The boy stood trembling before him.
"Boy! do you hear; I intend to pitch you over the rocks, and break your infernal slim little neck!"
The boy still was silent. He could not even lift his eyes. He was preparing to die.
"Now sir, tell me the truth; what have you been doing at the Widow's?"
The boy trembled like a bird in the clutches of a hawk, but could not speak.
The Parson looked up the trail and down the trail; all was silent save the roar of the water in the cañon below, the interrupted howl of the wolf on the hill, and the mournful and monotonous call of the night-bird. He looked up through the cañon at the sky. It was a dark and cloudy night. Now and then a star stood out in the fresco of clouds, but it was a gloomy night.
"Now you look here," and he shook the boy by the shoulder and laughed like a demon. "Don't you know that if you go on this way you will fall over this bluff some night and break your cussed little neck? Don't you know that? You boy! You brat!"
Still the boy could not speak or even lift his face.
"I'll save you the trouble," said the Parson between his teeth. "'The boys' will rather like it. They will say they knew you would break your neck some night."
The boy did not speak, but beneath the iron clutch of the Parson settled to his knees.