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So, the first shot," with a quick snap of the fingers, "and I am awake, just like that, and I am at the door." St. Vincent leaned forward to Frona. "It was not the first shot." She nodded, with her eyes still bent on La Flitche, who gallantly waited. "Then two more shot," he went on, "quick, together, boom-boom, just like that. 'Borg's shack, I say to myself, and run down the trail.
It is a man. He is in undress. He fight. He cry, 'Oh! Oh! Oh! just like that. We hold him tight, and bime-by pretty quick, he stop. Then we get up, and I say, 'Come along back." "Who was the man?" La Flitche turned partly, and rested his eyes on St. Vincent. "Go on." "So? The man he will not go back; but John and I say yes, and he go." "Did he say anything?"
Vincent, Pierre La Flitche, or John the Swede. And there was no need for them so to testify. Everybody knew that no foot-marks were left when St. Vincent ran up the trail, and when he came back with La Flitche and the other man.
He shook his head, though his dark eyes told her he divined the point she was endeavoring to establish. "And had the door of Borg's cabin been closed, would you have heard?" Again he shook his head. "Then, Mr. La Flitche, when you say the first shot, you do not mean necessarily the first shot fired, but rather the first shot you heard fired?"
Vincent's hands. If they chose to examine the moccasins at that moment on the feet of Mr. La Flitche, they would also find blood. That did not argue that Mr. La Flitche had been a party to the shedding of the blood. Mr. Brown had drawn attention to the fact that the prisoner had not been bruised or marked in the savage encounter which had taken place. She thanked him for having done so.
The condition of the ice for the three or four hours preceding the break-up would not have permitted it. The prisoner had implicated none of the residents of the island, while every one of them, with the exception of the prisoner, had been accounted for elsewhere. Possibly the prisoner was excited when he ran down the trail into the arms of La Flitche and John the Swede.
Two white men find him and bring him to this place. He don't care. He die anyway." La Flitche finished abruptly, but nobody spoke. Then he added, "I think Gow damn good man." Frona came up to Jacob Welse. "Take me away, father," she said. "I am so tired."
As La Flitche left the stand, Bill Brown came over to her and shook hands. "No more than proper I should know the lawyer for the defence," he said, good-naturedly, running over his notes for the next witness. "But don't you think it is rather unfair to me?" she asked, brightly. "I have not had time to prepare my case. I know nothing about it except what I have gleaned from your two witnesses.
As though with sudden recollection, he made another attempt. At once a gleam of intelligence shot across the Indian's face, and his larynx vibrated to similar sounds. "It is the Stick talk of the Upper White," La Flitche stopped long enough to explain. Then, with knit brows and stumbling moments when he sought dim-remembered words, he plied the man with questions.
"Never did I see anything like it," La Flitche concluded his description of the wreck. "No, never." Brown turned him over to Frona with a bow, which a smile of hers paid for in full. She did not deem it unwise to cultivate cordiality with the lawyer. What she was working for was time time for her father to come, time to be closeted with St.
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