The savage Tim was leaning upon his rifle in the doorway, his eyes dilated, his breath short, his whole frame trembling with excitement, as the other men, alarmed by Evelina's screams, rushed down from the barn.
"What ails ye, Tim? Why'n't ye fire?" demanded his father.
Tim turned an agitated, baffled look upon him. "I—I mought hev hit the baby," he faltered.
"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."