"I do begin to see," she said, "there is a God! Look, Storm"—she pointed to the trader—"below his belt, see inside of him, that dim, gray, great Thing clutching—clutching. See"—she clutched in the air with her hands—"like that. What is it?"
Storm lifted his head from the cross and turned to look. "Crow," he said, "my wife and I can both see the most awful slow death inside you. Within three weeks you shall answer for all you have done, for every crime, for every evil thought. We pity you. From the very bottom of our hearts we both forgive you."
The Crow had turned livid, attempting to laugh while his mouth went dry. His black hand clutched his throat as he spoke in a hoarse whisper, struggling to get his voice back. "What if I let you off? Here—take one drink to show these men you're beaten—you and your woman—free!"
The place was reeking with heavy fumes of liquor. The astral air, the living atmosphere of all emotion, was filled with fierce desire. Storm was heir to a line of dipsomaniacs, by his very blood born drunkard, and in his quick health swayed by every lust. No man held life more dearly. Only the strong love of his mother and of his wife had tamed the beast passions raging in him, transmuted the wild soul into still spirit. Now he met the fiercest temptation of his whole life with triumphant laughter.
"Give me that sledge!" yelled the Crow; then to the Indian who had arrested Storm, "Hold the spike—damn you!"
"Let me hold the spike," said Storm, taking it from the Indian. "I'll hold it with my fingers, this way, the point against my palm, so. Now, drive!"
The Crow let drive.
* * * * * * *
When the cross had been lifted, and its foot wedged in the mortise-hole, they lashed Rain there, her head against Storm's knees.
"Lean back hard," he said between his teeth; "it takes away half the pain."