killer!" Findlay said, looking down on Nearing from the door.
Mrs. Nearing attempted to close the door against this invasion, so terrifying to the wounded man. Findlay put his free hand against it, advancing his foot into the room. Alma moved to stand in front of him, and shield if she could at least the sight of his persecutor from the eyes of the dying man.
Findlay hung in the door like a wary beast before a pitfall. Mrs. Nearing was at the bedside, bending over her husband, trying to assure and calm him, when no assurance could comfort nor human effort bring serenity. It was evident in the terror of Nearing's face that he believed Findlay had come to kill him. He tried to shrink into his pillows, his face gray in the agony of his tortured soul.
Findlay motioned Alma aside with his pistol. She stood defiantly facing him, refusing to move.
"What do you owe him, to stand between him and me?" Findlay asked. "I'm not here to hurt him—nothing would suit me better than to see him get well. Stand out of the way!"
Mrs. Nearing rose from bending over her husband, her white, haggard face heartbreaking in its pathetic appeal.
"Dale, for humanity's sake, if there's any humanity in you, go away and let us have these last few hours together in peace!" she implored.
There was no sound from Nearing, not a groan, not the laboring of his slow breath. He lay with fixed eyes staring at Findlay, who leaned now to look past Alma,
