Dave rose then in impotent fury and pointed one finger at her. His black eyes gleamed like a demon's and his voice was hoarse with resolution and rage, but it was Tolliver against Tolliver now, and June answered him with contemptuous fearlessness.
“YOU HAIN'T NEVER GOIN' TO MARRY HIM.”
“An' he kept the Falins from killin' ye.”
“Yes,” he retorted savagely at last, “an' I kept the Falins from killin' HIM,” and he stalked away, leaving June blanched and wondering.
It was true. Only an hour before, as Hale turned up the mountain that very afternoon at the mouth of Lonesome Cove, young Dave had called to him from the bushes and stepped into the road.
“You air goin' to court Monday?” he said.
“Yes,” said Hale.
“Well, you better take another road this time,” he said quietly. “Three o' the Falins will be waitin' in the lorrel somewhar on the road to lay-way ye.”
Hale was dumfounded, but he knew the boy spoke the truth.
“Look here,” he said impulsively, “I've got nothing against you, and I hope you've got nothing against me. I'm much obliged—let's shake hands!”