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A miner from British Columbia was pressed into service, but his Chinook made no impression. Then La Flitche was called. The handsome breed bent over the man and talked in gutturals which only his mother's heredity made possible. It sounded all one, yet it was apparent that he was trying many tongues. But no response did he draw, and he paused disheartened.
Then I met La Flitche and John, and . . . and you know the rest. This is the truth I have told you, I swear it!" He looked down at Frona. She was steadying the box, and her face was composed. He looked out over the crowd and saw unbelief. Many were laughing. "Why did you not tell this story at first?" Bill Brown demanded. "Because . . . because . . ." "Well?" "Because I might have helped."
To the rest it was like a pantomime, the meaningless grunts and waving arms and facial expressions of puzzlement, surprise, and understanding. At times a passion wrote itself on the face of the Indian, and a sympathy on the face of La Flitche. Again, by look and gesture, St. Vincent was referred to, and once a sober, mirthless laugh shaped the mouths of them. "So?
And she roll her head on the floor and whisper, so low, so slow, 'Him dead? I know she mean Borg, and I say yes. Then she lift up on one elbow, and look about quick, in big hurry, and when she see Vincent she look no more, only she look at Vincent all the time. Then she point at him, just like that." Suiting the action to the word, La Flitche turned and thrust a wavering finger at the prisoner.
It was disquieting, and all eyes centred upon him rebukingly. The man became embarrassed, and shifted his weight uneasily to the other leg. Then the heavy breathing settled down again. St. Vincent took another step, but his fingers relaxed and the revolver fell with a loud noise to the floor. He made no effort to recover it. Frona stooped hurriedly, but Pierre La Flitche had set his foot upon it.
I know that kind of noise." "Could you see him so as to know that it was he?" "Ah, no." "Then, Mr. La Flitche," she demanded, triumphantly, "will you please state how you knew there was blood on the hands of Mr. St. Vincent?" His lip lifted in a dazzling smile, and he paused a moment. "How? I feel it warm on his hands.
He nodded, and though she had scored her point she could not see that it had any material bearing after all. Again she worked up craftily to another and stronger climax, though she felt all the time that La Flitche fathomed her. "You say it was very dark, Mr. La Flitche?" "Ah, oui; quite dark." "How dark? How did you know it was John you met?" "John make much noise when he run.
She nodded her head and smiled, and he edged his way back, taking up a position by the door. He voted "Not guilty" when his turn came, as did Frona and Jacob Welse. Pierre La Flitche wavered a moment, looking keenly at Frona and St. Vincent, then spoke up, clear and flute-like, "Guilty."
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