“Curse you! I’ll finish you!” Larkin shrieked frantically, flinging his piece to his shoulder and taking deliberate aim at Ross.
“Go slow there, ol’ man, ’r you’ll never know what hurt you,” said a drawling voice. “Drop that gun an’ behave y’rself, ’r I’ll put a chunk o’ cold lead into you—I will, by Hanner Ann!”
And two shimmering gun-barrels protruded from the green foliage.
Larkin obeyed, and leaned against a sapling, panting. With some difficulty Hilliard got upon his feet. His flabby face was pale; his hairy hands were trembling.
Farley and Bright Wing stepped into the glade.
“Mr. Larkin,” Douglas remarked calmly, “I’m very sorry this occurred. You’d better take your comrade to the house and dress his wounds. I’m off.”
Followed by his two friends and his dog, the young man silently made his way back to the canoe. A few minutes later they were rapidly paddling down the stream.
The day was excessively hot. The three men maintained a moody silence, as with steady, sweeping strokes they shot the dugout forward. The sweat trickled in rivulets down Farley’s furrowed face. Presently he muttered in an undertone:
“S’pect I’d ’ave done better, if I’d shot that cuss of a Hilliard—yes, an’ ol’ Sam Larkin, too. They deserved to die anyway—the dirty cowards! An’ they’ll make no end o’ bother fer Ross—’r I’m badly mistaken. An’ they’ll torment that little gal to death, purty near. I can see it all. Ther’s trouble ahead fer somebody—an’ likely it’s fer Ross Douglas. Well, it all comes o’ fallin’ in love with a few pounds o’ the female gender. An’ hain’t I had the ’xperience? Lordy! I should say so!”
