The Wolf smiled. Even in his grief Annette was still the little fiend he loved.
“You did it for me, though,” he said, with that maddening assurance which drove the girl.
“She died last night,” Annette cried. Then her eyes lit fiercely. “I did it so the flies ’ud keep from her.”
Pideau grinned. The Wolf saw the grin. He understood the malice of it. He ignored the man and his grin. He turned to the girl for whom his love had never been greater than at that moment. His eyes were smiling.
“I’m kind o’ glad you kept the flies off’n her,” he said. “I can’t ferget you did it, Annette. You see, you didn’t love her, and she didn’t love you. I’ll need to bury her.”
Pideau stood up from his fire abruptly. For one unsmiling moment he looked from the girl to the boy. Then he moved from his cooking pot and came across to them. The Wolf watched him while he seemed only to be looking at the girl.
Annette saw Pideau’s movement but continued to eye the boy. Then came the half-breed’s harsh voice.
“You ken fix them beasts down along in the corrals,” he said in his domineering way. “I’ll bury her when we’re through eatin’.”
The quiet of the boy’s eyes became suddenly disturbed. They lit with passion.
“No,” he said in a tone of finality. “I bury her. She’s my mother.”