The boy sneered.
"This isn't a hold-up," he explained.

"Put 'em down again, but watch yourself." The sneer varied to a contemptuous smile.
"I guess you're tame, all right." "Point that gun another way, will you, son ?" The boy flushed.
"Don't call me son." "Is this a lockup--a jail ?" "This ?" "What is it, then?
The last I remember I was lying in the snow with--" "I wish to God you'd been let there," said the boy bitterly.
But Pierre, overwhelmed with the endeavor to recollect, rushed on with his questions and paid no heed to the tone.
"I had a cross in my hand--" The scorn of the boy grew to mighty proportions.
"It's there in the breast-pocket of your shirt." Pierre drew out the little cross, and the touch of it against his palm restored whatever of his strength was lacking.

Very carefully he attached it to the chain about his throat.

Then he looked up to the contempt of the boy, and as he did so another memory burst on him and brought him to his feet.

The gun went to the boy's shoulders at the same time.
"When I was found--was anyone else with me ?" "Nope." "What happened ?" "Must have been buried in the landslide.