"Spooner," said the officer quietly, "for the next ten minutes I waive all matter of rank. I sent for you to talk to you, not as Private Spooner of B Company, but as Newt Spooner of Troublesome Creek. To-day is the Fourth of July."
The boy took a step forward and his lips showed the teeth under them.
"I reckon I hain't a-forgettin' thet," he snarled in a half-whisper. "I reckon thar hain't been a day I hain't a-counted."
Falkins nodded with disconcerting calmness.
"Now, Newt," he said shortly, "I am told you have taken a blood-oath against me. Is that true?"
"Ef thar's a God in heaven he knows hit's true, an' I warns ye"—the boy's cheeks flamed with a wild rush of blood to the temples—"I warns ye that I'm a-goin' ter keep hit. I've done been stopped three times. Next time all hell hain't a-goin' ter stop me."
"What's the idea? What's the reason?"
"I reckon ye knows thet well enough."
"I know that I testified to facts—true facts, not perjury. I should have had to do the same thing if it had been my own brother who was on trial."
"Like hell ye would!" In the boy's exclamation was supreme scorn and repudiation of a lying excuse.