“I’ve killed the brute.”
Her face became a classic mask of tragedy, the drawn brows, horrified eyes, and widened mouth.
“Pierre? Killed?” Her voice, hardly more than a whisper, filled the house with its agony.
“Are you sorry?” demanded her rescuer sternly. “Was he in the habit of tying you up or was this—branding—a special diversion?”
Joan turned her face away, writhed from head to foot, put up her two hands between him and her agonizing memories.
The man rose and left her, going softly into the next room. There he stood in a tense attitude of thought, sat down presently with his long, narrow jaw in his hands and stared fixedly at Pierre. He was evidently trying to fight down the shock of the spectacle, grimly telling himself to become used to the fact that here lay the body of a man that he had killed. In a short time he seemed to be successful, his face grew calm. He looked away from Pierre and turned his mind to the woman.
“She can’t stay here,” he said presently, in the tone of a man who has fallen into the habit of talking aloud to himself. He looked about in a hesitant, doubtful fashion. “God!” he said abruptly and snapped his fingers and thumb. He looked angry. Again he bent over Pierre, examined him with thoroughness and science, his face becoming more and more calm. At the end he rose and with an air of authority he went in again to Joan. She lay with her face turned to the wall.
“It is impossible for you to stay here,” said he in a voice of command. “You are not fit to take care of yourself, and I can’t stay and take care of you. You must come with me. I think you can manage that. Your husband—if he is your husband—is dead. It may or may not be a matter for sorrow to you, but I should say that it ought not to be anything but a merciful release. Women are queer creatures, though.... However, whether you are in grief or in rejoicing, you can’t stay here. By to-morrow or next day you’ll need more nursing than you do now. I don’t want to take you to a neighbor, even if there was one near enough, but I’ll take you with me. Will you get ready now?”
His sure, even, commanding voice evidently had a hypnotizing effect upon the dazed girl. Slowly, wincing, she stood up, and with his help gathered together some of her belongings which he put in the pack he carried on his shoulders. She wrapped herself in her warmest outdoor clothing. He then put his hand upon her arm and drew her toward the door of that outer room. She followed him blindly with no will of her own, but, as he stopped to strap on his snowshoes, her face lightened with pain, and she made as if to run to Pierre’s body. He stood before her, “Don’t touch him,” said he, and, turning himself, he glanced back at Pierre. In that glance he saw one of the lean, brown hands stir. His face became suddenly suffused, even his eyes grew shot with blood. Standing carefully so as to obstruct her view, he caught at the corner of an elk hide and threw it over Pierre. Then he went to Joan, who stared at him, white and shaking. He put his arm around her and drew her out, shutting the door of her home and leaning against it.
“You can’t go back,” said he gently and reasonably. “The man tried to kill you. You can’t go back. Surely you meant to go away.”