But the crowd made no movement to retreat. Parker still stood at their head.
“Ye'd better go!” bellowed Connick. “Understand? I said ye'd better go. Go an' mind your business, an' if ye do that, not a man in my crew will step a foot on the Sunk-haze shore. But if ye stay here and meddle, then down come your houses and out go your cook-stoves. You know me! Get back on shore.”
A tremendous roar from his men emphasized his demand.
“If ye want these hearties loose up there, ye can have 'em in about two minutes!” he cried, threateningly.
The Sunkhaze contingent rubbed elbows significantly, mumbled in conference, and scuffled slowly toward the shore.
“Are you going to back down, men?” Parker shouted.
“We've got wives an' children an' houses up there, mister,” said a voice from the crowd, “an' it's a cold night to be turned out-o'-doors. We know these fellers better'n what you do.”
“But, men,” persisted Parker, “they won't dare to sack your village. Such things are not done in these days. The law—”
“Law!” burst from Connick, jeeringly. “Law! Law!” echoed his men, with mocking laughter.
“Why,” yelled Connick, “there ain't deputy sheriffs enough in this county to round us up once we get acrost the Poquette divide! There ain't a deputy sheriff that will dare to poke his nose within ten miles of our camps.”