following:
“To Gault:
“Why do you torture me so? I have never harmed you. Mary-Lou died the first night, and we buried her under the floor. Our water is gone. Conacher is acting so strangely I am afraid of what he may do. He doesn’t know I am writing this. I will shoot it over to you while he sleeps. If there is any decency or mercy in your heart let me see you ride away from this place to-morrow. I cannot stand this any longer.
“Laurentia Blackburn.”
Conacher and Loseis smiled grimly over this effusion. But Loseis quickly frowned.