Roper turned his white face toward her and shook his head.
“Ma’am, I’ve asked m’self that same question. Down in Indiany, they farm with a plow instead of a six-gun. But I never left there of my own accord. I was only three year old, and m’ folks kinda hoodled me along with them.”
Roper was deadly serious. He was bleeding badly and barely able to brace himself against the log wall.
“If you don’t come out of there you’ll wish to —— yuh had!” yelled a voice.
“And if you come in here you’ll wish t’ —— yuh hadn’t,” answered Roper.
Another bullet splintered the door near the latch and thudded harmlessly into the wall.
From without came the sound of earnest conversation, and a voice called again.
“We’re goin’ to stampede your sheep, and if you ain’t out of there when we come back we’ll dynamite your shack.”
There came the sound of horses speeding away over the wet ground. Roper walked dizzily back to the table, where he sat down heavily in the rocking-chair.
“We must get out of here.”