"Don't you know when I first saw you on that rock training that hawk to sit up, you kind of scared me?" He expelled a volume of tobacco juice. "You scared me some, Mr. Lutts. I thought you was fixing to ring a church bell on me."
He let loose of Lem's rifle and it fell behind him. He held his own, pistol-fashion, under his arm, with his finger in the guard, as he stepped nearer and shook a huge menacing fist in the boy's pallid face.
"You'll have a swell chance ringing anything on me again unless you've got a church bell in your pocket. You pulled a swell trick on me that night, didn't ye? You thought the bunch that galloped down to your dog-house would get me that night, didn't ye? Young man, I'm going to bust this gang of thieves up here, or I'll drink Hellsfork dry! And you—you—you're not only carrying on your daddy's business——"
A blinding, reckless fury that fired Lem with the strength and savagery of a tiger propelled his body through the air like a catapult. He landed on the revenuer's neck and with his naked hands he tried to kill him.
He learned speedily why Burton had not fired, for a second man who had been concealed behind the boulders, together with Jutt Orlick, sprang out and upon him. These two heavyweights soon overpowered and handcuffed the boy, while Orlick lay with gloating eyes, peering out at the scene.
Burton rolled Lem over on his back, and left him to exhaust the maledictions he was heaping upon their heads.
As Lem scrambled to his feet, Burton launched forth as he deftly cut the leather thong and relieved Lem of his cow-horn.
"Lutts—your family owes the government a million dollars and then some. And you're going to pay in some shape or form—you're in the hands of the law now. You ain't monkeyin' with these county people. You're on your way to Frankfort now—and I think I'll be able to send you to Atlanta for a while. Eh, Tom?"
Burton turned to his perspiring companion.
"Sure—they say the punk tastes like cake down there, too."