“Where is the girl?” he asked with quiet fierceness, and for a space I was sorry my parents hadn’t been eagles. There wasn’t room to fight out on that ledge, the Friar didn’t have a gun on, I couldn’t possibly shoot around him; and Olaf was seven parts demon when he laid back his ears and started to kick.
“Where she cannot be bothered,” sez the Friar, full as quiet but without any fierceness. The’ was a little bush about eight feet up, and I felt sure it would hide me, so I stuck my fingers in the side o’ the cliff and climbed up; but the’ was no way for me to get out to the bush, and I had to drop back to the ledge and stand there with the sweat tricklin’ down between my shoulders until I felt like yellin’.
“I intend to kill you,” said Olaf, as calm as though talkin’ about a sick sheep.
“It would be a foolish waste of time,” replied the Friar, as if he was advisin’ a ten-year-old boy not to fish when the Blue Bull was high and muddy. “It wouldn’t do any good, and I shall not allow it.”
“I intend to kill you,” said Olaf, as calm as though talkin’ about a sick sheep.
“It would be a foolish waste of time,” replied the Friar, as if he was advisin’ a ten-year-old boy not to fish when the Blue Bull was high and muddy. “It wouldn’t do any good, and I shall not allow it.”
I got out my gun, and made ready to do whatever the angels suggested; but for some time the’ was silence, and durin’ this time I was keyed up so tight my muscles began to ache. I knew they were lookin’ into each other’s eyes, and I’d have given a finger off each hand to see how the Friar’s steady gray eyes handled those queer blue ones of Olaf.
“Is she all right?” asked Olaf, and all the threat had left his voice, and it had just a glint o’ pleadin’ in it. I wouldn’t have been one bit more surprised to have seen a prairie-dog come flyin’ up the gorge, blowin’ a cornet with his nose.
“She has sprained her ankle; but aside from this has no physical ill,” sez the Friar. “You men have caused her a lot of worry, and her soul is sick; but her body is well.”