“Better go!” whispered Stonor. “I am safe for the present.”
She went slowly to her tent and disappeared.
Stonor sat down again. Across the fire Imbrie scowled and pulled at his lip. The breed woman, returning to her place, had the good sense to hold her tongue.
After a long while Imbrie said sullenly in the Indian tongue: “Well, you’ve got your way. You can kill him to-morrow.”
Stonor was a brave man, but a chill struck to his breast.
“I kill him?” said the woman. “Why have I got to do all the dirty work?”
“What do you care? You’ve already tried twice.”
“Why don’t you kill him yourself?”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“Maybe not. With his hands tied.”