Charge after charge of buckshot tore through the flimsy clapboards; the moonlight was brightened by pale flashes, and the timbered hills echoed the cracking shots.
After a while no more shots were fired, and presently a voice broke out in the stillness:
“Be yew layin’ low, or be yew dead, Dan McCloud?”
There was no answer.
“Or be yew playin’ foxy possum,” continued the voice, with nasal rising inflection.
Byram began to groan and crawl towards the road.
“Let him alone,” he moaned; “let him alone. He’s got grit, if he hain’t got nothin’ else.”
“Air yew done for?” demanded Tansey, soberly.
“No, no,” groaned Byram, “I’m jest winged. He done it, an’ he was right. Didn’t he say he’d pay his taxes? He’s plumb right. Let him alone, or he’ll come out an’ murder us all!”
Byram’s voice ceased; Tansey mounted the dark slope, peering among the brambles, treading carefully.