Jim shook his head. And for some moments there was silence. Finally his answer came with a smile of understanding.
“He’s not crazy. You fellers are all wrong. Peter’s got the gold all right.”
“He’s welcome, sure.”
The doctor had no sympathy with any gold find at that moment, and presently he looked round at his prisoner. The man’s indifference almost staggered him. He chewed his wad of tobacco viciously. At that moment he hated himself, he hated Jim, he hated everybody––but most of all he hated Smallbones.
After a while he spoke, and though his manner was sharp he meant kindly––
“You ain’t told what, I’m guessin’, you could tell, Jim,” 386 he said. Then he added significantly, “We’ve nigh a mile to go.”
But Jim was gazing out at the great arc of rosy light growing in the eastern sky, and the doctor stirred impatiently. At last the condemned man turned to him with a grave smile––
“Guess there’s nothing so beautiful in nature as a perfect summer dawn,” he said. “It makes a man feel strong, and––good. I’m glad it’s dawn,” he added, with a sigh.
The doctor spat out his tobacco, and his lean hands clenched tight on the reins.
“Maybe it makes you fool-headed, too.”