"Th' men won't foller me 'cause I air a boy--an' I hev begged yo' t' git em fo' killin' pore Lem. Don't I know they kilt Lem--don't I know they kilt Lem an' tuk em across Hellsfork an' made a hole fo' em in Southpaw? Efen yo' wus afeered I'd know whut t' do--but yo' hain't askeert, yo' hain't. Ef th' ole Scratch wus t' cum in thet door now t' git yo', Johnse Hatfield, yo'd smack em over and wring his neck--yo' hain't askeert--yo' got some tuther reason ahidin' out--yo' air--an' I don't 'low t' swoller hit no longer! Whut ud my pore daid pap say--an' maw--an' pore Lem, whut Sap McGill kilt an' hid away?--we cyan't keech th' revenure--he's gone--but we kin keech Sap--Johnse Hatfield--efen yo' don't heed me now--so he'p me Gawd--I'll fire yo'--I'll fire yo'--karnsarn yo', I will--I'm a tellin' yo'--I hates t' do hit,--but I'll pay yo' anything I owes yo'--an' I'll fire yo' shor'n hell." The boy pulled his eyes slowly off Johnse's face and, sagging with passion, backed against the wall and turned his quivering face to the logs. Hatfield stood up and pulling his Colt gun twirled it lovingly and laughed like a man who had won something. Buddy started and twisted a look over his shoulder. Then he turned about and fairly crept back upon the man, and looked searchingly up into his face. There was a timbre in Johnse's laugh that told the boy something. There was a note in that laugh that mated with a solitary hope in his own heart. It sounded like a knock for which he had been listening for ages. "Whut--Johnse--whut?" The boy's whisper trembled and he laid two pleading hands on Johnse's sleeves and peered eagerly up into the man's eyes. Hatfield grabbed Buddy's wrist and dragged him outside the cabin. Still holding him, he pointed the gun down across Hellsfork and over to where the balmy, warm sunshine made soft, dreamful pictures in black and white amid the tinted spurs and ridges of Southpaw. "Buddy," he said, with profound, succinct accents, "yo' 'lowed I wus layin' back--but I wusn't, little Cap--I bin busy all th' time--an' now I got th' gates o' hell open fo' em--an' Tuesday when co't meets down at th' Junction, we'll drive em in with th' ole Scratch." Overwhelmed, Buddy stared open-mouthed at Johnse, but he could not mistake. He knew that Johnse spoke true, and not waiting for further details, he broke loose and capered in a circle. He tossed his hat up in an abandonment of joy and kicked it about when it came down. He grasped a big rock in his exuberance, and tossed it several feet, astounding Johnse with his strength, and he rung Johnse's hand, too overjoyed for words. Johnse returned to the kitchen, lighted a fire, and while the corn bread was warming he busied himself slicing the pork. "Ded yo' say yo'd hev a pinch o' breakfast, Buddy?" he invited. "Shore," answered Buddy. "I didn't 'low I was so hungry--lemme he'p yo' git th' snack, Johnse--I cud eat a bilt owl."