“Hain't ye got no aim, ye durned sinner?” asked Stephen, furiously.
“Bullet mought hev gone through him and struck inter the baby,” expostulated Tim.
“An' then agin it moughtn't!” cried Stephen. “Lawd, ef I hed hed the chance!”
“Ye wouldn't hev done no differ,” declared Tim.
“Hyar!” Steve caught his brother's gun and presented it to Tim's lips. “Suck the bar'l. It's 'bout all ye air good fur.”
The horses had been turned out. By the time they were caught and saddled pursuit was evidently hopeless. The men strode in one by one, dashing the saddles and bridles on the floor, and finding in angry expletives a vent for their grief. And indeed it might have seemed that the Quimbeys must have long sought a choice Kittredge infant for adoption, so far did their bewailings discount Rachel's mourning.
“Don't cry, Eveliny,” they said, ever and anon. “We-uns 'll git him back fur ye.”
But she had not shed a tear. She sat speechless, motionless, as if turned to stone.
“Laws-a-massy, child, ef ye would jes hev b'lieved me 'bout'n them Kittredges—Abs'lom in partic'lar—ye'd be happy an' free now,” said the old man, his imagination somewhat extending his experience, for he had had no knowledge of his son-in-law until their relationship began.
The evening wore drearily on. Now and then the men roused themselves, and with lowering faces discussed the opportunities of reprisal, and the best means of rescuing the child. And whether they schemed to burn the Kittredge cabin, or to arm themselves, burst in upon their enemies, shooting and killing all who resisted, Evelina said nothing, but stared into the fire with unnaturally dilated eyes, her white lined face all drawn and somehow unrecognizable.