“Hush, Mother! I will go to him at once. No, I have not forgotten anything,—and pray you may never understand,” he added in a whisper. He arose abruptly from his chair and quitted the room before he had finished speaking, so the last words reached the ears of Bess alone.
She watched the man, and thought of his words the day before when she told him that she knew Mr. Davis. As he had not asked how nor where she had known him, she thought perhaps James had explained.
Henry West knocked softly at the door of Mr. Davis’ room and entered at a faint “come in.” He could not help feeling a twinge of pity as he saw the pallid brow and hands of the helpless man, and yet his very presence filled him with ever-increasing hatred and contempt. He put his hand to his throat as if his collar were choking him, as he said in a husky voice: “You sent for me, Mr. Davis. Of what service can I be to you?”
He could scarcely catch the faint words that came from the injured man’s lips, and going nearer, bent over that he might hear what Davis was saying.
“Will you send one of my policemen here, West? There are several important matters which I must see about today.” The Indian agent spoke with effort.
“I fear you are not strong enough to see anyone yet,” Henry suggested kindly.
The man glared at him and hotly said, “Oh, hell! Yes, I am! All that hurts is my ankle, and I don’t have to talk with that.”
With an abrupt, “Very well, sir,” West moved towards the door.
“Say, West,” said Davis, raising his voice; “I know you didn’t give me that help yesterday because you love me,” with a slight sneer,—“but I thank you just the same.”