Ambrose supposed that Strange had made a deal with the Kakisas to put him out of the way.  He believed that he was going straight to his death.

He accepted it sooner than make an appeal to those who scorned him.  He wished to speak to them before he went; but it was to warn them, not to ask for aid for himself.

He faced the little group in the doorway.  “I tell you again,” he said, “this is all a put-up job.  You know nothing of what is going on but what this breed chooses to tell you.  He’s a liar and a murderer.  If you put yourselves in his hands, so much the worse for you.”

The white men laughed in Ambrose’s face.  The breed smiled deprecatingly and forgivingly.

“Hold your tongue, and be thankful you’re getting off so easy,” Macfarlane said, full of honest contempt.

Ambrose became very pale.  He turned his back, on them, and, climbing over the wire barrier, marched stiffly down to the gate.  The consciousness of innocence is supposed to be sufficient to armor a man against any slanders, but this is only partially true.

When one’s accusers are honest, their scorn hurts, hurts more than any other wound we are capable of receiving.  Ambrose was of the type that rages against a hurt.  At present, for all he was outwardly so pale and still, he was deafened and blinded by rage.

It was now full daylight.  An extraordinary picture faced the watchers from the doorway—­the ruined store in the background, the grotesque crew hanging to the fence palings.

Their ordinary rags were covered with layers of misfit clothing out of the store, while many of them wore several hats, and others had extra pairs of shoes hanging around their necks.

There was a great display of gaudy silk handkerchiefs.  Pockets bulged with small articles of loot, and nearly every man lugged some particular treasure according to his fancy, whether it was an alarm clock or a glass pitcher or a bolt of red flannel.

The younger men, still susceptible to gallantry, mostly were burdened with crushed articles of feminine finery, gaily trimmed hats, red or blue shawls, fancy satin bodices, corsets with the strings dangling.

The faces, after a night of unbridled license, showed dull and slack in the daylight.

Myengeen, whom Ambrose had marked earlier as a leader of the mob, gripped his hand at the gate and cried out with hypocritical joy.  Others crowded around, those who could not obtain his hands, stroking his sleeves and fawning upon him.

There was an ironical note in the demonstration.  Ambrose observed that the majority of the Indians looked on indifferently.  He smelted treachery in the air.

The mob, facing about, started to move in open order toward the river.  Ambrose, as they opened up, caught sight of the two dead bodies.  It afflicted him with a dull at the pit of the stomach—­these were the first deaths by violence he had witnessed.