The other seemed not to notice, and continued, as though talking to himself: "Little Dickie Falkner. Him what fed me when I war' starvin', an' gimme his last nickel when he war' hungry hisself; an' yo' want me ter kill him."—He drew a long shuddering breath. "Mister, yo' shor' made 'er bad mistake this time."
"I'll fix it though," cried Whitley; and with an awful oath he leaped forward, the knife uplifted.
But the keen eye of the man used to danger, had seen his stealthy preparation, and his wrist was caught in a grasp of iron.
The city-bred villain was no match for his mountain-trained companion and the struggle was short.
Keeping his hold upon Whitley's wrist, Jake threw his long right arm around his antagonist and drew him close, in a crushing embrace. Then, while he looked straight into his victim's fear-lighted eyes, he slowly forced the uplifted hand down and back.
Whitley struggled desperately, but his left arm was pinned to his side and he was held as in a circle of steel. In vain he writhed and twisted; he was helpless in the powerful grasp of the mountaineer. Slowly the hand that held the knife was forced behind him. He screamed in pain. The glittering eyes that looked into his never wavered. Jake's right hand behind his back, touched the knife, and Whitley saw that evil, mirthless grin come on the cruel face, so close to his own. The grip on his wrist tightened. Slowly his arm was twisted until his fingers loosened the hold of the weapon, and the handle of the knife was transferred to the grasp of the man who held him. Then there were two quick, strong thrusts, a shuddering, choking cry, and the arms were loosed as the stricken man fell in a heap on the cabin floor, on the very spot where years before, the dying mother had prayed: "Oh Lord, take ker' o' Dick."
"You—have—killed—me—"
"I reckon that's about hit, Mister."
"Tell—Falkner—I—lied—Amy—is—pure—and tell—"
But the sentence was never finished.