At last the step came, advancing from the end of
the hall. It was a heavy step, and he drew a deep breath and gripped the
club. His heart gave a sudden, mighty throb as the step stopped at his
door. It was not pleasant to think of what he was about to do, and yet
he realized, as he heard the key in the lock, that it was a grim and
terrible necessity. He was thankful there was only one. He would not
strike too hard--not in this cowardly way--from ambush. Just enough to
do the business sufficiently well. It would be easy--quite. He raised
his club in the thickening dusk, and held his breath.
The door opened, and Hauck entered, and stood with his back to David.
Horrible! Strike a man like that--and with a club! If he could use his
hands, choke him, give him at least a quarter chance. But it had to be
done. It was a sickening thing. Hauck went down without a groan--so
silently, so lifelessly that David thought he had killed him. He knelt
beside him for a few seconds and made sure that his heart was beating
before he rose to his feet. He looked out into the hall. The lamps had
not been lighted--probably that was one of the old Indian woman's
duties. From the big room came a sound of voices--and then, close to
him, from the door across the way, there came a small trembling voice:
"Hurry, _Sakewawin_! Lock the door--and come!"
For another instant he dropped on his knees at Hauck's side.
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