“But Jack?  Now, after Prather had gone?” persisted the father greedily.

“We glad the mole go.  It sort of hurt inside to think a man like him.  He make you wonder what for he born.”

John Wingfield, Sr. half rose in a sudden movement, as if he were about to go, but remained in response to another emotion that was stronger than the impulse.

“And Jack?  He kept his head!  He figured out his chances coolly!  Now, that trick he played by going up on the ridge under cover of darkness?”

“No trick!” said Firio resentfully, in instinctive defence.  “That the place to fight!  Senor Jack he see it.”

“And all through the night you kept firing?”

“Si, after moon very bright and over our shoulders in their faces! Si, at the little lumps that lie so still.  When they move quick like they stung, we know we hit!”

“Ah, that was it!  You hit!  You hit!  And the other fellows couldn’t.  You had the light with you—­everything!  Jack had seen to that!  He used his head!  He—­he was strong, strong!”

Quite unconsciously, John Wingfield, Sr. rubbed his palms together.

“When you pleased you always rub your hands same as Mister Prather,” observed Firio.

“Oh!  Do I?  I—­” John Wingfield, Sr. clasped his fingers together tightly.  “Yes, and the finish of the fight—­how was that?”

“Sometimes, when there no firing, Senor Jack and Leddy call out to each other.  Leddy he swear hard, like he fight.  Senor Jack he sing back his answers cheerful, like he fight.  Toward morning we both wounded and only Leddy and one other man alive on his side.  When a cloud slip over the moon and the big darkness before morning come, we creep down from the ridge and with first light we bang-bang quick—­and I no remember any more.”

“Forced the fighting—­forced it right at the end!” cried John Wingfield, Sr. in the flush of a great pride.

“The aggressive, that is it—­that is the way to win, always!”

“But Senor Jack no fight just to win!” said Firio.  “He no want to fight.  In the big darkness, before we crawl down to the water-hole, he call out to Leddy to make quits.  He almost beg Leddy.  But Leddy, he say:  ’I never quit and I get you!’ ‘Sorry,’ says Senor Jack, with the devil out again, ‘sorry—­and we’ll see!’ No, Senor Jack no like to fight till you make him fight and the devil is out.  He fight for water; he fight for peace.  He no want just to win and kill, but—­but—­” bringing his story to an end, Firio looked hard at the father, his velvety eyes shot with a comprehending gleam as he shrugged his shoulders—­“but you no understand, you and the mole!”

John Wingfield, Sr. shifted his gaze hurriedly from the little Indian.  His face went ashen and it was working convulsively as he assisted himself to rise by gripping the veranda post.

“Why do you think that?” he asked.

“I know!” said Firio.