"And I repeat that warning." Bill spoke gravely, quietly from his chair. "You're acting like a rotter, Harold, and you know it. Shut up the bottle and try to hold yourself--and then remember what you've been saying. Remember that I'm still here--and if I'm not able to avenge an insult now, the time is coming when I will. And I've got one weapon _now_ that I won't hesitate to use. I mean--an answer to a question of a while ago. If you want to keep her love, be careful." The Indians turned to him, the murder-madness darkening their faces. Pete's hand began to steal toward his hip. He had no ancestral precedent for the use of a miner's pick for such work as faced him now. And he held high regard for the thin, cruel blade. "Do you think I care?" Harold answered. "Tell her if you want to--all about Sindy and everything else. Do you think I'm ashamed of it? I've heard all I want to from you too--and I'll say and drink what I please." Bill had no answer at first. He had thought that this threat might bring Harold to time; he had supposed that the man valued Virginia's love as much as he, in a similar position, would have valued it. Harold turned to the girl. "So you're _not_ my woman, eh?" "No, no, no! I never will be!" The girl's eyes were blazing, and she had forgotten her fear in her magnificent wrath. "I suppose--you were a squaw man. These Indians are your own friends." Harold smiled cruelly. "Yes, a squaw man. And these are my friends. Don't you suppose I've known--for the last week--you were just fooling me along, all the time fondling Bill? Sindy at least was faithful--and her form wouldn't take anything from yours." Pete, watching Joe, was somewhat amazed at the curious start the man made. His searching gaze had leaped over the girl's form; his dark, smoldering eyes suddenly blazed red. There was no other word than red. They were like two coals of fire. There ensued a moment of strange and menacing silence. Pete chuckled, already receptive to Joe's thought. Harold turned to stare at him. Joe put his pipe to his lips, then fumbled at his pocket. He seemed to search in vain. "Will you give me a match, please, lady?" he asked. The tone was strange, thick and strained, yet Virginia's heart thrilled with hope. The request was a welcome interlude in a quarrel that was already rapidly approaching the fighting stage. Perhaps if these men started to smoke, their blood would cool; she had known of old that tobacco was a wonderful bromide to overstretched nerves. He turned quickly to the shelf above Bill's head and procured half a dozen matches from the box. As her back was turned she heard Pete laugh again,--one evil syllable that filled her with instinctive horror. Her wide eyes turned to him; he was watching her intently. Then she stepped back to give Joe the matches. Instinctively her eyes turned to the wall for a reassuring sight of her pistol. It was gone from its place.