“I’m going through the woods ahead of that fire to tap the Attean line and send my report and call for men,” he said, calmly. “I’m still the fire warden of Jerusalem region.”
He set away, striding over the ledges, his lantern winking between his thin legs.
“Looks like a cross between a lightning-bug and a grampy-long-shanks,” observed the sheriff, his cheerfulness increased by the happy disposal of his troublesome prisoners. “Travelling on underpinning like that, he’ll have his word in before daybreak.”
But Pulaski Britt had not yet satisfied the curiosity that stirred as soon as greater matters had been settled. He ran after the warden, shouting an order to wait.
The little group heard the colloquy, for Lane did not stop, and the Honorable Pulaski had to bellow his question.
“Say, Lane, in case anything should happen to you! Ain’t you going to let me do the square thing? If this girl is yours, say the word. I’ll look after her. Is she yours?”
“No!” yelled the old man, with a fury in his tones like the rasp of a file on their flesh as they listened. And the next words seemed to be a cry wrung from him without his will: “If she were, I’d have killed you and Colin MacLeod before this!”
He went flitting down the slope of Jerusalem like a will-o’-the-wisp, and they stood in silence and watched him out of sight.
That night the tenantry of Jerusalem Knob divided itself silently and sullenly into groups which ignored each other.
Britt and his people took blankets from the fire station, and established makeshift camps down in the fringe of the trees.