Then he cackled. “Louisiana singin’. I hear him. Louisiana—who killed French Pete. He, he!”
After a while he tired, subsiding into mutterings. He got breakfast, bringing to her some of the mess he cooked. She ate it, though it nauseated her, determining that she would endeavor to keep her strength for future struggles.
While she choked down the food the prospector sat near her, but not looking at her, and talked.
“You an’ me’ll talk pretty, honey. Old Jim ain’t goin’ to hurt you if you’re reasonable. Just tell old 228 Jim what the writin’ says and old Jim’ll be right nice to you. We’ll go an’ find the gold, you and me. You’ll tell old Jim, won’t you?”
His horrible pleading fell on stony ears, and he changed his tune.
“You ain’t a-goin’ tell old Jim? Well, that’s too bad. Old Jim hates to do it, pretty, but old Jim’s got to know. If you won’t tell him, he’ll have to find out anyhow. Know how he’ll do it?”
She remained silent.
“It’s a trick the Injuns done taught old Jim. They uses it to make people holler when they don’t want to. They takes a little sliver of pine, jest a little tiny sliver, ma’am, and they sticks it in under the toe nails where it hurts. Then they lights it. They sticks more of ’em under the finger nails and through the skin here an’ there. Then they lights ’em.
“Most generally it makes the fellers holler—and I reckon it’ll make you tell, ma’am. Old Jim has to know. You better tell old Jim.”
She remained stubbornly and scornfully silent.