It was Brokaw who bent over him, his thick fingers knotting, his open eyes fairly livid.

“I’m glad you ain’t dead, Raine.”

His voice was husky, muffled by the swollen thickness of his battered lips.

“Thanks,” said David.  The dizziness was leaving him, but there was a steady pain in his head.  He tried to smile.  “Thanks!” It was rather idiotic of him to say that.  Brokaw’s hands were moving slowly toward his throat when Hauck drew him back.

“I won’t touch him—­not now,” he growled.  “But to-night—­oh, God!”

His knuckles snapped.

“You—­liar!  You—­spy!  You—­sneak!” he cursed through his broken teeth.  David saw where they had been—­a cavity in that cruel, battered mouth.  “And you think, after that....”

Again Hauck tried to draw him away.  Brokaw flung off his hands angrily.

“I won’t touch him—­but I’ll tell him, Hauck!  The devil take me body and soul if I don’t!  I want him to know....”

“You’re a fool!” cried Hauck.  “Stop, or by Heaven!...”

Brokaw opened his mouth and laughed, and David saw the havoc of his blows.

“You’ll do what, Hauck?  Nothing—­that’s what you’ll do!  Ain’t I told him you killed that napo from MacPherson?  Ain’t I told him enough to set us both swinging?” He bent over David until his breath struck his face.  “I’m glad you didn’t die, Raine,” he repeated, “because I want to see you when you shuffle off.  We’re only waiting for the Indians to go.  Old Wapi starts with his tribe at sunset.  I’m sorry, but we can’t get the heathen away any earlier because he says it’s good luck to start a journey at sunset in the moulting moon.  You’ll start yours a little later—­as soon as they’re out of sound of a rifle shot.  You can’t trust Indians, eh?  You made a hit with old Wapi, and it wouldn’t do to let him know we’re going to send you where you sent my bear.  Eh—­would it?”

“You mean—­you’re going to murder me?” said David

“If standing you up against a tree and putting a bullet through your heart is murder—­yes,” gloated Brokaw.

“Murder—­” repeated David.

He seemed powerless to say more than that.  An overwhelming dizziness was creeping over him, the pain was splitting his head, and he swayed backward.  He fought to recover himself, to hold himself up, but that returning sickness reached from his brain to the pit of his stomach, and with a groan he sank face downward on the cot.  Brokaw was still talking, but he could no longer understand his words.  He heard Hauck’s sharp voice, their retreating footsteps, the opening and closing of the door—­fighting all the time to keep himself from falling off into that black and bottomless pit again.  It was many minutes before he drew himself to a sitting posture on the edge of his cot, this time slowly and guardedly, so that he would not rouse the pain in his head.  It was there.  He could feel it burning steadily and deeply, like one of his old-time headaches.