Then she grasped him by the shoulders and tried to lift him.
“Help me ter git him inter the cabin!” she wildly commanded. “He ain’t no revnoo, Sam Turner! If he’s dead, you’ll hatter answer fur killin’ a man that never harmed ye. You’ll hatter answer fur it ’fore God, and that’ll be wuss’n the jedge at the co’tehouse down in the valley. Holp me ter git him inter the cabin, I tell ye!”
She gave another surging lift at the shoulders, and Bruce groaned.
Sam Turner raised the club again.
“Put that down!” she shrieked, flying at him with the ferocity of an enraged panther.
Turner staggered back under the force of her rush, and she tore the club from his hands and sent it whirling far out into the bushes.
“If ye won’t holp me, I’ll drag him in myself,” she declared, again seeking to lift Browning by the shoulders.
There was another groan from Browning’s lips, and then Sam Turner, moved by curiosity rather than pity, consented to assist Nell in getting the unfortunate lad into the house.
By the light of the kerosene lamp, Turner inspected Bruce’s injuries, while Nell stood by, with clasped hands, in an agony of suspense.
She broke the silence.