Hatfield's head dropped down in the grass and he lay panting.
Orlick then struggled to his knees, impelled by some cryptic terror that imparted to him a measure of astounding vitality, and crawled away toward the deserted shack like a turtle. Hatfield, determined not to lose sight of him, crawled along tenaciously ten feet in the rear.
The ground under the chestnut tree and along the picket fence of the old shack had been stamped and worn bare by roving stock. When Orlick reached this bare spot, he tumbled flat and inert. In a few minutes more Hatfield came up, spent and heaving and unable to go another foot. He fell prone with his good arm stretched out and his clutching fingers within twelve inches of Orlick's throat. Orlick's body was in the shadow of the chestnut tree, but his head and neck were plainly visible in the moonlight. He turned his face and looked wearily at the impotent hand that was reaching for him—then his dull eyes followed the arm down to the dark visage with its smiling marble-white lips, and he wagged his head indifferently. Hatfield spoke again between teeth that gritted down upon the agony of his wounds:
"Coward—what yo' a runnin' fo'?"
He got no response.
"Wait 'til I rest a minute, an' I'll finish yo', shore—leastways, I plugged yo' gud—eh?"
Orlick's bloodless lips moved now.
"Yo' don't look so damn peert," he groaned back.
"Yo' didn't do hit—by Gad—yo' hit me in th' arm, an' hit was already busted—ha!—ha!—I didn't feel what yo' done," Hatfield laughed weakly, but derisively. "Leastways, yo' won't be a traitin' up in Moon again so soon. I plugged yo' gud, eh?" he ended jeeringly, venting a sound that in health would have mounted to a loud laugh, but which was only a faint gurgle in his throat.
"An' yo' 'lowed yo'd git Belle-Ann, eh? Yo' mouse-dog—yo' 'lowed Belle-Ann 'ud parley with sich as yo'—eh? Ef I wusn't so tired I'd laugh 'til I'd bust—say, skunk—yo' 'lowed I didn't know—but I knowed all 'long—I had my eye on yo'—yo' karnsarned wild hawg. I was a watchin' yo'—say—yo' 'member when yo' grabbed Belle-Ann in th' yard thet time—I was ahind th' corn crib, an' I hed a bead on yo'—I'd a kilt yo' then pint-blank ef Belle-Ann hadn't bin so clost—I started after yo', an' when yo' let her loose I got ahind the wagon-bed an' waited. Say—Belle-Ann give yo' the run, didn't she—eh? Didn't she run yo'—eh? Say, louse—Belle-Ann wouldn't spit on yo', she wouldn't—not her. Did she run yo'—eh? Gawd'll Moughty!—I wish I could laugh gud an' plenty—I'm aimin' to finish yo' in a minute—when I rest—then yo' he'pt kill her pap—an' I reckon yo' he'pt kill Lem—eh?"