'
"'I'm a Chief,' says Billy Fish, quite quiet. 'I stay with you. My men can
go.'
"The Bashkai fellows didn't wait for a second word, but ran off, and Dan and
Me and Billy Fish walked across to where the drums were drumming and the horns
were horning. It was cold--awful cold. I've got that cold in the back of my
head now. There's a lump of it there."
The punka-coolies had gone to sleep. Two kerosene lamps were blazing in the
office, and the perspiration poured down my face and splashed on the blotter
as I leaned forward. Carnehan was shivering, and I feared that his mind might
go. I wiped my face, took a fresh grip of the piteously mangled hands, and
said, "What happened after that?"
The momentary shift of my eyes had broken the clear current.
"What was you pleased to say?" whined Carnehan. "They took them without any
sound. Not a little whisper all along the snow, not though the King knocked
down the first man that set hand on him--not though old Peachey fired his last
cartridge into the brown of 'em. Not a single solitary sound did those swines
make. They just closed up tight, and I tell you their furs stunk. There was a
man called Billy Fish, a good friend of us all, and they cut his throat, Sir,
then and there, like a pig; and the King kicks up the bloody snow and says,
'We've had a dashed fine run for our money.
Pages:
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309