He took his stand on a moonlit hillock, letting the polished barrel of his gun glint from one to another of the mob.
“I’m judge among you,” he said, with his heedless laugh.
“Are you, now?” growled Murgatroyd. “A likely man, you, to be judge of any folk.”
“I know ’em all so well, knowing myself,” chuckled Will. “There’s my loaded gun, too—and that helps a man to be a judge. What’s all this moil about, widow?”
Widow Mathison told him, instead, her mind about all Garsykes Men, born or unborn—with gusto, now that Hardcastle was safe. That made Will little the wiser till the lad broke from his mother’s grasp and then ran back again, afraid of what he had suffered on the fells.
“I fell into cold water, I did,” he whimpered, “and couldn’t get myself out. And a big man came and tugged at me, and brought me to my mammy.”
Will o’ Wisp understood now; and wrath kindled in his lazy mind.
“You’d kill Hardcastle for that?”
“Aye,” said Long Murgatroyd. “What do we care for the widow’s brat?”
Will o’ Wisp let his gun roam quietly from one to another of the company. And then he spoke.