“Get off that horse,” added the stern voice. Just then Hale rushed across the street and the mountain youth saw him.
“Ketch his pistol,” cried June, in terror for Hale—for she knew what was coming, and one of the men caught with both hands the wrist of Dave's arm as it shot behind him.
“Take him to the calaboose!”
At that June opened the gate—that disgrace she could never stand—but Hale spoke.
“I know him, boys. He doesn't mean any harm. He doesn't know the regulations yet. Suppose we let him go home.”
“All right,” said Logan. “The calaboose or home. Will you go home?”
In the moment, the mountain boy had apparently forgotten his captors—he was staring at June with wonder, amazement, incredulity struggling through the fumes in his brain to his flushed face. She—a Tolliver—had warned a stranger against her own blood-cousin.
“Will you go home?” repeated Logan sternly.
The boy looked around at the words, as though he were half dazed, and his baffled face turned sick and white.
“Lemme loose!” he said sullenly. “I'll go home.” And he rode silently away, after giving Hale a vindictive look that told him plainer than words that more was yet to come. Hale had heard June's warning cry, but now when he looked for her she was gone. He went in to supper and sat down at the table and still she did not come.