"Because," he frowned—"because some of the mountain boys advised us to, and Sheriff Frazier lived around the corner and had heard the shots. This horse and buggy was loaned to us by Steve Pinkney. He'll be here after them. Zilla, feed and water the horse, please. We've got to get away in the mountains till—till we find out how Keith is."
Mary started to say something, but choked up. She put her arm about her brother's neck, but he gently took it down.
"Don't make it worse than it is, sis dear," he faltered. "We are in trouble, big trouble, this time, but we hardly knew what we were doing. If the fellow lives, we will—"
"If he lives! My God! if he lives!" Mary moaned.
Her father and her older brother were coming out on the veranda now. The old gentleman had a book and manuscript under his handless arm. Charles noted that he was not even pale, though a certain expression of irritation rested on his patrician features.
"Yes, leave the horse," he was saying. "Get into the mountains. As you say, you know a good hiding-place. I'll remember the directions to it, and we'll get food to you somehow or other. It may not be serious. The scoundrel was attacking you with a knife, you think?"
"Martin thought so," Kenneth answered, "but I'm not sure of it now. Steve Pinkney says Martin was mistaken, and that is why he advised us to run. I was drinking. My nerves are all shattered. I got mad when I saw Keith and Martin struggling, and fired before I thought. I'm sorry, but if is too late now. We must get away."
"Yes, and before somebody sees you here," Rowland said. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes, but we can't wait," Kenneth answered. "Come on, Martin."
Mary had run to her older brother. She held out her arms; she was sobbing in her white fluttering throat. He took her into his embrace, drew her bare head to his shoulder, and stroked her hair.