Torrance stormed up beside him, rifle in hand.
"Where is he? Why don't you shoot? Let me—"
The Sergeant, with a deft twist, secured the rifle.
"What's he been doing?"
"Doing?" yelled the contractor. "Didn't you see that whole window—didn't you—"
"We don't shoot men for that."
Tressa came to the rescue:
"He's an Indian, one of the bohunks. I didn't know he'd done anything. We were talking to him when you came. Daddy wanted to make him underforeman, but he refused. And now"—she peered in awe over the edge—"he's killed."
"Guilty conscience, I guess," commented the Sergeant. "Lots of them are taken that way when they see the uniform—though I don't recall quite such a sudden and successful attempt at suicide."
"Suicide!" snorted Torrance, who was lying down where he could see the scene below. "Suicide nothing! That chap's a human cat—or he ain't human at all. He came up by the trestle; this is just another way to get down. Look at that dust! He's not falling, not him! He's just kicking up a dust so we can't see, and all the time he's breaking his up record. He's not dropping fast enough to hurt himself . . . but, by hickory! where he finds toe-holds on that cliff beats me."