"
The locked fingers across the Indian's knee were growing white; white as
the sunlight without.
"And now he has returned, you say, to sell the ranch, her ranch?"
"It is her ranch no more. It is his."
"She, Bess, gave it to him after all that had happened, all that he had
done? You mean to tell me this?"
Abruptly, instinctively, for the end was very close at hand, the white
man got to his feet, stood so silent.
"Tell me." The Indian was likewise erect, his dark face standing clear
against the white background of the tent wall. "Did Bess do this thing?"
"No," said a voice. "It came to him in another way."
"Another way!" swiftly. "Another way!" repeated. "Another way!" for the
third time; and then a halt. For that moment realisation had come.
"There could be but one other way!"
Swiftly, instinctively, the white man turned about, until the face
opposite was hid. Hardened frontiersman as he was, prepared for the
moment as he had thought himself, he could not watch longer. To do so
was sacrilege unqualified. In his youth the man had been a hunter of big
game. Of a sudden now, horribly distinct, he had a vision of the
expression in the eyes of a great moose, mortally wounded, when at the
end he himself had drawn the knife. Under its influence he halted,
waiting, postponing the inevitable.
"There could be but one other way," repeated the voice slowly,
repressedly. "Tell me, please.
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