y," the old man added; "but first me
talk to you."

A great fear laid hold upon Blake. The old Indian's features were
impassive, but his eyes were bleak and hard. He lowered the rifle to the
level of his waist, but its muzzle still dominated. Blake's rifle leaned
against the rock, out of reach. His six-shooter was in his belt, but he
knew better than to try for it. He stood motionless, staring at the
seamed features of the Indian.

"Me talk to you," Paul Sam repeated in soft, clucking gutterals. "Ole
man, me; young man, you. You white man; me Injun. Very ole man, me. All
the men that were young with me go mimaloos many years ago. My wife she
go mimaloos. My son and his wife they go mimaloos. Only one of my blood
is left, my son's daughter--Mary!"

He paused for a moment.

"There is no one else of my blood. Me raise hiyu kuitan, hiyu moos-moos,
all for her when me die. One time this country all Injun. Pretty soon no
more Injun. All white. Injun way no good now. All white man's way. So me
send her to school to learn the white man's way.

"She come back to my house. When me look at her me think of many things,
of many people who go mimaloos many years ago. It is good for an ole man
to have the young of his blood in his house, for in them his youth
lives.

"There comes a time when this girl who is the last of my blood, is sad.
No more laugh; no more sing. Me not know why. Me ole man. Mebbe-so me
blind ole fool. Me never think of--that! When she is dead--then me hear
of _you_!"

The Indian paused. Blake spoke, moistening dry lips.

"I hadn't anything to do with Mary."

"You lie!" the old man returned. "You bring shame on her and on me. So
me kill you."

There was no passion in his voice; but there was finality, judgment
inexorable. It was the logical conclusion, worked out, demonstrated
according to his rules.

Blake's face blanched. In fancy, as he stared at it, he could see the
red stab of flame leap and feel the shock of lead. Was there no way of
escape? He glanced around. There was nothing save the mountain
wilderness, the serene heights of the peaks, the blue autumn sky, a
soaring golden eagle. His eyes came back to the rifle muzzle. His mouth
opened, but words would not come.

"Mebbe-so you like pray?" Paul Sam suggested calmly. Blake found his
voice.

"I have money," he said. "Look! lots of money. Take it. For God's sake,
don't kill me. I didn't mean--I didn't know--"

For the first time a glint of