“Just so,” replied Peter, quite unmoved. “I––we––Doc Crombie, Jim Thorpe, and I. We made it up, as 182 you choose to call it, because we’ve eyes and ears and common sense. And Doc Crombie knows just about how much force it would take to smash her head as it was smashed.”
“And what were you fellows doing in my house?” Will demanded, his anger gaining ground in proportion to the abatement of his fears.
“We were in Eve’s house,” answered Peter, drily, “for the reason that we wished to have a chat with her. That is, Jim and I. Doc Crombie came because we’d a notion we were sorry for Eve, and didn’t want her to die on our hands. That’s why we were there.”
Will laughed.
“Jim Thorpe was there, eh? And who’s to say that you and he didn’t do the mischief? Guess Jim hates things enough, seeing I married Eve. She’d got no broken head when I left her.”
“You needn’t to lie about it, Will,” Peter said calmly. “Least of all to me. But that makes no odds. As I said, you’ve got to take a fall. Barnriff’s got ears and eyes that puts it wise to a lot. It’s wise to how things have been going with you and Eve. It’s wise to the fact you’re bumming your living out of her, that you’re a drunken, poker-playing loafer, and that you’re doing it on her earnings. And Barnriff, headed by a few of us, and Doc Crombie, aren’t going to stand for it. If you don’t get busy you’ll find there’s trouble for you, and if, from this out, Barnriff gets wise to your ill-treatment of Eve, in any way––God help you. You’ll get less mercy shown you than you showed that poor girl to-night. That’s what I brought you here to say. And I’d like to add a piece of friendly advice. Don’t 183 you show your face in Rocket’s saloon to get a drink or deal a hand at poker for a month or––well, I needn’t warn you further of what’s going to happen. If you’ve got savvee you’ll read through the lines. Maybe you’ll take this hard––I can see it in your face. But you’re a man, and you’ve got some grit––well, get right out and do things. That’s your chance here in Barnriff.”
Will Henderson’s face was a study while he listened to his arraignment and final sentence by the mild Peter Blunt. At first rage was his dominant emotion, but it gave way before the mild but resolute fashion in which the large man poured out the inexorable flow of the sentence. And somehow for a moment those calm words got hold of all that was vital in him, and he shrank before them. But neither did this feeling last. A bitter hatred rose up in his heart, a black, overmastering, passionate desire for vengeance fired him, and proportionate with its strength a cunning stirred which held it in check. He put an abrupt question, nor could he keep his angry feelings out of his voice.
“So Jim Thorpe’s helped in this?” he said savagely. “No need to ask his reason. Gee, it’s a mean man that can’t take his med’cine.”
“You needn’t bark up that tree, Will,” said Peter, patiently. “We’re all responsible for this––the whole of Barnriff.” Then he smiled. “You see, Doc Crombie has approved.”
Then it was that Henderson saw fit to change his manner. It seemed almost as if the enormity of his offense had been suddenly brought home to him, and contrition had begun to stir.