She placed her hands on his breast and pushed him backward until he brought up against the wall beside the open window.
“He will kill you,” she replied. “He has his rifle. Get out, quick, and hide in the woods. Please go! And watch the house. And I’ll tell you later. Crawl away. Don’t let him see you.”
“But why does he want to shoot me?”
“Go! Go! I don’t want you to be killed!”
“I am not afraid of any old man with a rifle!”
The girl’s eyes blazed and the color faded out of her cheeks. She raised her right hand as if she would strike him in the face. Daunted and bewildered, Akerley turned quickly and slipped out of the window into the dew-wet grass. He moved toward the edge of the woods by the shortest line, on his hands and knees, without pausing once to look back. Upon reaching the shelter of bushes and round spruces along the front of the forest, he lay flat and turned and surveyed the house and clearing. His shoulder hurt him, and he felt angry and hungry and generally abused; but his mind was soon diverted from himself by the sudden appearance of a tall old man within fifteen or twenty paces of where he lay.
The old man stared at the house from beneath the brim of a wide and weather-stained felt hat. Abundant white whiskers showed with startling distinctness against the breast of his dark shirt. He held a rifle in his right hand, at the short trail. After standing motionless for half a minute, he stooped almost double and advanced toward the house with long strides. He reached the porch and vanished from view through the back door.
“She was right,” soliloquized Akerley. “The old bird is out for blood and no mistake. He certainly has his nerve with him—if he still thinks I’m a devil.”
He lay still, watching the house. The minutes dragged past; and his hunger and the soreness of his shoulder again attracted his attention. Presently the girl appeared in the doorway, paused there for a moment and then stepped out onto the porch with her grandfather close at her heels. The old man was in the act of passing her when she turned swiftly and halted him, and stayed him with a grip of both hands on the front of his shirt. Akerley, watching intently, again forgot his discomfort and hunger. He knew something of the strength of those small hands.
“I hope she’ll pull out his blasted whiskers,” he muttered.