We had but few wounded, and the surgeon said they would recover.
I nodded, took food, and went alone to eat. I sat there a long time.
Cadillac came toward me once as if to speak, but looked at me and
turned away.
At last I had made up my mind, and I went to the hut where I had left
Pemaou. It had taken time to fight down my longing for even combat
with him, but I knew that I must not risk that, for I needed to keep my
life for a time. So I would try for speech with him first, and then he
should die. And since he must die helpless, he must die as painlessly
as possible. Physical revenge had become abominable to me. It was
inadequate.
I entered the hut. Pemaou's figure lay, face downward, on the floor.
It had a rigidity that did not come from the thongs that bound it. I
turned it over. The Indian's throat was cut. Life had flowed out of
the red, horrible opening.
I think that I cursed at the dead man. Corpse that he was, he had
tricked me again, for I had hoped, against reason, to force information
from him. Death had not dignified his wolfish face. He had died, as
he had lived, a snarling animal, whose sagacity was that of the brute.
And I had lost with him this time, as I had lost before, by taking
thought, and so losing time.
Pages:
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401