“Say, boy,” he said, “it’s a cinch you reckoned Annette killed Sinclair. And Annette was dead sure you’d killed Sinclair. And it was Pideau contrived you should both think that way. How?”
The Wolf sucked his cigarette for a reflective moment and finally blew a cloud of smoke.
“It’s easy now,” he said thoughtfully. “You see, Annette’s told me the things I didn’t know. After Sinclair set out fer the cache Annette had a crazy worry. I guess she was scared fer the thing she’d done. Maybe she was scared fer Sinclair—or me—or both. You can’t ever tell with a woman. Maybe she didn’t know herself. Anyway, she followed along, an’—she found Sinclair dead, an’ my gun lyin’ along with him. One guess was all she took. An’ it set her stark crazy.” He paused. Then he went on quickly. “I was beating fer the cache to clear the liquor. I got there. The lamp was alight. Annette was standin’ over Sinclair with my gun in her hand. I went crazy, too. It was Annette. An’ she’d shot up a police boy. That’s how I got it. I ought to’ve jumped in right ther’. But I didn’t. An’ in my craziness I let her beat it without a word.”
The Wolf spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“Then she didn’t see you as she said she did?” Fyles asked sharply.
“No. She just said that. She figgered sure I’d pulled on Sinclair, and reckoned to make it red hot fer me.”
Fyles nodded. He recognized the half-breed in Annette’s deliberate lie in support of her accusation.
“But Pideau didn’t plan any of that,” he objected.
“No. I guess they were chances he hadn’t figgered. He only figgered one play. To have it so I shot up Sinclair. Pideau played his hand good till his nerve broke.”
The Wolf sucked his cigarette and held his great hands to the stove so that their wrists were bared. Fyles saw the wrists, and his memory went back. The Wolf raised his head.