But Sucatash made no move toward the pistol. He merely gaped at her and at De Launay. His expression had changed from anger to stupidity and dazed incomprehension.
“What’s that? He murdered your father?”
“He is Louisiana!”
“He? Louisiana! I allowed he was an old-timer. Well, all I can say is—heaven’s delights!”
Solange put out her hand to the edge of the bunk as though she could not support herself longer unaided. Her eyes were half closed now.
“Will you kill him, monsieur? If you do, you may have—of me—anything—that you ask!”
The words were faltered out in utter weariness. For one instant De Launay’s eyes flickered toward her, but Sucatash had already sprung to her side and was easing her to a seat on the edge of the bunk. Her head drooped forward.
“Ma’am,” said Sucatash, earnestly, “you got me wrong. I can’t kill him—not for that.”
“Not for that?” she repeated, wonderingly.
“Never in the world! I thought he’d insulted you, and if he had I’d a taken a fall out of him if he was twenty Louisianas. But this here notion you got that he beefed your father—that’s all wrong! You can’t go to downin’ a man on no such notions as that!”