Reaching the hall his hosts took up their position standing near the centre, stone-built fireplace. They had faced about so that they confronted him, and Wilder understood the woman had simply obeyed the man’s unspoken command.
The harsh voice of the blindman jarred on the quiet of the room.
“You are an intruder,” he declared, his eyeless sockets turned unerringly on the whiteman’s face. “You invade our home unbidden. You threaten us with your gun unprovoked. You say you are a whiteman. We are helpless. I cannot even see you, and my wife is defenceless. Well?” He shrugged with infinite contempt. “You demand talk with us. Go on.”
Wilder’s impulse was to retort sharply. But he restrained it. Where there should have been pity for a blindman living out a darkened life in these far-off mountains there was only antagonism and instant prejudice. He understood how it came well enough. Instinct as well as swift conclusion warned him that behind those eyeless sockets there dwelt a mind driven by a nature something evil. For the moment, however, he must adopt conciliation. Any other course would, in all probability, defeat his ends. So his tone became that of easy moderation. He laughed.
“Guess I’m all you reckon, sir,” he said. “Yes, I’m an intruder, and I need to pass you a hundred apologies. But what else could I do? Anyway, the best now would be to hand you the meaning of the thing I’m doing. You see, I’m out looking for things. The sort of things this queer valley looks like handing out. I’m on a big prospect, and these hills look to be full of the things I want. This is the second year I’ve been on the trail, east, and west, and north, and now—well, I guess it hasn’t been for nothing.”
“Oil? You’ve found the oil this valley is full of?” The blindman’s question came sharply, but without alarm. His tone had lost something of its harshness, and Wilder was satisfied. With deliberation, and almost ostentatiously, he put his automatic pistol back into his hip pocket. And he knew that the quick eyes of the woman were watching his movements and conveying the story of them voicelessly, through her hand clasp, to the man. Then he moved over to the chair which was turned about from the bureau, and flung himself into it.
“Maybe,” he said. Then he indicated the couch which stood nearby to a tall carved wooden screen. “Won’t you sit?” he went on pleasantly. “It’s not for me to offer you a seat in your own house, but—” He broke off with a light laugh. “Maybe we’ll be quite a while talking.” His whole manner had assumed the cordiality he intended. There was a moment of hesitation. Then, without a word, the woman led her charge across to the dusty couch. But she did not move directly across. The couch stood opposite where they stood yet she led the man making a deliberate detour and Wilder was puzzled. Then, glancing down at the floor, he realised something which had hitherto escaped him. A large ugly stain of brown was splashed on the polished flooring.
There was no mistaking it. He recognised it instantly.
It was unquestionably a blood-stain, and by its extent he judged it to be blood from a mortal wound. His questioning gaze sought the two queer figures at once. The woman had carefully avoided it, and he interpreted her action in the only way possible. She evidently understood the origin of that stain, and repugnance inspired her movements.
They sat themselves on the couch side by side and Wilder went on as though nothing had distracted his attention. He turned his chair so that he faced them.