They were inside the outer room of the dugout. The Wolf had possessed himself of the old six-chambered revolver which Pideau kept hanging on the wall. He had just finished loading its chambers from the cartridge belt hanging beside it. The spare cartridges he had already stuffed into his hip pocket. His rifle was laid aside with its breech-block removed.
“He won’t do a thing, Wolf.”
Annette’s tone was almost one of humility as she addressed the boy who had suddenly become her hero.
“I’m takin’ no chances.”
The Wolf spoke roughly. There was only the outline of his smile left.
“That why you slipped the pin from his rifle?”
“Sure.”
The girl sighed. Her eyes were gazing at the inner room of death.
“Then we ken carry her down?” she suggested.
“I’ll carry her, kid,” the Wolf said gently. “You don’t need. You haul that mattock an’ fork. She was good to me, an’ I loved her. She didn’t act so good to you. You’ll jest help—me—that’s all.”