"Oh, Mary," said Pete. He came riding fast. She looked up, did not know him, and looked again, and knew him. She called to Ned, who came out at the sound of galloping.
"It's Pete," she cried, but Ned stood there stupidly. In his great repentance and his new found peace he could not believe in bitter enmity, in war or in revenge.
There is a power of strange madness in the Indian blood, diluted though it be. Under the maddening influence of liquor the nature of the Indian flowers in dreadful passions, forgetful of new circumstances, oblivious of punishment and of law. None knew this better than Ned Quin, and yet he stood there foolishly, with a doubtful smile upon his face, a smile almost of greeting. He was even ready to forgive Pete for what he had done. He felt his heart was changed, and without a touch of religion or creed this was a natural and sweet conversion. But Mary tugged at his arm, for she knew.
The whirlwind came down on them: Pete rode at him and, ere he awakened and turned, rode him down. Ned fell and was struck by the horse, reluctant to ride over him, and Pete leapt from the saddle. He saw Mary with her hands up, but chiefly saw the white shroud on her face. He forgot her, forgot his horse, and only remembered that one of the brothers he hated lay sprawling before him, half stunned, raised on one hand. With a club, a branch of knotted fir, that he seized on, he went for the man and battered him. Mary flew at him, and he sent her headlong with a backward motion of his left arm. She reeled and fell and got upon her knees, screaming with bitter rage at her brother. But she was weak, and though she got to her feet again, she fell once more. She saw Ned bleeding, saw him fall supine, saw his empty hands open and shut: she heard the blows.
"Oh, God," she cried. Within the shack there was a shot-gun. It stood in the corner, there were cartridges handy. She crawled for the house, and got on her feet again and staggered till she reached it. She found the gun and the cartridges, threw the breech open, rammed one in and closed it. The possession of the weapon gave her strength. She ran out, and Pete saw her coming, saw the gun go to her shoulder. With the club in his hand he ran at her as quick as he had been in the Mill. And as he nearly closed with her she fired. He felt the very heat of the discharge, was blinded by it and by the grains of powder, and fell unhurt, save for a burnt and bloody ear. Mary struck him with the butt and knocked him senseless: he lay before her like a log. She dropped the gun and ran to Ned and fell upon her knees. She lifted his battered head and prayed for his life, and even as she prayed she believed that he was killed. There was no motion in him; her trembling hand could feel no heart-beat. She heard her brother groan.
"He's killed him," she screamed, "he's killed him!"
She laid her man down with his head upon a sack that lay near by. She turned to Pete with blazing eyes and saw the man she believed she had slain sitting up and staring about him foolishly. From one car blood ran: his white face was powder-scorched.
"You devil," said his sister, "you've killed my man, the man I loved; oh, you wicked beast, you cruel wretch, you pig——"
She screamed horrible abuse at her brother, dreadful abuse and foolish.
"They'll hang you, hang you, hang you!"