“Why does the sheriff want me killed?”
“Nothing personal, I assure you,” answered Kent with mock courtesy. “I’ve already explained that he will not arrest you. But you’re the suspect, and if you were put out of the way every one would believe you the murderer. There would be a perfunctory investigation, the whole thing would be hushed up, and the body in Annalaka churchyard would rest in peace—presumably a profitable peace for the sheriff.”
“Flat out, Kent, do you know who the dead woman is?”
“Flat out, I don’t. But I’ve a shrewd guess that I’ll find out before long.”
“From Gansett Jim?”
“No hope there. He’s an Indian. What I’m going to see him about now is your safety.”
“Now? Where do you expect to find him?”
“In the village, I hope. It wouldn’t do for you to come there. But I want you to go to the spot where you met the circus-wagon man, and wait, until I bring Jim.”
It was a long wait for the worried artist, in the deep forest that bounded the lonely road along Hawkill Heights. Ten o’clock had chimed across the hill from the distant village, when he heard footsteps, and at a call from Kent, stepped out into the clear, holding the lantern above him. The light showed a strange spectacle. Kent, watchful, keen, ready as a cat to spring, stood with his eyes fixed upon the distorted face of the half-breed. Terror, rage, overmastering amazement, and the soul-panic of the supernatural glared from the blue-white eyeballs of the negro; but the jaw and chin were set firm in the stoicism of the Indian. In that strange racial conflict of emotions the fiercer finer strain won. Gansett Jim’s frame relaxed. He grunted.
“Good boy, Jim!” Chester Kent’s voice, at the half-breed’s ear, was the voice of one who soothes an affrighted horse. “I didn’t know whether you could stand it or not. You see, you didn’t shoot Mr. Sedgwick, after all.”