"Mebbe you'd better go over to Jase Vaughn's," sneered old Granger. "His father killed yourn, but you don't care for such a little thing as that."
"Grandpa," cried Ralph, stung to indignation at last, "it is cruel of you to treat me so, simply because I wouldn't commit murder. Yes—murder. I say it would have been murder! I'm no coward; and it is cowardly to shoot down a man and him not knowing."
"You reprobate!" gasped the obdurate old mountaineer. "I've a notion to thrash you—right here."
He again shook his cane and glared his hatred of Ralph's conduct. But the boy only said:
"I'd rather you beat me than do what I always would be miserable over. Let's drop it, grandpa."
He passed into the cabin and observed a small pile of clothing on the floor.
"There's your duds, boy," said Bras Granger grimly. "Pick 'em up and pull your freight outn here."
Ralph surveyed the old man curiously; but as he noted the latter's stern, unyielding aspect he said no more until he had rolled up a clean shirt and a pair of socks. A tear or two fell as he tied the bundle in a large handkerchief.
"Am I to take the gun?" asked he, gulping down his emotion as best he could.
"No!" almost shouted the old man. "What business you got with a gun? Come now; are you ready?"