Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not recognise it, but for the man making himself known by speech, which secures his identification. For he, too, sees a familiar face, that of Simeon Woodley; and under the impression he is himself recognised, mechanically pronounces the backwoodsman’s name.
“Bill Bosley!” shouts the astonished Sime, “Good Lord! Painted Injun! What’s this for? Some devil’s doings ye’re arter as ye allers war. Explain it, Bill! Tell the truth ’ithout preevaricashun. Ef ye lie, I’ll split your thrapple like I wud a water-millyun.”
“Sime Woodley! Ned Heywood! Joe Harkness!” gaspingly ejaculates the man, as in turn the three faces appear before him. “God Almighty! what’s it mean?”
“We’ll answer that when we’ve heern your story. Quick, tell it.”
“I can’t; your chokin’ me. For God’s sake, Heywood, take your hand off my throat. O Sime! sure you don’t intend killin’ me?—ye won’t, ye won’t.”
“That depends—”
“But I aint to blame. Afore heaven, I swear I aint. You know that, Harkness? You heard me protest against their ugly doin’s more than once. In this business, now, I’m only actin’ under the captin’s order. He sent me ’long with the lootenant to take care of—”
“The lieutenant!” interrupts Clancy. “What name?”
“Phil Quantrell, we call him; though I guess he’s got another—”
“Where is he?” inquires Clancy, tortured with a terrible suspicion.