Peter released his wrist, but kept his hold on his arm.
And they walked in silence to the “shack.” Will had long known the gold prospector, and had become so accustomed to the mildness of his manner, as had all the village, that this sudden display of physical and moral force brought with it an awakening that had an unpleasant flavor. Then, too, his own thoughts were none too easy, and the picture of Eve as he had last seen her would obtrude itself, and created, if no gentler feeling, at least a guilty nervousness that sickened his stomach.
Peter said that Doc Crombie had only just left her. What did that mean? Only just left her, and––it had occurred nearly two hours ago. He was troubled. But his trouble was in no way touched with either remorse or pity. He was thinking purely of himself.
Of course she had recovered, he told himself. He had watched her breathing before he left her. Yes, he had ascertained that. She had been merely stunned. Ah, a sudden thought! Perhaps she had told them what had happened. A black rage against her suddenly took hold of him. If she had––but no. Even though he was––as he was, he realized, as bad natures often will realize in others better than themselves, Eve’s loyalty and high-mindedness. It could not be that. He wondered. And wondering they reached their destination.
Peter let him pass into the hut, and, following quickly, lit the lamp. Then he pointed at the only comfortable seat, and propped himself against the table, with the light shining full on Will’s face.
“Will,” he began, without any preamble, “you’ve got to take a fall––quick. You’ve got to get such a big fall 181 that maybe it’ll hurt some––at first. But you’ll get better––later.”
“I don’t get you.”
The man assumed indifference. He felt that he must steady himself. He wanted to get the measure of the other before giving vent to those feelings which were natural to him since drink had undermined all that was best in him.
“You’ve nearly killed your wife to-night,” Peter went on, with a new note of harshness in his voice. “Look you, I’m not going to preach. It’s not our way here, and none of us are such a heap good that preaching comes right from us. I’m warning you, and it’s a warning you’ll take right here, or worse’ll come. Now I don’t know the rights of what has happened between you and Eve, but I’ll sort of reconstruct it to you in my own way, and it matters nothing if I am right or wrong. Eve and you had words. What about I can only guess at. Maybe it was money, maybe the saloon, maybe poker. You two must have got to words, which ended by you brutally pitching her on to the edge of the coal box, and nearly killing her. After that you went out, leaving her to die––by your act––if it took her that way. Mark you, she didn’t fall. She couldn’t have––and smashed her forehead as she did. She told us she did, but that, I guess, was to shield you.”
“Then she didn’t give you this pretty yarn?” inquired Will, sarcastically. He was feeling better. He gathered that Eve was not going to die. “You kind of made it up on your own?”