Where is he?"
Blake made no effort to disguise his eagerness. In the droop of
Philip's shoulder, the laxness of the hand that held the revolver
and the change in his voice Blake saw in his captor an apparent
desire to get out of the mess he was in. A glimpse of Celie's
frightened face turned for an instant from the door gave weight to
his conviction.
"He's down the Coppermine--about a hundred miles. So, Bram
Johnson--"
His eyes were a sudden blaze of fire.
"Took care of her until your little rats waylaid him on the trail
and murdered him," interrupted Philip. "See here, Blake. You be
square with me and I'll be square with you. I haven't been able to
understand a word of her lingo and I'm curious to know a thing or
two before I go. Tell me who she is, and why you haven't killed
her father, and what you're going to do with her and I won't waste
another minute."
Blake leaned forward until Philip felt the heat of his breath.
"What do I WANT of her?" he demanded slowly. "Why, if you'd been
five years without sight of a white woman, an' then you woke up
one morning to meet an angel like HER on the trail two thousand
miles up in nowhere what would you want of her? I was stunned,
plumb stunned, or I'd had her then.
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