“Yes, and more than that. And I told these men WHY you vented your spite on me.”
Willetts uttered a half-laugh, an uneasy, contemptuous expression of scorn and repudiation.
“The charges of such a man as you are can't hurt me,” he said.
The man did not show fear so much as disgust at the meeting. He seemed to be absorbed in thought, yet no serious consideration of the situation made itself manifest. Shefford felt puzzled. Perhaps there was no fire to strike from this man. The desert had certainly not made him flint. He had not toiled or suffered or fought.
“But I can hurt you,” thundered Shefford, with startling suddenness. “Here! Look at this Indian! Do you know him? Glen Naspa's brother. Look at him. Let us see you face him while I accuse you.... You made love to Glen Naspa—took her from her home!”
“Harping infidel!” replied Willetts, hoarsely. “So that's your game. Well, Glen Naspa came to my school of her own accord and she will say so.”
“Why will she? Because you blinded the simple Indian girl.... Willetts, I'll waste little more time on you.”
And swift and light as a panther Shefford leaped upon the man and, fastening powerful hands round the thick neck, bore him to his knees and bent back his head over the rail. There was a convulsive struggle, a hard flinging of arms, a straining wrestle, and then Willetts was in a dreadful position. Shefford held him in iron grasp.
“You damned, white-livered hypocrite—I'm liable to kill you!” cried Shefford. “I watched you and Glen Naspa that day up on the mountain. I saw you embrace her. I saw that she loved you. Tell THAT, you liar! That'll be enough.”
The face of the missionary turned purple as Shefford forced his head back over the rail.