"Whar--whar is she--Tiny?"
His look went to the four men in turn, piteously pleading. Each of the three met the look and answered it by a shake of the head. But the veteran could not endure the anguish in the lover's eyes. His own dropped. He did not shake his head. Zeke strove for courage.
"Whar is she?" he demanded, at length. His voice was more composed now, but his eyes were flaming.
The veteran answered very softly, but without any attempt at evasion.
"I saw her go, Zeke--over the cliff. Thet little dawg o' your'n had a holt on her skirt. But he hadn't the heft to keep her from goin'. The dawg did the best he knew how. But 'twa'n't no use, an' he went, too. I was too fur off to grab her. I reckon she fainted. She didn't scream, ner move none to save herself."
There was a little period of silence. These men were schooled to the concealment of deepest emotions. There was no frantic outburst from the bereaved lover, from the afflicted grandfather. There was not even comment or further questioning. Of what avail? The thing was done. The girl was lost forever, dead. But the other men looked away, lest they see the agony in Zeke's face.
Abruptly, the young man started walking down the slope. He wore shoes, and they slipped a little on the smooth stone. Straight down toward the brink he strode. The curve of the dome made every step more perilous. It was a natural, an irresistible impulse to look on the precise place where the loved one had perished, but it appeared as if he walked to his death. Indeed, his danger was grave, for he had forgotten the shoes he wore.... Or, perhaps, he did not care! Uncle Dick uttered an oath, and leaped in pursuit. It was only a matter of seconds to overtake the young man, seize him, turn him about and march him back with fierce expostulations that were a welcome vent to emotion.
Zeke obeyed readily, aware of his momentary folly. Then, as he rejoined the group, hate flared again. Memory of the fight was confused by the blow on his head. He questioned Seth Jones harshly, with a single word: "Hodges?"
The veteran permitted himself a faint smile. The cruelty of the soldier, accustomed to violent deaths, was in it. There was, too, a curious smugness, a secret complacency.
"I 'low yer wits are some shook up yit, bein' as how ye disremember," he remarked easily. "Ye trun Hodges over the cliff, Zeke, jest as ye went down. Hit were nip an' tuck atween ye, an' ye bested 'im." The kindly veteran believed the lie would be a life-long source of satisfaction to the lad, who had been so fearfully despoiled. Now, his belief was justified by the fierce pleasure that showed for a moment in Zeke's pain-drawn face.