“Here’s Mr. Ide’s representative,” he continued, flapping a hand towards Wade. “They’ve got black growth to the north, and he’ll tell you just the same thing.”
“Well, Mister Mealy-mouth,” sneered young Jule, over the heads of the others, “git to where you’re goin’ to. We don’t want no sermons. It’s move ag’in, hey?”
“It’s move,” snapped the Honorable Pulaski, his ready temper starting at the woman’s insolent tone, “and it’s move damn sudden.”
Whether it was a groan or growl that came from the wretched huddle, Wade, looking on them with infinite pity, could not determine.
“I could put ye plumb square out of the county,” roared Britt; “I’ve got land jurisdiction enough to do it. But you be reasonable and I’ll be reasonable. I won’t drive ye too far. I’ll have four horses over from my cedar operation to tote what duds you want to take and haul the old women. Sheriff Rodliff and his men here will go along, and see that you have grub and don’t have to light fires. In fact, everything will be arranged nice for you, and you’ll like it when you get there.”
“Where?” asked young Jed.
“On Little Lobster—the old Drake farm,” said the Honorable Pulaski, trying to speak enthusiastically and signally failing.
“O my Gawd!” moaned young Jed; “most twenty miles to hoof it, and when ye git there no wood bigger’n alder-withes, and all the stones the devil let drop when his puckerin’-string bruk! Hain’t a berry. Hain’t northin’ to earn a livin’.”
“You never earned your living, and you don’t want to earn your living,” retorted Britt. “You just want to stay up here in the big timber and start fires.”