“Yes. He’s gone, an’ ther’ ain’t no tellin’ where he’ll finish. Ther’s a hell some’eres. Mebbe he ken twist ’em, the Injuns, around his finger, mebbe he can’t. I ’lows he goin’ to face ’em. They’ll deal out by him as they notion justice, I guess.”
“But he may escape them. He’s slippery.” Parker hated the thought of the man going scot-free.
Seth shook his head.
“No,” he said. “He’ll face ’em. I’ve seen to that, I guess. Jim Crow follers him wherever he goes. An’ Jim Crow hain’t no use for Stephen Raynor.”
“What do you think will happen?”
Parker looked up into the taller man’s face as they stood in the doorway of the hut.
Seth turned. His shoulders shrugged expressively as he moved out and walked toward the farmhouse.