'Waal,' said the old man, speaking with his grave excited eyes still on the fire. 'I be toler'ble glad ez D'rindy tuk this time ter leave home fur a few days, 'kase she hev been toler'ble ailin' an' droopy. An' t'other day some o' the boys got ter talkin' 'bout'n how sure they be ez 'twar 'Cajah Green—dad-burn the critter!—ez gin the revenue hounds the word whar our still war hid. An' D'rindy, she jes' tuk a screamin' fit, an' performed an' kerried on like she war bereft o' reason. An' she got down old Betsy thar'—pointing to a rifle on the rack—'ez Pete hed made her draw a mark on it ter remember 'Cajah Green by, an' his word ez he'd jail her some day, an' she wanted me and the boys ter swear on it ez we-uns would never shoot him.'
'An' did you-uns swear sech?' asked Hiram Kelsey, in fierce reprobation.
Beneath the broad brim of his hat his eyes were blazing; their large dilated pupils cancelled the iris and the idea of colour; they were coals of fire. His shadowed face was set and hard; it bore a presage of disappointment—and yet he was doubtful.
Pete turned and looked keenly at him.
'Waal,' said the old man, embarrassed, and in some sort mortified, 'D'rindy, ye see, war ailin', an', an'—I never hed but that one darter an' sech a pack o' sons, an' it 'pears like she oughter be humoured—an'——'
'Ye w-wants him shot, hey, pa'son?' Pete interrupted his critical study of the unconscious subject.
Kelsey's eyes flashed.
'I pray that the Lord may cut him off,' he said.
'Waal, the Lord ain't obleeged ter use a rifle,' said Pete pertinently. 'Even we-uns kin find more ways than that.'
'The pa'son mought ez well go along an' holp,' said Groundhog Cayce.