“Why, you—you’re a neighbor, kind of. And you—you’ve been good to Steve.” The name came in a whisper.
“Oh. I see. Did you take the medicine to him?”
“Yes. He’s a-takin’ care of himself. But he’s wilder’n ever at Snake Sanders, now he knows about pop. He didn’t like pop much, but it makes him hate Snake all the more. Where—where is pop?”
“Over yonder,” he told her gently. “In a day or so you can go in. I’m going to cut a path. You’re not blaming me for this thing, are you, Marion?”
“No, I ain’t. Mom, she’s wild jest now—says if you never come here this wouldn’t happened, and so on—but that’s foolish, and I told her so. She’ll git over it. But”—the firm little jaw set—“if Snake Sanders comes a-pesterin’ round once more now he won’t never walk outen our yard! I’ll fix him my own self!”
“How?”
“With pop’s gun. ’Tain’t much good, but it’ll shoot. I got it ready this afternoon, and if I see his sneakin’ face jest once I won’t ask questions. I never wanted to see him ’fore, but I’m lookin’ for him now!”
It was no sudden flare of temper that brought forth the threat. It was the cold wrath of the hills that sounded in her quiet voice, the deathless hate of the avenger that glimmered under her curving brows. Once more Douglas studied a new Marion: a girl resolute, reckless, ominously hard.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he counseled. “Put the gun on him, but don’t shoot. March him down here and let me have him. Maybe I can make him clear Steve.”
“Mebbe,” she half agreed. “I’m a-goin’ now. It’s gittin’ dark. G’by.”