"Up with them hands of your'n, Swen Brodie. High up an' right quick, or
I'll blow your ugly head off'n your shoulders!"
In his trembling hands was a double-barrelled shotgun, sawed off and doubtless loaded to the muzzle with buckshot. Though the thing wavered considerably, its end was not six feet from Brodie's head, and both hammers were back, while the ancient nervous fingers were playing as with palsy about the triggers. King expected the discharge each second.
Brodie whirled and drew back, his face turning grey.
"Put it down, you old fool; put it down!" he cried raspingly. "I'll go."
The old man cackled in his delight.
"I'll put nothin' down," he announced triumphantly. "You set down that box."
Hastily Brodie put it on the table. He drew further away, backing toward the front door.
"Git!" cried old Honeycutt.
They could hear the air rushing back into Brodie's lungs as he came to the door and his fear left him.
"I'll be back, Honeycutt, don't you fear," he growled savagely. "As for you, King, you and me ain't done. I'll get you where there's no old fool to butt in, and I'll break every bone in your body."