Pideau’s eyes sparkled angrily.
“Yes.”
“An’ now?” Pideau threw into his manner all that was foulest in him. “Sinclair’s leave-over’s good enough without a kick, eh? I surely made a poor guess.”
The Wolf gestured.
“It don’t matter what you guessed, Pideau,” he said coldly. “It’s wrong, anyway. Cut out the ‘leave-over’ though. Ther’ ain’t no ‘leave-over’ where Annette’s concerned. Annette’s the greatest thing ever stepped this crazy wilderness. An’ I don’t know how it comes she belongs a father like you. I’d kill Sinclair same as I’d kill you, if either of you hurt body or soul of Annette. You can get that right now. Annette’s cut Sinclair out fer me. Fer me! Do you get that, too? Ther’s no sort of need fer a killin’ now—none. I’m not goin’ around killin’ police boys fer pastime or to hand you joy.”
The Wolf looked for an outburst. But Pideau only shook his bullet head.
“She cut him out fer you?” he scorned. “She can’t!”
The Wolf’s eyes glittered.
“Why?”
“Molly Gros.”