“Here,” he said almost sternly, “can you walk?”
“I guess.” The tone had that peculiar sullenness which generally portended an outbreak of the most vicious side of the boy’s temper.
“Then get over there by my horse and wait till I come. I’ll put you on him, and you can ride back home.”
“What you going to do?”
The demand was an eager whisper. It suggested the hope that Jim was perhaps after all going to do as he asked––and kill Will Henderson.
“I’m going to see––how bad Will is. Be off now.”
“Can’t I stay––an’ watch you?”
“No. Get on after that horse.”
Elia turned away, and Jim watched his painful gait. Once he thought he saw him stagger, but, as he continued to hobble on, he turned again to the injured man. One glance at his face showed him the extent of his handiwork. He was ripped open right along the jaw, and the bone itself was badly broken.