“I guess I can get along without it,” shortly.  “I—­” he caught himself just in time from framing a self-extenuation.  “I didn’t have time—­back there,” he digressed suddenly, “to thank you for what you did.  I wish to do so now.”  He was looking at the other squarely, as the smart civilian observes the derelict who has saved his life in a runaway.  Already, there under the stars, it was difficult to credit to the full that fantastic scene of an hour ago; and unconsciously a trace of the real man, of condescension, crept into the tone.  “You helped me out of a nasty mess, and I appreciate it.”

No answer.  No polite lie, no derogation of self or of what had been done.  Just silence, attentive, but yet silence.

For the third time the white man hesitated, and for the third time his face shaded red; consciously and against his will.  Even the starlight could not alter the obtrusive fact that he had cut a sorry figure in the late drama, and his pride was sore.  Extenuation, dissimulation even, would have been a distinct solace.  Looking at the matter now, the excitement past, palliation for what he had done was easy, almost logical.  He had not alone conformed.  He had but done, without consideration, as the others with him had done.  But even if it were not so, back in the land from which he had come, a spade was not always so called.  His colour went normal at the recollection.  The habitual, the condescending pressed anew to the fore.

He inspected the silent figure at his side ingenuously, almost quizzically; as in his schoolboy days he had inspected his plodding master of physics before propounding a query no mortal could answer.

“I know I waved the white flag back there as hard as any of them,” he proffered easily.  “I’m not trying to clear myself; but between you and me, don’t you think that Pete was merely bluffing, there at the end when you came?” The speaker shifted sideways on the saddle, until his weight rested on one leg, until he faced the other fair.  “The fellow was drunk, irresponsibly drunk, at first, when the little chap stirred him up; but afterwards, when he was sober....  On the square, what do you think he would have done if—­if you hadn’t happened in?”

For so long that Craig fancied he had not given attention to the question, the guide did not respond, did not stir in his seat; then slowly, deliberately, he turned half about, turned and for the first time in the journey met the other’s eyes.  Even then he did not speak; but so long as he lived, times uncounted in his after life, Clayton Craig remembered that look; remembered it and was silent, remembered it with a tingling of hot blood and a mental imprecation—­for as indelibly as a red-hot iron seals a brand on a maverick, that look left its impress.  No voice could have spoken as that simple action spoke, no tongue thrust could have been so pointed.  With no intent of discourtesy, no premeditated malice was it given; and therein lay the fine sting, the venom.