Part 12 (1/2)

”Take that, you brute! and that!” and Stumps whirls his club and thunders against the ribs of the ruffian.

”You devil! you brat! what do you mean?”

Mad with disappointment and pain, he throws the girl from him, and turns upon the boy. He clutches him by the back of the neck as he starts to escape, and bears him to the ground.

”Look 'ere, do you know what I'm going to do with you? I'm going to break your back across my knee! yes, I am!” and he glares about terribly.

Carrie shrinks back to the side of Forty-nine.

”Oh! Help! He will murder him! He will kill him!”

”No, I won't murder you, you brat, but I'll chuck you out in that snow and let you cool off, while I have your sister all to myself. Come here; give me your ear!” and the great, strong ruffian seizes his ear and fairly carries him along by it toward the door. ”Give me your ear!”

”Oh, sister, sister! He will kill me!” howls Stumps.

”Forty-nine! save us! We will be murdered!”

”Come, I say, give me your ear!” thunders the brute, as he fairly draws the boy still toward the door.

”Stop that, or die!”

The frenzied girl, failing to arouse Forty-nine, has caught up the gun from the corner, and brought the muzzle to the ruffian's breast. He totters back, and throws up his arms.

”Go back there and sit down, or I will kill you!”

”Give me your ear! Come!” roars Stumps. It is now his turn. ”Give me your ear!” He reaches up and takes that red organ in his hand, and nearly wrenches it from the brute's head, as he leads him back, with many twists and gyrations, slowly to a low seat at the other side of the cabin.

Still holding the gun in level, and in dangerous proximity to the man's breast, Carrie cries:

”Now if you attempt to move you are a dead man!” ”Give me your ear!” and Stumps wrenches it again, as he sits the man firmly on his low stool, with his red face making mad distortions from the pain. ”John Logan, come!” calls the girl. ”No, don't you start, Gar Dosson. Don't you lift a finger; if you do, you die!”

The curtains are parted, and John Logan starts forth. ”Go, go! There's not a moment to lose. The sheriff will be here; they are coming! Quick!

Go at once! I hear--I hear them coming!”

The man springs to the door; the latch is lifted; a moment more and he will be free--safe, at least for the night. Out into the friendly darkness, where man and beast, where pursuer and pursued, are equal, and equally helpless.

There is a crus.h.i.+ng of snow, a stamping of feet, and one, two, three, four, five--five forms hurriedly pa.s.s the window. The latch is lifted, and as John Logan again darts back under cover, the party, brus.h.i.+ng the snow from their coats and grizzled beards, hastily enter the cabin.

”Fly around, Carrie, fly around! fix yourself up!” The fresh gust of wind and storm from the door just opened, fans the glimmering spark of consciousness into sudden flame, and Forty-nine springs up, perfectly erect, perfectly dignified. ”Fly around, Carrie, fly around; fix yourself up. The sheriff is coming--fly around!”

The girl drops the gun in the corner where she had found it, and stands before Forty-nine, smoothing down her ap.r.o.n, and letting her eyes fall on the floor timidly and in a childlike way, as if these little hands of hers had never known a harder task than their present employment of smoothing down her ap.r.o.n.

Dosson springs up before the sheriff. He rubs his eyes, and he looks about as if he had just been startled from some bad, ugly dream. He wonders, indeed, if he has seen John Logan at all. Again he rubs his eyes, and then, looking at his knuckle, says, in a deep, guttural fas.h.i.+on, to himself, ”Jim-jams, by gol! I thought I'd seed John Logan!”

”Ah, Forty-nine,” says the sheriff, ”sorry to disturb you, and your Miss; and good evening to you, sir; and good evening to you;” and the honest sheriff bows to each, and brushes the snow from his fur cap as he speaks.

Gar Dosson advances to his partner, Phin Emens, who has just entered, with that stealthy old tiger-step so familiar to them both, and laying his hand on his shoulder, they move aside.

”Then it's not the jim-jams,” mutters he. ”I've not got 'em, then.”

He stops, pinches himself, looks at his hands, and mutters to himself.