"Don't you worry, Mary," he said, "it'll turn out all right."
It was almost sundown when Watts came back. McCullough was checking the tourniquet on the native's leg when he heard a commotion in the street outside.
"John McCullough," a voice bellowed. "Come out!"
Watts' voice, McCullough thought. He picked up his gun, but then he thought he would not feel right facing the men outside, who were after all his neighbors, with a gun in his hands. He looked around. The double-bitted axe he had been using to trim the logs around his window-frames leaned against the wall by the door.
"Get in the bedroom, Mary," he said. "Pull the mattress off the bed and lie down behind it with the kids."
He took the axe and walked out the door onto the steps, squinting his eyes against the setting sun. The street was full of men in front of his house, perhaps half a hundred or so. Watts and a short stout man stood halfway up the path to the door. McCullough studied them in silence.
