“Keep perfectly still,” said Stephens, scarcely moving a muscle of his face. “Where is he now?”
“Howly Mary! His head’s a’most touchin’ yer hand!”
Stephens’ face turned to a green pallor as the blood forsook the tan, but his expression of calm self-possession never changed a jot. There was a certain similarity that struck me even at that instant between the finely modeled evil head of the serpent and the man’s clean-cut features.
They might have been a group in bronze, those two, for the rattlesnake had stopped, motionless, with his head raised in poise; and not the tremor of a muscle showed the man was living.
“Oh damn! damn this country!” whispered Tommy in an agony, “with never a stick nor stone in it! What’ll I do, Stephens? What’ll I do?”
“There’s a whip on your plow; send the boy for it,” breathed he.
I backed carefully away from the horrible spot, fearful the least sudden movement would bring the man’s fate upon him.
Then I flew for the whip.
Returning, I placed it in Tommy’s hands.
“Now, kid,” whispered Stephens, “step back and wave your coat. Hit, Murphy, at your first chance.”