“The man that carried off Fannie, I believe,” but the settler hesitated as he now for the first time took a good square look at his captive.
“I never stole her—I know nothing about the matter,” sullenly replied Mestayer, his eyes drooping.
“You lie, villain!” snarled Hawksley, springing upon the prostrate figure. “Tell me—tell me quick, or I’ll choke the vile life out of your carcass!”
“Easy—easy, neighbor,” quoth Ruel, as he dragged the infuriated settler from his victim. “A feller cain’t easy speak when his thrapple is shet tight in a vise. Leave the or’nery cuss to me. I’ll bring him round, I reckon. D’ y’ hear, Jap Morton?—best tell me what ye know.”
“I’ll tell you all I know. It’s not much, but it’ll show you that I had no hand in the matter. An old man named Albert Mestayer, in disguise, deceived you and stole your daughter.”
“You’re lying now!”
“I’m not—it’s the truth. You may not believe it, for the report was spread long ago that he was dead. Have you forgotten the man who killed your brother, Christopher Hawksley?”
The settler staggered back as though dealt a deadly blow. He had not recognized the name at first, so many years had passed by since those dark days. Seeing his agitation, Ruel took up the examination.
“What’d he steal her fer?”
“Revenge. Hawksley knows for what.”