“Yes. You’re half-men, all of you, or we’d be rid of him. I met him up the pastures awhile since, and he—he was not kind. If I’d had you with me, Will o’ Wisp—but you were drinking strong ale, likely, instead of being at my side.”
“I was lad-mooning up and down the fields, sick of my fancy for you. And naught ever comes of it.”
“Lad-moon no more, Will. Be up and doing.”
“How?” he asked bluntly.
“You’re not his match in strength—but little folk are given nimble wits. He took a pistol to you once.”
“He did,” muttered Will, urged now by a rancour Nita had fostered diligently.
“And it’s turn and turn about in this life. Borrow Murgatroyd’s fowling-piece to-morrow——”
“And creep up to Logie with it?”
“There’s no need. All gossip comes to little Nita, and I can tell you the way home Hardcastle will be taking, near dusk. It lies yonder, where the track dips down from Pengables—and, when you’ve fired, Will o’ Wisp, you’ve no more to do than slip home to Garsykes for your welcome.”
“What sort of welcome?”