There was a sudden rustling such as might come from a quick, strained movement.
“Buell,” cried Dick Leslie, in piercing tones, “Heaven help you murdering thieves if that boy's killed! I'll see you strung up right in this forest. Ken, speak! Speak!”
It seemed then, in my pain and bitterness, that I would rather let Buell think me dead. Dick's voice went straight to my heart, but I made no answer.
“Leslie, I didn't kill him, an' I didn't order it,” said Buell, in a voice strangely shrunk and shaken. “I meant no harm to the lad.... Go up, Bud, an' get him.”
Bud made no move, nor did Greaser when he was ordered. “Go up, somebody, an' see what's up there!” shouted Buell. “Strikes me you might go yourself,” said Bill, coolly.
With a growl Buell mounted the ladder. When his great shock head hove in sight I was seized by a mad desire to give him a little of his own medicine. With both hands I lifted the piece of pine branch and brought it down with every ounce of strength in me.
Like a pistol it cracked on Buell's head and snapped into bits. The lumberman gave a smothered groan, then clattered down the ladder and rolled on the floor. There he lay quiet.
“All-fired dead—thet kid—now, ain't he?” said Bud, sarcastically. “How'd you like thet crack on the knob? You'll need a larger size hat, mebbe. Herky-Jerky, you go up an' see what's up there.”
“I've a picture of myself goin',” replied Herky, without moving.
“Whar's the water? Get some water, Greaser,” chimed in Bill.