“I think he went down—way down,” sez Olaf.
“Down where?” sez I. “Why don’t you tell us what happened to him?”
Olaf looked down at his right hand. It didn’t resemble a hand much; but it would ’a’ been a handy tool to use in maulin’ wedges into a log. “Why,” sez he, “he wriggled about, and started to squeak; and when I squeezed in on his neck to shut off the squeak, why his neck broke. It was too thin to be stout.”
I held out my hand. “Olaf,” I sez, “I want to shake the hand that shook his neck.”
“Yes,” sez Tank, “and by dad, so do I!” Tank’s leg was still tender.
[CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE—SKIRMISHES]
Oscar arrived durin’ the night with the whole four Simpson boys; and word that Kit and the kid were in fine shape, with ol’ man Simpson keepin’ a sharp watch, and Kit ready to take a standpat hand any time trouble crowded too close. We expected to keep Ty busy, and so didn’t worry any about Kit. Before dawn we started the four Simpsons out to make a circle and cross the crick, tellin’ ’em to use their own judgment to some extent; but not to run any risk. We wanted ’em to act like scouts and, if possible, to draw Ty into chasin’ ’em, and then to lead him back to our camp. We could see all of the other side o’ the crick from our look-out.
By dawn the rest of us were down on the edge of the cliff, and we saw ’em find Dixon’s body. They were consid’able excited about it; so we judged they had also read the notice on the door.
“What shall we do, to-day?” asked Horace.
“Shoot dogs,” sez I. “There ain’t any call to play safe any longer, and those dogs are the worst bother we have.”