"Who tol' yo?"
"Burton."
"When—yo' hain't meanin' thet yo' talked to that devil?"
"I been in his jail all thes time."
For a moment Hatfield's face was a picture of dismay. He was dumb and plainly beyond any expression. Presently Johnse spoke.
"I see thar game—course thar's a traitor, but I 'low it hain't Orlick—they wanted t' beat yo'-all back, thinkin' yo' wouldn't be a lookin' fer 'em so soon—an' he war a spyin' on yore house, aimin' t' foller yo'-all to th' still—then raid us—but I changed his tune."
"I hope yo' hain't kilt em—'cause he belongs to Cap Lutts's boy—to me——"
"I kilt em, Lem—I had t'."
Lem still stared incredulously at Hatfield's grim, bearded face.
"Come 'long, Johnse!" exclaimed Lem decisively. "I 'low yo' believe yo' kilt em—but yo' can't lead me t' his daid body—yo' can't," declared Lem dubiously. Gripping his Winchester, Lem started away down the trail on a run, with Hatfield and little Bud loping along after him.