Then she suddenly spoke of Burleson, praising him, endowing him with every quality the nobility of her own mind could compass. She extolled his patience under provocation, bidding them to match it with equal patience. She bad them be men in the face of this Burleson, who was a man; to display a dignity to compare with his; to meet him squarely, to deal fairly, to make their protests to his face and not whisper crime behind his back.
And that was all; she swung her mare off into the darkness; they listened to the far gallop, uttering never a word. But when the last distant hoof-stroke had ceased, Mr. Burleson’s life and forests were safe in the country. How safe his game was they themselves did not exactly know.
That night Burleson walked into the store upon the commonplace errand of buying a jack-knife. It was well that he did not send a groom; better still when he explained, “one of the old-fashioned kind—the kind I used as a school-boy.”
“To whittle willow whistles,” suggested old man Santry. His voice was harsh; it was an effort for him to speak.
“That’s the kind,” said Burleson, picking out a one-blader.
Santry was coughing; presently Burleson looked around.
“Find swallowing hard?” he asked.
“Swallerin’ ain’t easy. I ketched cold.”
“Let’s see,” observed Burleson, strolling up to him and deliberately opening the old man’s jaws, not only to Santry’s astonishment, but to the stupefaction of the community around the unlighted stove.
“Bring a lamp over here,” said the young man.