"What do you mean, Frenchy?" said the man addressed, uneasily.
"Somebody goin' die for w'at you say jus' now. Mebbe it's goin' be you, m'sieu; mebbe it's goin' be him; I can't tell yet, but I'm hope an' pray it's goin' be you, biccause I t'ink w'at you say is a lie, an' nobody can spik dose kin' of lie 'bout Necia Gale."
He went crashing blindly through the underbrush, his head wagging, his shoulders slumped loosely forward like those of a drunken man, his lips framing words they could not understand.
When he had disappeared Runnion drew a deep breath.
"I guess I've framed something for Mister Burrell this time."
"You go about it queer," said Stark. "I'd rather tackle a gang-saw than a man like Poleon Doret. Your frame-up may work double."
"Huh! No chance. The soldier was out all night alone with that half-breed girl, and anybody can see she's crazy about him. What's the answer?"
"Well, she's mighty pretty," agreed the other, "most too pretty for a mixed blood, but you can't make that Frenchman believe she's wrong."
"Why, he believes it now," chuckled Runnion, "or at least he's jealous, and that's just as good. Those two will have trouble before dark. I wish they would—then I'd have a chance."
"Have you got your eye on her, too?"