“Who’s on the trail?”
“Who? Nick Westley. He’s comin’ for blood! Victor’s blood!” Then Davia sprang to her feet with a look of wild alarm upon her beautiful face. “He’s killed his brother!” she added. “He’s mad–ravin’ mad.”
The man did not move a muscle. Only his eyes darkened as he heard the announcement.
“Mad,” he said, thoughtfully. “An’ he’s comin’ fer Victor. Wal?”
Davia sat up. Her brother’s calmness had a soothing effect upon her.
“Listen, an’ I’ll tell you.”
And she told the story of the mountain tragedy, and the manner in which she watched the madman’s subsequent actions until he set out for the store. And the story lost none of its intense horror in her telling.
Jean listened unemotionally and with a judicial air. Only his eyes shoved that he was in any way moved.
When she had finished he asked her, “An’ when’ll he git here?”
“Can’t say,” came the swift reply. “Maybe to-night; maybe in an hour; maybe right now. He’s big an’ strong, an’–an’ he’s mad, I know it.” And a shudder of apprehension passed over her frame.