To Ellen their words had no meaning. She rose and asked, “Where can I sleep?”
“I’ll fetch a light presently an’ y’u can make your bed in there by Tad,” replied Colter.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
“Wal, if y’u reckon y’u can coax him to talk you’re shore wrong,” declared Colter, with that cold timbre of voice that struck like steel on Ellen’s nerves. “I cussed him good an’ told him he’d keep his mouth shut. Talkin’ makes him cough an’ that fetches up the blood.... Besides, I reckon I’m the one to tell y’u how your dad an’ uncle got killed. Tad didn’t see it done, an’ he was bad hurt when it happened. Shore all the fellars left have their idee aboot it. But I’ve got it straight.”
“Colter—tell me now,” cried Ellen.
“Wal, all right. Come over heah,” he replied, and drew her away from the camp fire, out in the shadow of gloom. “Poor kid! I shore feel bad aboot it.” He put a long arm around her waist and drew her against him. Ellen felt it, yet did not offer any resistance. All her faculties seemed absorbed in a morbid and sad anticipation.
“Ellen, y’u shore know I always loved y’u—now don’t y ’u?” he asked, with suppressed breath.
“No, Colter. It’s news to me—an’ not what I want to heah.”
“Wal, y’u may as well heah it right now,” he said. “It’s true. An’ what’s more—your dad gave y’u to me before he died.”
“What! Colter, y’u must be a liar.”