It was long in coming, and then it was cryptic.
“Vicariously. For one other she made it hard to the last bitter dregs—to that unfashionable but sometimes existent thing, a broken heart, and at last to death itself. To death in black disgrace.”
Nance caught her breath in dismayed sympathy.
“She is cold as stone,” went on the man, “brilliant, strong, and ruthless. She sets herself a point and cleaves straight to it regardless of who or what she tramples on the way.”
“Yes—like wanting our land. She means to get it one way or another.”
“Exactly. That rope you told me of was a bold stroke for it. Your father was gone—your brother was the only other male of your family. With him gone, too, you should have been easy.”
“It was murder she meant,” said Nance, “no less. We’ve always known that.”
“And what about your father’s death? Tell me about that—if it is not too painful.”
“We don’t know much about it. Our Pappy was a mountaineer—born in the Kentucky hills, lived in Missouri, a man who loved the outdoors. He was a hunter and a woodsman. He was careful, never took chances. That’s why we’ve never been reconciled to the accident that killed him—he was found at the foot of Rainbow Cliff, as if he’d fallen down it. And no one in this country has ever been known to reach the top of that spine.”
“Have you ever thought that perhaps he didn’t fall. That he might have been put there as a way to cover a—crime?”