Yes! Elsie should be treated as her father had treated Boy! She stooped and picked up the whip. The men leaned forward, watching intently. Their heavy breathing and Ma Brewer's sobs mingled with the ticking of the clock and the storm's racket against the hut sides.
She studied the whip and tested its hissing pliability. That tip had stung Boy beyond endurance. The length of it had put him in his grave. Waldstricker's hands had tortured her son. She would make his daughter pay the reckoning. She drew a deep breath and raised her arm.
Elsie had crept unnoticed to her side, and as Tess glanced down, the child touched her hand with little fingers, marble-cold. The girl drew away from the suppliant touch, then, lowered the whip and stood considering the baby face.
"I hate you worse'n anyone in the whole world," she spat out.
"Then, lick 'er," growled Longman, and the other squatters muttered their approval.
Elsie dropped her head against Tessibel, and clung to her skirt.
"I want my—mover," she burst out, crying.
"Get even with Waldstricker, brat," said another voice.
Tess raised her arm and glancing along the uplifted whip, again, she looked into Boy's eyes, and, as she gazed, the little face in the rafters receded, grew dimmer.
She dropped the whip, and unmindful of the squatters, lifted her hands.