CHAPTER XIX
HATFIELD OVERTAKES THE TRAITOR
By and by, Hatfield opened his eyes to find that his horse was nosing his face with his warm, rough lips as if bent on waking him up. Johnse lifted his aching eyes toward the moon. He calculated that he had lain there fully an hour or more. His left arm held him in an agony of torture. His whole body was racked with shooting pains traversing from his head down and back again. His smiling lips were now cracked and bloodless. Gladly he would have exchanged the life left in him for a cup of water. All the events of this night filtered back into his consciousness. He felt instinctively for his guns; then recalled what had become of them.
Remembering where he had seen Orlick lie down in the weeds, he wondered if he was still there. Impelled by a consuming curiosity to know what had become of this hated enemy, he struggled up and, dragging his dead, limp arm along, he hobbled on his knees and one hand toward the chestnut trees. At the end of a few tortuous minutes, which seemed hours of suffering, he saw the bottom of Orlick's feet.
Orlick must have heard this ominous, heavy breathing, for suddenly he raised on his elbow and looked.
"Aw—hell!" gasped Hatfield. "I 'lowed yo' wus daid—yo' wild hawg."
His voice carried a volume of reproach and disgust.
"Where yo'-all bin—hain't I got ez much right to cum back ez yo' hev?" snarled his weak, wounded foe.
"Naw, yo' hain't—yo' hain't never had no right on earth," growled Hatfield in tones that dwindled feebly to a malevolent hiss. "Traitors like yo' hain't hardly fittin' fo' hell—yo he'pt kill Cap Lutts, didn't yo'—eh?—didn't yo'—eh? An' yo' he'pt kill Mart Harper, didn't yo'—eh? An' yo' spied fer Sap and them fellers thet kilt Don Perry, didn't yo'—eh? An' thet hain't all, yo' bin a traitin' up Moonway fo' five year—I'm goin' t' finish yo' now—I'll finish yo'—jest wait til I git my breath an' I'll settle yo', shor'n hell."