Then she turned and walked away, striking her cold hands together for warmth. Cyrus followed, treading the narrow path in the snow made by horse's feet.
But shivering Zac, who had good excuse for shivering after his long wait on the windy porch, ran joyfully ahead. He had borne with patience this long delay. Cyrus picked up a handful of snow and molded it into a ball. As they were passing the store he caught Ruth by a sleeve and pointed to a boy more than a hundred feet away. The boy was stooping over a sled.
"What'll you bet I can't hit Luther from here?"
Now Cyrus was a surprisingly good shot. He seemed able to hit whatever he fired at, and from unbelievable distances. His surprising accuracy in this direction had made him pitcher on the village nine. But Ruth, remembering her rôle as Guardian Angel, merely turned about and started on again in dignified silence. But from the corners of her eyes she watched the unsuspecting Luther, for she knew the missile would reach its mark. Her silent prophecy was correct. Through the snowy air the missile flew. It landed, with force, on the victim's back, just below his neck. He straightened up and looked about. Then with a shout of defiance he scooped a handful of snow, quickly rolled it into a ball and sent it toward the enemy. Here the unexpected happened. The snow ball, thrown in a hurry, would have missed Cyrus by a yard or more even had Fate allowed it to go its way. But Deacon Phineas Whitlock intervened. This stern old puritan of ferocious aspect, of iron will and despotic temper, the terror of children and of all other habitual sinners, was just passing Cyrus in solemn dignity, toward the store.
The snowy sphere forwarded by Luther landed full upon the deacon's mouth. And, as the deacon's mouth happened to be partly open at the time—from his habit of preaching to himself—he received within it a portion of the missile as it smashed and spread about his face. Swiftly he wiped his face with the back of a hand. His temper was a hot one. Luther knew it, and he grabbed the rope to his sled and disappeared down the hill behind the store, with a velocity no elderly deacon could hope to attain. Spluttering and wiping snow from his mouth and nose he turned threatening eyes on Cyrus. In a voice between a gasp and a shout of rage he demanded:
"Who is that boy? Who is he? What's his name?"
Cyrus shook his head. "I don't know, sir."
"Yes, you do! Who is he? What's his name?"
"I don't know, sir. Honestly I don't."