This last information produced animation.
I looked back to the Sprite. Little Jim's eyes were gleaming down the rifle barrel like an avenging angel. The game was big and I was after it.
The man of big girth came first, having to wriggle his way out of the tiny cabin door, and stood facing me with his hands elevated as far as his fat would allow. Then appeared another middle-aged, medium-sized man, of a business-like appearance, who looked like a decent person caught in bad company.
"Where's the other one?" I demanded.
"He's dead," instantly replied the man with the bandaged hand.
"I want to see him," said I, far enough away to use the rifle.
"I say he is dead—inside," the fat man replied in rather a surly tone.
"Bring him out where I can see him," I demanded, not moving. "You bring him out," I added, looking at the thin man.
Frightened and craven, he let his arms down, went in the cabin. He returned soon, dragging out a body covered with blood. My shot must have hit him fair.
The thin man then took his stand beside the fat one, and elevated his hands again without an order, and both looked across at little Jim and her deadly rifle.