United States or Western Sahara ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Steve's were frigidly non-committal. There was neither friendliness nor dislike in them. There was no emotion whatsoever. Garstaing's were questioning, searching, and full of an impulse that might have meant anything. But it was the police officer who controlled the situation, and the headstrong, intolerant Indian Agent who was obeying.
He was dark, and his swift-moving dark eyes looked always to be ready to smile. Then he possessed a superbly powerful body. But the threatened smile rarely matured, and when it did it added nothing of a pleasant nature for the student of psychology. In age the two men were well matched, but they had little else in common. Garstaing's reputation, at least amongst men, was not a happy one.
And with vicious relish he had already distinguished Hervey Garstaing's voice amongst the rest. It was loud and harsh. How he hated it. How its tones set the dark blood in his veins surging to his head. "Why sure," he heard him say, "the boys did it good. They're bright boys." In his crude fashion the scout understood that the Agent was referring to the evening's entertainment.
Steve returned the letter to its envelope and remained silently regarding the superscription. "It's a bad letter," Ross went on. "If I thought Nita had written it herself I'd say you're well rid of something that would have cursed the rest of your life. But the stuff that's written there is the stuff that comes out of Garstaing's rotten head. I'd bet my soul on it.
"It's tough on you, Allenwood," he said in a tone intended to express sympathy. "Two years. Gee!" Steve's only reply was to move aside to let him pass out. It was as though Garstaing's expression of sympathy had at last found a weakness in his armour of reserve. His movement had been abrupt startlingly abrupt. "So long," he said coldly. Just for one moment their eyes met.
She was sitting much closer than when Steve, earlier in the evening had tucked the rug about her to keep the chill summer evening air from penetrating the light dancing frock she was wearing. They were both tucked under one great buffalo robe now. It was a robe he knew to be Hervey Garstaing's. As the vehicle passed the fire Dr. Ross flung a genial greeting at the two Indians.
Garstaing's dark eyes snapped. Then they smiled their approval. It was that smile which added nothing pleasant to his personality. "I guessed it was that way from the instructions they handed me," he said. Then he withdrew a bunch of papers from an inner pocket, and opened them, and selected a particular sheet. "Here it is," he said, and promptly read out an extract from the letter.
Word Of The Day