"I help myself, you fool," said Joe. Chihuahua had been a mat for him to wipe his feet on for years. "I wait for her; now I have her."
Chihuahua kicked Annawillee again and got free. Annie got up and ran to their end of the room. She caught Joe by the arm: he sent her headlong and she fell against the table. It went over and the lamp fell on the floor. The only light in the room came from the live embers of the great dead Mill.
And suddenly Jenny felt Joe loose her. He made an awful sound, which was not a cry, and something hot and warm gushed upon her bosom. She saw him stagger, saw his arms go up in the air, and heard a growl from Chihuahua.
"Fool," said the Mexican. He had sliced Joe's throat right open and cut his voice and his cry asunder. The Castilian reeled again and fell, and then the door was burst open. Long Mac stood in the opening.
"Jenny, my girl," he cried; But Jenny did not answer. She lay insensible on the bed: she was dyed crimson. Her child screamed, but she heard nothing.
"Long Mac!" said Chihuahua. He feared him always, and now feared all men.
"Jenny here," he said in a quavering voice. And Mac strode in. He stepped across Joe and found Jenny and her child. He took them in his arms, though he ached dreadfully in his set shoulder, and carried them out.
"Missus, oh, Missus," said Sam. Chihuahua crept out after them and then ran into the shadows, casting away his stained knife. Annawillee had lost her man, and the police found him the next day. A poor fool of a white woman in the City shrieked about the dead Castilian. No one but that poor fool was sorry.