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Updated: June 22, 2025
It was as though the gaiety, the spring of gladness, within the little man had been dried up; there was left only the incompetent and despised Dago. He faced the routine of his toil now with no smile of preoccupation for a sweeter vision; he shuffled about decks, futile as ever, with the dreariness of a man in prison. Only to Dan he spoke more freely.
Had his disguise been penetrated the quick thrust of a five-inch blade would have ended his career. He would never have returned to New York. There would only have been another dead "Dago" miner.
In the meantime the bugbear of her existence was making history in his own way. The Dago Duke was no inconspicuous figure in Crowheart, for his daily life was punctuated with escapades which constantly furnished fresh topics of conversation to the populace. He fluctuated between periods of abject poverty and briefer periods of princely affluence, the latter seldom lasting longer than a night.
"'I tried to remember everybody that I'd ever seen handlin' a hide, and all at once I recollected that the first thing a dago shoemaker done when he picked up a piece of leather was to smooth it out with his thumbs. An' I said to myself, now that'll be what a tanner does, only he does it more ... he's always doing it. Then I asks myself what would be the markin's?
All but the Woman and the Dago were more or less damaged; none, it was probable, knew in what direction Ockley had disappeared; fear of the evidence he held against them might now prompt them rather to flight than pursuit; and what, he asked himself, could that yellow-haired she-devil, even if the little Dago that had bolted were faithful to his fellows, do against him now?
And then it seemed to Jimmie Dale as though pandemonium, unreality, and chaos at the touch of some devil's hand reigned around him. It was dark no, not dark a spurt of flame was leaping along the line of trickling oil from the broken lamp on the floor. It threw into ghastly relief the sprawled form of Dago Jim.
"No, they won't; 'twill be another dago, likely " "Whist!" Patsy raised a silencing finger and looked fearsomely over her shoulder to the bed back of her. Its inmate lay covered to the cheek, but one could catch a glimpse of tangled black hair and a swarthy skin. Patsy rose and went softly over to the bed; her movement disturbed the woman, who opened dumb, reproachful eyes.
That evening the Dago Duke leaned against the door-jamb of the White Elephant Saloon and watched Dan Treu coming from Dr. Harpe's office with failure written upon his face. His white teeth gleamed in a smile of amusement as he waited for the sheriff. "Don't swear, Dan. Never speak disrespectfully of a lady if you can help it."
The table had fallen half over Dago Jim Jimmie Dale pushed it aside, tore the crushed letter and the pocketbook from the man's hands and felt, with a grim, horrible sort of anxiety, for the other's heartbeat, for the verdict that meant life or death to himself. There was no sign of life the man was dead. Jimmie Dale was on his feet now.
"Good night," Hillard responded cheerfully. "Say, what's I-taly-an fer good night?" still reluctant to go on. "Buona notte." "Bony notty; huh, sounds like Chinese fer rheumatism. Been to Italy?" "I was born there," patiently. "No! Why, you're no Dago!" "Not so much as an eyelash. The stork happened to drop the basket there, that's all." "Ha! I see.
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