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So, for hours, for weeks–it might have been for years–and then he woke, clear and knowing, to “the unnatural, intolerable day”–it was that to him, with Little Hammer in prison. It was March when his memory and vigour vanished; it was May when he grasped the full remembrance of himself, and of that fight for life on the prairie: of the hands that smote him that he should not sleep; of Little Hammer the slayer, who had driven death back discomfited, and brought his captor safe to where his own captivity and punishment awaited him.

When Sergeant Gellatly appeared in court at the trial he refused to bear witness against Little Hammer. “D’ ye think–does wan av y’ think–that I’ll speak a word agin the man–haythen or no haythen–that pulled me out of me tomb and put me betune the barrack quilts? Here’s the stripes aff me arm, and to gaol I’ll go; but for what wint before I clapt the iron on his wrists, good or avil, divil a word will I say. An’ here’s me left hand, and there’s me right fut, and an eye of me too, that I’d part with, for the cause of him that’s done a trick that your honour wouldn’t do–an’ no shame to y’ aither–an’ y’d been where Little Hammer was with me.”

His honour did not reply immediately, but he looked meditatively at Little Hammer before he said quietly,–“Perhaps not, perhaps not.”

And Little Hammer, thinking he was expected to speak, drew his blanket up closely about him and grunted, “How!”

Pretty Pierre, the notorious half-breed, was then called. He kissed the Book, making the sign of the Cross swiftly as he did so, and unheeding the ironical, if hesitating, laughter in the court. Then he said: “‘Bien,’ I will tell you the story-the whole truth. I was in the Stony Plains. Little Hammer was ‘good Injin’ then…. Yes, sacre! it is a fool who smiles at that. I have kissed the Book. Dam!… He would be chief soon when old Two Tails die. He was proud, then, Little Hammer. He go not to the Post for drink; he sell not next year’s furs for this year’s rations; he shoot straight.”

Here Little Hammer stood up and said: “There is too much talk. Let me be. It is all done. The sun is set–I care not–I have killed him;” and then he drew his blanket about his face and sat down.

But Pierre continued: “Yes, you killed him-quick, after five years–that is so; but you will not speak to say why. Then, I will speak. The Injins say Little Hammer will be great man; he will bring the tribes together; and all the time Little Hammer was strong and silent and wise. Then Brigley the trapper–well, he was a thief and coward. He come to Little Hammer and say, ‘I am hungry and tired.’ Little Hammer give him food and sleep. He go away. ‘Bien,’ he come back and say,–‘It is far to go; I have no horse.’ So Little Hammer give him a horse too. Then he come back once again in the night when Little Hammer was away, and before morning he go; but when Little Hammer return, there lay his bride–only an Injin girl, but his bride-dead! You see? Eh? No? Well, the Captain at the Post he says it was the same as Lucrece.–I say it was like hell. It is not much to kill or to die–that is in the game; but that other, ‘mon Dieu!’ Little Hammer, you see how he hide his head: not because he kill the Tarquin, that Brigley, but because he is a poor ‘vaurien’ now, and he once was happy and had a wife…. What would you do, judge honourable? … Little Hammer, I shake your hand–so–How!”

But Little Hammer made no reply.

The judge sentenced Little Hammer to one month in gaol. He might have made it one thousand months–it would have been the same; for when, on the last morning of that month, they opened the door to set him free, he was gone. That is, the Little Hammer whom the high gods knew was gone; though an ill-nourished, self-strangled body was upright by the wall. The vagabond had paid his penalty, but desired no more of earth.

Upon the door was scratched the one word: How!