“What do you mean by chance, Amos?” asked Paisley, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You don’t mean to say that you’d fight, do you? Why, man alive, you can’t fight—you’re too big a coward.”
“If I was on my feet I’d make you eat them words,” spat Broadcrook.
“If I really thought there was any spunk in you I’d let you try,” grinned Paisley. “By gosh, I’ll do it, but listen, Amos, if you make any break for the woods, Boy there will sure plug you.”
“Don’t let him go, Bill,” warned Boy. “If he gets away now there’s no tellin’ what he’ll do. He’s just wantin’ to get a chance to get in the timber. You know, and I know, he won’t fight. He’s too much of a sneakin’ coward.”
Broadcrook turned his malignant face toward Boy. In the yellow light it looked fearful. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could frame the words he would say a small disheveled form came bounding and panting into their midst.
It was Daft Davie, his face gnashed and bleeding from scratches of low-lying twigs. He sank on his knees before the fire and poured forth some words in his strange gibberish. Boy, quick to understand the daft child, gave a low cry. Paisley spoke sharply.
“What is he sayin’, Boy?” he asked.
“He says that there are five men tryin’ to get into our house,” gasped Boy. “Bill, I don’t understand this, but there’s no time to lose. Let Broadcrook alone till another time. I’ll take his gun. For gawd sake, let’s hurry.”
Broadcrook crept toward the thicket and Paisley’s heavy boot hurried his movements materially.
“Nurse that, you skunk, till we meet again,” he cried.