She turned her face toward him. Her eyes now were swollen and wet with tears.
Jim, gray of face, held in his two hands a Chinese knife, balancing it. There were stains on the blade. He must have picked it up, she reflected, here on the junk. For it wouldn't be like him to carry such a weapon. It seemed to her then that he was holding his breath. She saw him moisten his blue lips with the tip of an ashen tongue. He was trying to speak. At least his lips parted again. She waited. When the voice did finally come, it was so hoarse that he had evident difficulty in making it intelligible.
“Tex may be strong—but if you think I'm afraid—”
“Oh, Jim.... no, I don't mean that! Not that! Oh, I don't know what I'm saying-! It's only when I think how happy you and I might be—think of it! really rich! able to go and live decently somewhere, like regular folks!”
Silently, with surprising stealthy swiftness, he got to his feet. His right hand, with the knife, busied itself in a side pocket of his coat.
“Say the word, Dixie”—his face was contorted with the muscular effort necessary to produce this small sound—“say the word, and I'll kill him.”
“Oh, no, Jim!” she covered her face with her thin hands, and sobbed, very low. “Oh God, what can we do? Isn't there some other way?”
“Say the word,” he whispered.
“Would it be”—she broke down again—“would it be—where a man's a devil, where he's threatened—wouldn't it be like defending ourselves?”
“Say the word!”