“Who, Williston?” asked Gordon, the real significance of the man’s return taking quick hold of him.
“I think you know, Gordon,” said the older man, quietly. “It is a long story. I was coming to you. I will tell you everything. Shall I begin now?”
“Are you in any danger of pursuit?” asked Gordon, suddenly bethinking himself.
“I think not. I killed my jailer, the half-breed, Nightbird.”
“You did well. So did Mary.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you know that Mary shot and killed one of the desperadoes that night? At least, we have every reason to think it was Mary. By the way, you have not asked after her.”
The man’s head drooped. He did not answer for a long time. When he raised his head, his face, though showing indistinctly, was hard and drawn. He spoke with little emotion as a man who had sounded the gamut of despair and was now far spent.
“What was the use? I saw her fall, Gordon. She stood with me to the end. She was a brave little girl. She never once faltered. Dick,” he said, his voice changing suddenly, and laying hot, feverish hands on the young man’s shoulders, “we’ll hang them—you and I—we’ll hang them every one,—the devils who look like men, but who strike at women. We’ll hang them, I say—you and I. I’ve got the evidence.”
“Is it possible they didn’t tell you?” cried Gordon, aghast at the amazing cruelty of it.