“Look! It is Akkomi!” answered Lyster.
At the name ’Tana broke from him and ran into the room, even before the light reached it.
But she did not take many steps. Her foot struck against something on the floor, an immovable body and a silent one.
“Akkomi—sure enough,” said the miner, as he saw the Indian’s blanket. “Drunk, I suppose—Indian fashion.” 284
But as he held the light closer, he took hold of the girl’s arm, and tried to lead her from the scene.
“You’d better leave this to us, miss,” he added, in a grave tone. “The man ain’t drunk. He’s been murdered!”
’Tana, white as death itself, shook off his grasp and stood with tightly clasped hands, unheeding the words of horror around her, scarce hearing the shriek of Mrs. Huzzard, as that lady, forgetful even of the snakes, sank to the floor, a very picture of terror.
’Tana saw the roll of money scattered over the couch; the little bag of free gold drawn from under the pillow. He had evidently been stooping to secure it when the assassin crept behind him and left him dead there, with a knife sticking between his shoulders.
“The very knife you had to-day!” said Lyster, horror-stricken at the sight.
The miner with the lamp turned and looked at her strangely, and his eyes dropped from her face to her clasped hands, on which the ring of the snakes glittered.