"Son," he said sadly, as he looked down on the seated figure, which did not rise to receive him, "I hated to do you that way worse than I can tell you. You know why I had to do it, don't you?"
"I knows," accused the boy bitterly, "that ye gits ever'body kilt thet ye wants kilt, an' I knows thet ye lied ter me an' fooled me. I knows thet ye've done been a damned traitor."
"I reckon it does look right smart that way to you, son," acceded the other. "It can't hardly help seemin' that way—an' yet I was tryin' to save your life, an' I did save it."
"I hain't none beholden ter ye fer thet," snorted Newt. "I didn't ask ye ter save my life. I'd a heap ruther ye'd quit a-meddlin' so damn' much in my business."
"But listen, son. A man can afford to look ahead an' bide his time. Just now, we've got to lay low an' keep quiet. All the Spooners except you have agreed to do that. You're a young feller with your life ahead of you, and waitin' a little won't hurt you. You've got to let this Falkins boy alone for a year. When I talked to you at Winchester, I didn't rightly know how things stood down here. Give me your hand on that, an' I'll get you out of here."
"I won't do hit," snapped the boy, defiantly.
"Then I guess you'd better stay here a while." The Deacon's voice was regretful.
"Ye means thet I kin lie in this jail-house tell I promises ye not ter hurt Henry Falkins?"
"Till you promise not to hurt him for a year," amended the other.
"An' I tells ye you kin everlastin'ly go ter hell!" shouted Newt, his face working spasmodically under his wrath.