"Did he—hit you?" she asked, her voice gone to a whisper.
He smiled and shook his head.
"And now?" she queried.
"I'm going in with Mark," he answered. "I've stood for all I'm going to from that hypocritical, mad, crooked psalm-singer."
"I'm glad he didn't hit you, but I'm glad he fired at you," she returned.
They lit the fire together and Jim filled the kettle. Flora banged the pipe with the iron spoon and went upstairs. Mark came down and found Jim lacing his boots.
"Hammond locked me out, and when I kicked his front door in he opened on me with a shotgun," explained Jim.
Mark laughed and shook hands.
"I knew he'd bust out at ye pretty soon," he said. "It was just that or lose his reputation for righteousness; an' I reckon he figgered it out how his reputation was worth a few more dollars to 'im, in the long run."
After breakfast Jim and Mark drove in to Millbrook with a pair of horses and a heavy wagon. They drew rein in front of the Hammond house.