The Wolf stared out ahead over the white expanse of winter. Far away beyond the bare horizon lay Buffalo Coulee, and that—to-night. He was glad of to-night. There was no other emotion in him than satisfaction as he contemplated it. A sharp ejaculation broke.
“Tcha! Say, kid, why talk that fool stuff? Ain’t it beat from your head yet? I didn’t kill that skunk Sinclair. You know it, unless you’re crazy. Get it right here. I didn’t—kill—Sinclair.”
“But I saw. You’d been ther’! Your gun! An’ he was dead!”
It was the old Annette. All the old spirit. And it gladdened the man’s heart.
The Wolf flung back his head and laughed. It was a laugh of sheer joy, carefree, and good to hear. She had come back. It was the old Annette riding beside him.
“Say, kid, we got a dope of sense between us that wouldn’t save a maggot from the bughouse. You saw my gun, with Sinclair dead. Maybe you did. I saw you standin’ with my gun in your hand lookin’ down at the carcass you’d shot the life right out of. Well?”
“I didn’t! I didn’t! I guessed it was you.”
“Sure. An’ I felt good they should choke me to death so you could get all the daylight comin’ to you.”
“Man, man! You’re crazy. Who killed Sinclair?”
The Wolf was preparing another smoke.