“I'll give you a last chance,” the latter grated through his teeth. “Turn over that light-stick an' come along peaceable, or I'll lay you out.”
Saxon was frightened for Billy's sake, and yet only half frightened. She had a faith that the man dared not fire, and she felt the old familiar thrills of admiration for Billy's courage. She could not see his face, but she knew in all certitude that it was bleak and passionless in the terrifying way she had seen it when he fought the three Irishmen.
“You ain't the first man I killed,” the constable threatened. “I'm an old soldier, an' I ain't squeamish over blood—”
“And you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Saxon broke in, “trying to shame and disgrace peaceable people who've done no wrong.”
“You've done wrong sleepin' here,” was his vindication. “This ain't your property. It's agin the law. An' folks that go agin the law go to jail, as the two of you'll go. I've sent many a tramp up for thirty days for sleepin' in this very shack. Why, it's a regular trap for 'em. I got a good glimpse of your faces an' could see you was tough characters.” He turned on Billy. “I've fooled enough with you. Are you goin' to give in an' come peaceable?”
“I'm goin' to tell you a couple of things, old hoss,” Billy answered. “Number one: you ain't goin' to pull us. Number two: we're goin' to sleep the night out here.”
“Gimme that light-stick,” the constable demanded peremptorily.
“G'wan, Whiskers. You're standin' on your foot. Beat it. Pull your freight. As for your torch you'll find it outside in the mud.”
Billy shifted the light until it illuminated the doorway, and then threw the stick as he would pitch a baseball. They were now in total darkness, and they could hear the intruder gritting his teeth in rage.
“Now start your shootin' an' see what'll happen to you,” Billy advised menacingly.