"I know because same way I hate," said Jean Paul softly.
Garrod breathed fast.
"Shall we put our hates together?" murmured Jean Paul.
But there was still life in Garrod's pride of race. "This is
foolishness," he said contemptuously. "You're talking wild."
Jean Paul shrugged. "Ver' good," he said. "You know to-morrow or some
day. There is plentee time."
"Keep out of my way," said Garrod. "I don't want to have anything to
say to you."
The darkness swallowed Jean Paul's smile. He murmured velvetly: "Me, I
t'ink you lak' ver' moch sleep to-night. Sleep all night."
Garrod partly broke down. "Oh, my God!" he murmured, dropping his head
on his knees.
"You got your pipe?" asked Jean Paul. "Give me, and I fill it."
"What with?" demanded Garrod.
"A little weed I pick," said Jean Paul. "No hurt anybody."
"Here," said Garrod handing over his pipe with a jerk of bitter
laughter; "if it does for me, so much the better!"
Jean Paul drew a little buckskin bag from an inner pocket, and filled
the pipe with herb leaves that crackled as he pressed them into the
bowl. Handing it back, he struck a match. Garrod puffed with an air
of bravado, and a subtle, pungent odour spread around.
"It has a rotten taste," said Garrod.
"You do not smoke that for taste," said Jean Paul.
For several minutes nothing was said. Garrod nursed the pipe, taking
the smoke with deeper, slower inhalations.
"That's good," he murmured at length. There was unspeakable relief,
relaxation, ease, in his voice.
Jean Paul watched him narrowly. Garrod's figure slowly drooped, and
the hand that carried the pipe to his mouth became uncertain.
"You got enough," said Jean Paul suddenly. "Come along. You can't
sleep here."
Garrod protested sleepily, but the half-breed jerked him to his feet,
and supporting him under one arm, directed his wavering, spastic
footsteps back to the tents. Garrod shared a small tent with Vassall
and Baldwin Ferrie. One end opened to the general tent, the other was
accessible from outdoors. Jean Paul looked in; it was empty, and the
flap on the inner side was down. In the big tent they were playing
cards.
Garrod collapsed in a heap. Jean Paul deftly undressed him, and,
rolling him in his blanket, left him dead to the world. Before leaving
the tent he carefully knocked the ashes out of the pipe, and dropped it
in the pocket of Garrod's coat. Immediately afterward Jean Paul in his
neat black habit showed himself in the light of the fire. Sitting, he
was seen to gravely adjust a pair of rimmed spectacles (his eyes were
like a lynx's!) and apply himself to his daily chapter of the Testament
before turning in.
In the morning Garrod awoke with a splitting head and a bad taste in
his mouth. However, that seemed a small price to pay for nine hours of
blessed forgetfulness.
There followed another day of prairie travel. Sir Bryson, when he
wished to communicate with Jack, made Garrod his emissary, so that the
two were obliged to meet and talk. On the approach of Garrod, Jack
merely sucked in his lip, and stuck closely to the business of the day.
These meetings were dreadful to Garrod. Only an indication of what he
went through can be given. In the condition he was in he had to avoid
the sharp-eyed Linda, and he was obliged to stand aside and see her
ride off with Jack out of sight of the rest of the train. By nightfall
his nerves were in strings again.
On this night after supper Jean Paul took pains to avoid him. Garrod
was finally obliged to go to the Indians' fire after him.
"Look here, Jean Paul, I want to speak to you," he said sullenly.
Jean Paul, closing the book and taking off the spectacles with great
deliberation, followed Garrod out of earshot of the others.
"I say give me another pipeful of that dope, Jean Paul," Garrod said in
a conciliatory tone.
The half-breed had dropped his smooth air. "Ha! You come after it
to-night," he sneered.
"Hang it! I'll pay you for it," snarled Garrod.
"My medicine not for sale," replied Jean Paul.
"Medicine?" sneered Garrod. "I'll give you five dollars for the little
bagful."
Jean Paul shook his head.
"Ten! Twenty, then!"
Jean Paul merely smiled.
A white man could not possibly humble himself any further to a redskin.
Garrod, with a miserable attempt at bravado, shrugged and turned away.
Jean Paul stood looking after him, smiling. Garrod had not taken five
paces before a fresh realization of the horrors of the night to come
turned his pride to water. He came swiftly back.
"You said you were a doctor," he said in a breaking voice. "Good God!
can't you see what it means to me! I've got to have it! I've got to
have it! I can't live through another night without sleep!"
"Las' night you tol' me to kip away from you," drawled Jean Paul.
"Forget it, Jean Paul," begged Garrod. "I'll give you all the money I
have for it. A pipeful for God's sake!"
Jean Paul continued to smile, and, turning, went back to the fire, and
took out his Testament.
Garrod _did_ live through the night, and the day that followed, but at
the approach of another night, white man as he was, he delivered
himself over to Jean Paul Ascota, the half-breed, body and soul.