Paisley turned quickly and looked at Boy. His head was bowed upon his breast and his hands were clenched.
“And,” continued McTavish, “I didn’t hear poor old Joe after that.”
“Poor old Joe,” said Boy; “poor old pup.”
Then, lifting his head, he looked out of the window at the silver-crested sky-clouds with smarting eyes.
“He always liked these dark, quiet nights,” he said, as if to himself, “and when the starlight slipped through like it’s doin’ now, no matter if it was only early or midnight, he would get up and wag his tail just out o’ happiness—pure happiness. And now he’s dead, and they killed him—damn ’em.”
“I found him just in the edge of the garden,” said Paisley. “Yes, Boy, poor old Joe is dead, and he died fightin’ for you; he sure died fightin’ for you.”
Boy nodded and looked at his father.
“Go on, dad, let’s hear the rest of it.”
“After that they came up and pounded on the door. They demanded that I let ’em in. ‘What do you want?’ I asked. ‘You’ll find that out soon enough,’ they answered. ‘You’re all alone and there’s four of us,’ they said. ‘If you don’t open the door we’ll break it down.’ ”
Big McTavish paused, a catch in his voice.