The nervousness
and uncertainty of a moment ago had passed now absolutely. The deep-set
eyes of him were of a sudden glowing ominously as they had done when
telling the same tale to Rancher Hawkins the night before; but that was
all. His voluntary offering was given; more than this must come by
request.
"I have nothing more to say--unless you wish," he repeated in the old
formula.
For a second time silence fell; to be broken again by the crackling of a
match in the white man's hand. Following, as though prompted by the
sound, came a question.
"Why,"--the Indian did not stir, but his eyes had shifted until they
looked immovably into those of his companion,--"why, please, was not the
mother of the child at least at the funeral?"
"Because she could not come," impassively. "The baby was less than two
days old."
"She had been back, though, back at the ranch, for some time?"
"Yes. Several weeks."
"She returned alone?"
"Yes."
"And to stay?"
Swifter and more swiftly came the questions. Even yet no muscle of the
inquisitor's body stirred; but in the black eyes a light new to the
other man, ominous in its belated appearance, was kindling.
"Yes," answered Manning.
"She, Bess, had left her husband?"
"No, Craig had left her."
Suddenly, instinctively, the impersonal had been dropped; but neither
man noticed the change.
"There was a reason?"
"Yes," baldly. "Another woman.
Pages:
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272