On the instant Matt's face became like a wild beast's.
"Look here, Jim," he snarled. "You've got to play square. If you do me
dirt, I'll fix you. Understand? I'd eat you, Jim. You know that. I'd
bite right into your throat an' eat you like that much beefsteak."
His sunburned skin was black with the surge of blood in it, and his
tobacco-stained teeth were exposed by the snarling lips. Jim shivered
and involuntarily cowered. There was death in the man he looked at. Only
the night before that black-faced man had killed another with his hands,
and it had not hurt his sleep. And in his own heart Jim was aware of a
sneaking guilt, of a train of thought that merited all that was
threatened.
Matt passed out, leaving him still shivering. Then a hatred twisted his
own face, and he softly hurled savage threats at the door. He remembered
the jewels, and hastened to the bed, feeling under the pillow for the
bandana bundle. He crushed it with his fingers to make certain that it
still contained the diamonds. Assured that Matt had not carried them
away, he looked toward the kerosene stove with a guilty start. Then he
hurriedly lighted it, filled the coffee pot at the sink, and put it over
the flame.
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