“Well, you see, he is awful sore about the appeal being dismissed, and he blames it all on Mr. George Mechlin, and says he ought to be shot dead, and all other horrible talk. And now, since the surveyors came, he is worse, saying that the Don will drive us off as soon as the survey is finished!”
“He will do nothing of the sort. He is too kind-hearted,” Darrell said, and he felt the hot blush come to his face—the blush of remorseful shame.
“That's what I think, but William don't, and I wish you would talk encouragingly to him, for he is desperate, and blames Congress for fooling settlers. He says Congress ought to be killed for fooling poor people into taking lands that they can't keep, and Mr. Darrell I hope you will talk to him. What is that?”
She started to her feet, and so did Darrell, for the report of a rifle rang loud and distinct in the evening air.
“That is William's rifle. I hope he did not fire it,” she said.
Darrell went to the door to listen for another shot, but none was heard, so he came back and resumed his seat.
“Three times I have taken that very rifle from William. He was going to shoot cattle, he said, and I had to remind him that the cattle now belong to your son.”
Steps were heard now, and Mathew's face peered through the window. Miss Mathews gave a half-suppressed shriek, and dropped her sewing. Her brother's face looked so ghastly pale that it frightened her. He pushed the door and came in.
“What makes the old maid shriek like a fool?” said he.
“Your death-like face,” Darrell replied.