Scipio’s simplicity and single-mindedness brought forth a sigh of intense feeling from his hearers.
“How?” Wild Bill’s method of interrogation had a driving effect.
“She’s mine, an’––I’m going to get her back.” There was pity at the man’s obstinate assertion in every eye except Wild Bill’s.
“Say, Zip, he’ll kill you,” said the gambler, after a pause.
“She’s my wife. She’s mine,” retorted Scipio intensely. “An’ I’ll shoot him dead if he refuses to hand her over.”
“Say,” the gambler went on, ignoring the man’s protest––the idea of Scipio shooting a man like James was too ludicrous––“you’re up agin a bad proposition, sure. James has stole your––wife. He’s stole more. He’s a stage-robber.”
“A cattle-thief,” broke in Sandy.
“A ‘bad man’ of the worst,” nodded Minky.
“He’s all these, an’ more,” went on Bill, scowling. “He’s a low-down skunk, he’s a pestilence, he’s a murderer. You’re goin’ to hunt him back ther’ to his own shack in the foothills with his gang of toughs around him, an’ you’re goin’ to make him hand back your wife. Say, you’re sure crazy. He’ll kill you. He’ll blow your carkis to hell, an’ charge the devil freightage for doin’ it.”
There was a look of agreement in the eyes that watched Scipio’s mild face. There was more: there was sympathy and pity for him, feelings in these men for which there was no other means of expression.