“Good Lord, you don't say—why, why—” Hoag's voice trailed away into silence, silence broken only by the voices of the two women in the distance calling for help.
“Yes, I shot 'im—you know why; you yourself said—”
Hoag suddenly laid a trembling hand on Paul's arm. The boy had never seen his employer turn pale before, or show so much agitation. “Looky' here, you didn't go an'—an' do that because I—on account o' anything I said. Shorely you didn't—shorely you didn't! Come into the thicket, quick! Folks will be passin' here in a minute. Them fool women will rip the'r lungs out. Say, you didn't really kill 'im, did you—actually kill 'im?”
Paul avoided his eyes. “You go back there an' see if I didn't,” he said, doggedly.
Hoag stared incredulously for a moment, then, with a firm grip on Paul's arm, he drew him deeper into the thicket.
“Something's got to be done,” he panted. “If you give yourself up for trial they will worm out o' you that I said—that I was talkin' to you, an'—Looky' here, boy, do you know what this means? Are you plumb out o' your senses?”
“I don't care what it means,” Paul retorted. “I've put him out o' the way for good and all.”
“Good Lord, you are a cool un! Wait here; don't stir! I'll come back. I'll run down thar to make sure.”
Hoag moved excitedly toward the road. He had just reached it when a man came running past at full speed in the direction of the village. “Hold, hold!” Hoag cried. “What's wrong?”
The runner slackened his speed a little; but did not stop. It was Abe Langston.