“Well, well,” he sneered, “so thet purty face o’ your’n ’s spiled at last! It’s my time now, you scab!” and he kicked the boy savagely in the side. “I don’t reckon you’ll be pokin’ your nose into other folks’s affairs much longer!”
Allan gazed up at him with contempt, not unmixed with pity, for he began to believe that Nolan was insane. That wolf-like ferocity, surely, could belong only to a disordered brain.
“Hurry up, there,” called a hoarse voice.
“What’re you goin’ to do with this?” asked somebody, and Allan knew that he referred to the body of Jed Hopkins.
“There’s only one thing to do,” said a third, and added a word in a voice so low that Allan could not hear it.
“He’s right,” agreed the first speaker.
“How about the other one?”
“We’ll take him out.”
“But he’ll peach!”
“I don’t care if he does. Besides, what can he tell?”