“I can’t go through with it,” he mumbled. “I’m sick of this butchering. I can’t stand any more of it.”
“Sick enough to give up the idea of evening the score for Tim’s killing, if it’ll make peace?” I asked.
“I am.”
“That’s what started it,” I reminded him. “If you’re willing to call it off, it ought to be possible to stop it.”
He raised his face and looked at me with eyes that were like a dog’s looking at a bone.
“The others ought to be as sick of it as you are,” I went on. “Tell them how you feel about it. Have a get-together and make peace.”
“They’d think I was up to some kind of a trick,” he objected miserably.
“Have the meeting at Willsson’s. Whisper’s camping there. You’d be the one risking tricks going there. Are you afraid of that?”
He frowned and asked:
“Will you go with me?”
“If you want me.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I—I’ll try it.”