He looked into Annie's window, which was naturally enough foul within and without. He saw nothing at first but the dim light of the lamp, but as everything was quiet he rubbed the glass of one pane with his cap. Then he saw that Annie was lying on the floor, a mere bundle of rags. Was that a bottle by her?
You bet it was, tilikum! Pete knew a bottle when he saw it. Perhaps by good luck it wasn't empty. He shortened the club in his hand and tapped lightly on the door with it. Annie never moved. He pushed the door open, and still she didn't move. He crept in like a cat until he could reach out and touch the bottle. It lay on its side and the cork was out. Nevertheless, a bottle can hold quite a good drink in it even on its side. It was as full as it could be in such a position, and careless of the silent woman he drank it to its fiery dregs. Hot life ran through his veins. It was fire: such fire as makes murder light and easy. He grinned happily and put the bottle down again by Annie's limp hand.
His life ran warm within him and all his desire of vengeance grew in alcohol as grass will grow in a warm rain of spring.
He found the kerosene in Chihuahua's little den, and started, not for the Mill, but for George Quin's house.
"My klootchman, ha," said Pete fiercely. "She have a papoose!"
The papoose slumbered in his loving mother's arms. By her side big George lay. The night was so sweet and quiet. If George could marry her he would. Oh, wonderful, sorrowful world that it was. And here was the world within her arms and within her reach.
"I just love Tchorch and baby!"
She woke and slept. Oh, heavenly night and heavenly day when baby slept, or waked, or stared solemnly, as Indian blood will and must, at the strange hard world that meets its wondering eyes.
The summer had been warm and rainless, everything was dry with the good warmth of summer. The brush showed brown: the paths were white: the lumber, whether in stacked piles or in framed houses, was ready for fire. A spark would light it: a single match might cause a conflagration as it would in a dry forest of red cedar or the resinous spruce.
And Pete carried kerosene. He drenched a southern wall of boards with it and laid against the wall dry brush and pieces of sawed lumber that lay about from the building of the house. He knew the wood must flame like tinder. If it ran unchecked for a minute it would take the river to put it out. And it was high above the river. He grinned and lighted a match.