424          THE  TRAIL  OF  '98
" Seems to me everything's healing up but that hand," said the Halfbreed. " I guess it's too far gone. Gangrene's setting in. Say, Locasto, looks like you'll have to lose it."
Locasto had been favouring me with a particularly sardonic look, but at these words the sneer was wiped out, and horror crowded into his eyes.
" Lose my hand—don't tell me that! Kill me at once! I don't want to be maimed. Lose my hand! Oh, that's terrible! terrible!"
He gazed at the discoloured flesh. Already the stench of him was making us sick, but this hand with its putrid tissues was disgusting to a degree.
" Yes," said the Halfbreed, " there's the line of the gangrene, and it's spreading. Soon mortification will extend all up your arm, then you'll die of blood poison. Locasto, better let me take off that hand. I've done jobs like that before. I'm a handy man, I am.   Come, let me take it off."
" Heavens! you're a cold-blooded butcher. You're going to kill me, between you all. You're in a plot leagued against me, and that long-faced fool over there's at the bottom of it. Damn you, then, go on and do what you want."
" You're not very grateful," said the Halfbreed. " All right, lie there and rot."
At his words Locasto changed his tune. Heie-came alarmed to the point of terror. He knew the hand was doomed. He lay staring at it, staring, staring. Then he sighed, and thrust its loathsomeness into our faces.