Just the kind who's killed what used to be a
demand for decent men."
And then, outside in the dark, Stephen O'Mara forgot how sick the other
man had been. He was across the threshold in a single stride, and Fat
Joe came lightly to his feet as he saw his chief's set face that night.
It wiped, the smile from Garry's lips, too. Squarely in front of the
latter Steve halted and spoke with monotonous lack of haste.
"You're going to tell me that you didn't mean that, Garry," he said
quietly. "For I'm going to marry one of those women myself."
Garret Devereau's face had been white. It went whiter now. He too
came squarely to his feet, his body stiff but very frail in the
oversize garments from Steve's wardrobe which he was wearing. He stood
and stared emptily into his friend's eyes until something close akin to
dreary defiance rose and marked his numbed comprehension.
"What I said," he answered as quietly, "I'd alter for no man. My
opinions are my own."
He turned and passed outside.
For longer than he realized Steve stood gazing down into the burnt-out
fireplace, until another thought, swifter even than the impulse that
had lifted him across the threshold and thrust him into speech which,
already, he would have given much to recall, whirled him around again.
There was a light in the near end of the storehouse building just above
his own cabin, and as he hurried toward it he knew Fat Joe must have
fitted it up for the third man's quarters.
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