“I am sorry to say there are plenty, but I know the report of yours. I never mistake it for any other.”
Mathews became so enraged, hearing this, and so violent and abusive in his language, that Darrell had to interfere to silence him.
“If you talk like that to your sister, I would advise her not to stay alone in this house with you,” Darrell said; “her life might be in danger.”
“I wish the devil would take the old hag,” he retorted. “She torments my life. I hate her.”
“What is the matter with you, Billy?” Darrell asked. “Why are you so excited?”
“It makes me mad to hear her nonsense,” he said, in a calmer voice, but still much agitated, and he again went to pour himself another drink.
Miss Mathews whispered hurriedly to Darrell: “Take away his rifle.”
“Neighbor Mathews,” said Darrell, “I want to send my rifle to have it fixed, will you lend me yours for a few days?”
“Take it,” said he gruffly, then folding his arms on the table and leaning his head upon them, immediately sunk into a heavy sleep.
“Take the rifle with you now, Mr. Darrell, he might change his mind when he awakes. I'll bring it directly,” said Miss Mathews, hurrying out of the room. Presently she returned, and in her dejected countenance keen disappointment was depicted. Dropping into her seat she whispered: “The rifle is not in the house. Somebody has taken it and fired it. I am sure that was the shot we heard. I know the ring of it.”