“What you done.”
Len looked at the squaw, whose eyes were fastened on his face.
“We not tell,” she said firmly.
Len’s eyes shifted to the boy.
“Do you think I killed Prentice?” he asked.
“We won’t tell. Me and Minnie will never tell, will we, Minnie?”
“Not by damn sight,” she replied inelegantly but firmly.
Len turned slowly around and walked away, lips compressed, his eyes staring at the ground. He didn’t understand, except that they believed he had killed Prentice and that they would not tell. The boy had refused to go with him, because he had killed a man. Len was dazed, wondering even when he went back to the hitchrack and mounted his horse. Hashknife and Sleepy were crossing the street and spoke to him, but he did not see them.
He rode back to the ranch, stabled his horse and sat down on the porch, trying to think. Nan came out and tried to talk with him, but he would not answer; so she sat down in a chair and waited for him to come out of his coma.
It was probably ten minutes later before he lifted his head and looked around. His eyes were bloodshot and Nan had never seen him look so old and tired. He tried to smile, but it was but a grimace.