The Tomahawk., 1925-08-06

the debate was In progress; stolid he
had remained then as now. During
the hour since elapsed his mind had
been following the same track as hers.
The same vision had been present to
his inner eye. He would fling the
first stone; it was his right; but not
at her. 1t should crush that hated
thing, with curling hair and light eyes,
which had made him the laughing
stock among his fellows. The Old Law
was good law, a just one. Had he
ever beaten her? No, not once. Had
he ever given her cause for chagrin2
More fool he! You must beat wom-
an to make her respect you, and make
her Jealous If you would have her love
you.
Well, he would be avenged on the
morrow; he should see her crushed
and broken, hanging In her bonds: that
pretty, round, smiling face streaked
with vermillon that was not paint.
What was it he once heard that
priest say about forgiving? Did the
white men forgive such things? He
did not think 1t. But that old priest
he was always talking about loving
those that despitefully used you.
Yes, that was how she would look
hanging there with blood running over
her face. He had seen a picture like
1t Of man on a cross. A man that
was God, so the priest said. What
had that to do with this? Bad peo
pie killed Him because He was good.
Good people were going to kill this
woman because she was bad.
Yes, 1t would hurt her; she ought
to be hurt. How could you love peo-
pie that Stunned you? How long would
It take to kill her? He hoped no one
would hit her in the eye; that would
be bad. Would she scream? On the
whole, he thought he would 60 on
somewhere until it was over.
He threw himself on his back and
looked up into the sky. Somewhere
above that blue floor was place for
the Indian. So the priest said,' but
he had known 1t before. How many
spangles of light there were up
there-more and more as he continued
to gaze. The blue vault seemed to
open into depth beyond depth; he fan
cied It series Of caverns incrusted
with something sparkling like mica.
The nighthawks had ceased their
whirring, but borne on the utter still
ness was the silvery tinkle Of bells on
the team Of q belated ore wagon. He
heard them for good while as the
mules toiled up the long grade through
the canyon below.
Sleep was sitting softly down upon
him from the Unreasonable silence
into which he was gazing, when the
little querulous cry Of the infant in
stantly hushed upon its mothers
breast, assalled his ear. He sprang
to his feet as If shot from a cata-
pult and stood scowling.
A penetrating whisper reached his
ear.
"Komo!"
He gave no sign.
"Komo!" it came again, faint and
clear, cadenced like death wall.
Still he was immovable.
Kill US now!"
Motionless he remained.
The sibilant whisper came again,
freighted with woeful entreaty.
"Why have you waited so long? You
wished to at first. Why did you let
the old man persuade your
Rigid he stood.
Again the voice breathed In the dark
ness, kissing with scorn now.
what shame to you! No wonder
the young men laugh at you'll"
Then he stirred. His hand sought
his knife in the bosom Of his shirt.
Eyes, they laugh!" shrilled the de-
riding voice.
Keno sprang forward and strobe
toward the crouching heap over there
In the gloom. His knife was out.
Kill her? OF course he would. and her
brat, too. What had the rest of them
to do with this affair?
His hand was raised to strike. and
he did not Why? do not know. He
did not know. Does any one Of US
know, why, at supreme moments of
his life he does not the thing he had
purposed, but some other?
Instead, he stopped down and cut
the thongs that bound her ankles.
"Gow he whispered hoarsely.
For an instant she lay, incredulous,
bewildered; then got up slowly. stag
gering awkwardly upon her benumbed
feet.
"Gow he repeated. striking her upon
the breast with his fist clenched on
the handle Of his knife
And like q small creature released
from a trap, like hunted coyote, like
the fitting shadow Of wing, she
was gone.