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Suddenly he stopped and stood still, looking at something on the ground. They saw him lean forward and his hands stretched out with a fierce gesture. It was the attitude of a wild animal ready to spring. They were beside him in an instant, and saw at his feet Bignold worn to a skeleton, with eyes starting from his head and fixed on Grassette in agony and stark fear.
They realised that these two men had an account to settle, and there was no need for Grassette to take revenge, for Bignold was going fast. "You stan' far back," said Grassette, and they fell away. Then he stooped down to the sunken, ashen face, over which death was fast drawing its veil. "Marcile where is Marcile?" he asked. The dying man's lips opened.
The Sheriff's words had left no vestige of doubt in Grassette's mind. This Bignold was the man who had taken Marcile away, first to the English province, then into the States, where he had lost track of them, then over to England. Marcile where was Marcile now? In Keeley's Gulch was the man who could tell him, the man who had ruined his home and his life.
Here Grassette gave the signal to shout aloud, and the voice of the Sheriff called out: "Hello, Bignold! "Hello! Hello, Bignold! Are you there? Hello!" His voice rang out clear and piercing, and then came a silence-a long, anxious silence. Again the voice rang out: "Hello! Hello-o-o! Bignold! Bigno-o-ld!" They strained their ears. Grassette was flat on the ground, his ear to the earth.
Now he was suddenly brought face to face with the great central issue of his life, and the end, whatever that end might be, could not be the same in meaning, though it might be the same concretely. If he elected to let things be, then Bignold would die out there in the Gulch, starved, anguished, and alone.
"His name is Bignold," the Governor answered. He turned to the Sheriff inquiringly. "That is it, is it not?" he asked in English again. "James Tarran Bignold," answered the Sheriff. The effect of these words upon Grassette was remarkable.
"His name is Bignold," the Governor answered. He turned to the Sheriff inquiringly. "That is it, is it not?" he asked, in English, again. "James Tarran Bignold," answered the Sheriff. The effect of these words upon Grassette was remarkable.
They realised that these two men had an account to settle, and there was no need for Grassette to take revenge, for Bignold was going fast. "You stan' far back," said Grassette, and they fell away. Then he stooped down to the sunken, ashen face, over which death was fast drawing its veil. "Marcile where is Marcile?" he asked. The dying man's lips opened.
"Bignold where does he come from? What is he?" he asked the Sheriff. "He is an Englishman; he's only been out here a few months. He's been shooting and prospecting; but he's a better shooter than prospector. He's a stranger; that's why all the folks out here want to save him if it's possible. It's pretty hard dying in a strange land far away from all that's yours.
They realized that these two men had an account to settle, and there was no need for Grassette to take revenge, for Bignold was going fast. "You stan' far back," said Grassette, and they fell away. Then he stooped down to the sunken, ashen face, over which death was fast drawing its veil. "Marcile where is Marcile?" he asked. The dying man's lips opened.
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