"Will you trust me for so much?" he added sadly.
"You know I have nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a
beggar, till I get some work to do."
The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. "It's a shame!" she said,--
"a shame, Alessandro! Jim and I haven't thought of anything else,
since it happened. Jim says they'll never prosper, never. Trust you?
Yes, indeed. Jim and I'd trust you, or your father, the last day of
our lives."
"I'm glad he is dead," said Alessandro, as he knotted the gold into
his handkerchief and put it into his bosom. "But he was murdered,
Mrs. Hartsel,-- murdered, just as much as if they had fired a bullet
into him."
"That's true." she exclaimed vehemently. "I say so too; and so was
Jose. That's just what I said at the time,-- that bullets would not be
half so inhuman!"
The words had hardly left her lips, when the door from the
dining-room burst open, and a dozen men, headed by the drunken
Jim, came stumbling, laughing, reeling into the kitchen.
"Where's supper! Give us our supper! What are you about with
your Indian here? I'll teach you how to cook ham!" stammered Jim,
making a lurch towards the stove.
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