“It ain’t likely he’s forgiven you fellers for catchin’ him in the turkey-trap,” said Peeler; “at least, not yet. He’ll dig his way out now, though, since the weather’s eased up.—See if he don’t.”
There was a crunching outside on the frozen snow and somebody knocked on the door.
“Hick’ry and hemlock,” whispered Paisley, “visitors at this time of night. Will I open the door, Boy?”
Boy glanced at the rifle leaning against the wall, and nodded. Paisley threw open the door and a tall figure, muffled in furs from tip to toe, staggered in and sank on a stool.
“I’m nigh played out,” gasped the visitor.
“Why, it’s Hank Broadcrook,” cried Declute. “Get the jug, Boy, he’s just about tuckered.”
“I’ve been since mornin’ beatin’ my way over,” panted the man. “I’ve tried to get here afore, but couldn’t.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Peeler. “Anythin’ wrong at home?”
Broadcrook took the mug of whiskey Boy handed him and gulped it down.
“Amos,” he answered, “is he here?”