“We’re not afraid of Colonel Hallibut,” said Paisley quietly. “If Hallibut corners us we’ll be willin’ to stay in the corner. I say, when he corners us we’ll be willin’—understand? Now, you fellers better be gettin’ across to your own territory, ’cause I feel my muscle swellin’ again.”
Simpson struggled painfully from the ground and, followed by the bruised Watson, lost no time in obeying the order. Paisley watched them until the rushes on the farther, shore hid them from sight, then he picked up his rifle and walked on.
“The fools!” he muttered, “they don’t know that I’m on to their game. The fools! to think they could ever steal Gloss away like that. I’ve seen that Watson feller’s face before somewhere, but I can’t just say where. I reckon he won’t ever forget old Bill Paisley, though. No, I mus’n’t say nothin’ to Boy; not yet. Guess he’s most too hot-headed to meet them devils at their own game.”
As he rounded the bend in the path there came the shuffle of a footstep to his ear, and the bent form of an old woman passed him. Her hair was flying in the breeze, her pitted face worked, and her black orbs gleamed.
“Old Betsy, as sure as I’m born!” exclaimed Paisley. “It’s the first time I ever seen her out durin’ daylight. She sure come from Mac’s way, too. Wonder what’s up. Guess I’ll go and see.”
Half an hour later he entered McTavish’s door. Boy was seated by the table, and he leaped up when Bill entered.
“She’s better, a lot better, Bill,” he cried in answer to the big man’s look. “Old Betsy was here, Bill, and she gave ma something to drink, and——”
His voice faltered, and he turned toward Gloss, who had come from the bedroom.
“You tell Bill all about it,” he said, and walked out.
Paisley looked at the girl and mentally formed the same words that Boy had spoken not so long ago: