" "Looks as he might have been
mixin' things with a grizzly or somethin',--all battered and gouged.
Injured internally, from the looks of it. Where'll you have him?"
Frona, standing by St. Vincent, saw the injured man borne over the
crest of the bank and through the crowd. A bronzed hand drooped down
and a bronzed face showed from out the blankets. The bearers halted
near them while a decision could be reached as to where he should be
carried. Frona felt a sudden fierce grip on her arm.
"Look! look!" St. Vincent was leaning forward and pointing wildly at
the injured man. "Look! That scar!"
The Indian opened his eyes and a grin of recognition distorted his face.
"It is he! It is he!" St. Vincent, trembling with eagerness, turned
upon the crowd. "I call you all to witness! That is the man who
killed John Borg!"
No laughter greeted this, for there was a terrible earnestness in his
manner. Bill Brown and the chairman tried to make the Indian talk, but
could not. A miner from British Columbia was pressed into service, but
his Chinook made no impression. Then La Flitche was called. The
handsome breed bent over the man and talked in gutturals which only his
mother's heredity made possible. It sounded all one, yet it was
apparent that he was trying many tongues. But no response did he draw,
and he paused disheartened.
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