“ Vahna’d flopped down and begun whimpering, but I told her, ‘Get up and make friends with them for me.’ ‘No, no,’ she cried. ‘This is death. Good-bye, amigo—’”
Here Mrs. Jones winced, and her husband abruptly checked the particular flow of his narrative.
“‘ Then get up and fight along with me,’ I said to her. And she did. She was some hellion, there on the top of the world, clawing and scratching tooth and nail—a regular she cat. And I wasn’t idle, though all I had was that hatchet and my long arms. But they were too many for me, and there was no place for me to put my back against a wall. When I come to, minutes after they’d cracked me on the head—here, feel this.”
Removing his hat, Julian Jones guided my finger tips through his thatch of sandy hair until they sank into an in
