"Rickard!" he said, sharply.
Rickard looked at him for a moment, and then going to the heads of the horses, led his team over to the tree and made them fast.
"Go in there," King commanded, and pointed into the woods in the direction of the river.
Rickard did not turn to look this time, but picked his way through the underbrush, with King close at his heels. When they came within a yard or two of the bank of the river King spoke again.
"This will do," he said. "I'm going to talk to you for about one minute, and I want you to listen."
All the quietness had vanished both from King's voice and from his manner. He was shaking with passion and his face was almost white. He laid one hand on Rickard's shoulder and closed his fingers in a vice-like grip.
"Ten minutes ago, Rickard," he said, "by God, I'd have killed you. Just now, you dirty whelp—I'll give you about thirty seconds to make up your mind to get out. Leave that team where it is and get back out of the way till this job's done. If you're in town by Monday night I'll take my own way of putting you out. A little better than two days—that's enough time to square up and hit the trail. Are you ready?"
Rickard squirmed under King's hand, but King pulled him up suddenly.
"Are you ready?" he repeated.
Rickard nodded.