The boy opened his lips to speak, but changed his mind and sat
regarding the girl with a somewhat sinister smile.
"But might it not be," said Mary, "that he killed one man in
self-defense and then his destiny drove him, and bad luck forced him
into one bad position after another? There have been histories as
strange as that, you know."
Jack laughed again, but most of the music was gone from the sound, and
it was simply a low, ominous purr.
"Sure," he said. "You can take a bear-cub and keep him tame till he
gets the taste of blood, but after that you got to keep him muzzled,
you know. Pierre needs a muzzle, but there ain't enough gunfighters on
the range to put one on him."
Something like pride crept into the boy's voice while he spoke, and he
ended with a ringing tone. Then, feeling the curious, judicial eyes of
Mary upon him, he abruptly changed the subject.
"You say Dick Wilbur is dead?"
"I don't know. I think he is."
"But he started out with you. You ought to know."
"It was like this: We had camped on the edge of the trees coming up
the Old Crow Valley, and Dick went off with the can to get water at
the river.
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