The officer pointed. 'This is our man—the White Chief, eh?' he asked, in his strident tones.
Fiercely Menotah turned upon him. 'No! it is not. This man is innocent. The White Chief is dead. I know he is. I myself saw him—'
'Quit your darned noise,' interrupted the man. 'What the devil have you to do with it? I'll fire you out of the window, if you talk another word.'
'That's the White Chief, all right,' said Sinclair, with a slow, savage satisfaction. 'He's your man, officer.'
Menotah could not be repressed. 'You dare not touch him. That knife he holds is poisoned.'
The men looked at each other. Close quarters with the traitor meant certain death. But the officer was equal to the emergency.
'I've got a warrant for your arrest, and I'm going to take you alive or dead. I allow I'd rather have you alive, so I'm going to give you two minutes by my watch to chuck down that knife. None of us mean to be fixed by any more of your dirty tricks.' Then he raised his hand, with the revolver levelled against the prisoner's heart.
The last faint hope died, though he still mechanically retained his grasp of the knife.
Sinclair chuckled. 'I reckon I shall get square for that scar on my shoulder now,' he muttered.
Then Menotah passed before him and knelt before the officer. She lifted her beautiful moist eyes, with a last request, 'May I speak to him first—just for one moment? He was my husband once.'