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"It hadn't ought to be, but it is," was the answer. "It's my business, and somebody else's too." he turned to the woman. "Listen, Sindy, and give me a polite answer. You're Joe Robinson's sister, aren't you?" The Indian looked up, nodded, then went back to her work. "Then you left Buckshot Dan to come here and live with this white man?" Harold turned to her with a snarl. "Don't answer him, Sindy.
The breeds waited patiently for him to speak. "Where's Sindy?" he asked at last. They began to wonder if he had called them here just to ask about Sindy, and for an instant they were sullenly unresponsive. But the heavy lines on their master's face soon reassured them. "Over Buckshot Dan's just where you said," Joe replied. "Of course Buckshot took her back?" The Indians nodded.
Sindy at least was faithful and her form wouldn't take anything from yours." Pete, watching Joe, was somewhat amazed at the curious start the man made. His searching gaze had leaped over the girl's form; his dark, smoldering eyes suddenly blazed red. There was no other word than red. They were like two coals of fire. There ensued a moment of strange and menacing silence.
At least he didn't have to deal with the savage love that sometimes the Indian women bore the whites. Sindy was evidently wholly indifferent to Harold's fate. The match obviously had not been a great success. For an instant Harold lay still, crumpled on the floor; then his bleeding hands fumbled at his belt. Once more Bill sprang and snatched him to his feet. The holster, however, was empty.
If you want to keep her love, be careful." The Indians turned to him, the murder-madness darkening their faces. Pete's hand began to steal toward his hip. He had no ancestral precedent for the use of a miner's pick for such work as faced him now. And he held high regard for the thin, cruel blade. "Do you think I care?" Harold answered. "Tell her if you want to all about Sindy and everything else.
Harold did not reply. He had not wished this man, emissary from his old acquaintances of his native city, to know about Sindy. He retained that much pride, at least. But the answer to Bill's question was too self-evident for him to attempt denial. He nodded, shrugging his shoulders. Bill waited an instant; and his voice when he spoke again was singularly low and flat. "Did you marry her?"
"Build a fire and put on some water to heat fill up every pan you have," he instructed Sindy. He himself began to cram their little stove with wood. Harold watched with ill-concealed anxiety. "What's that for?" he asked at last. Bill straightened up and faced him. "You didn't think I was going to take you looking like you do, do you into Virginia's presence?
"Sindy can go home to Buckshot Dan. He'll take her back you stole her from him. And you, Lounsbury, rotten as you are, are coming with me. God knows I hope she'll drive you from her door; but I'm going to bring you, just the same." Harold's eyes glowed, and for the moment his brain was too busy with other considerations openly to resent the words. Then his face grew cunning.
She loved him enough to search even the frozen realms of the North for him: simply by a little tenderness, a little care, he could command her to love to the full again. The fact that Bill wanted her made her infinitely more desirable to him. "You won't tell her about Sindy?" "Not as long as you're decent. That's for you to settle for yourself whether she finds out about her."
One was usually as faithful and as industrious as another. It was perfectly evident that Sindy had been at work setting out traps. Bill stared at the woman and for the moment he did not see the little sparks growing to flame in Harold's eyes. "What did you say?" he asked, menacing. He had caught a word that has come to be an epithet in the North.
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