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If the murderin' dirty beasts is willin' to stay where they belong, well, I for one believe in lettin' 'em." "Do you ah like the priest, Don Jim?" "What? Well, that's better than 'Don Himy, as they call me down there. You bet I like the priest. He's a gentleman, and as square as they make 'em, that is, with a poor devil like me; I guess he's one too much for your dons when he feels that way.
Here they come again. Now they're hot. Cold again. Hot again. Red hot! They're p'inted right, this time. Say, Huck, I know another o' them voices; it's Injun Joe." "That's so that murderin' half-breed! I'd druther they was devils a dern sight. What kin they be up to?" The whisper died wholly out, now, for the three men had reached the grave and stood within a few feet of the boys' hiding-place.
"I'm the sheriff of this county, an' I've a warrant for your arrest for murderin' Maudlin Bates," he sing-songed. Jinnie sprang forward. "Lafe didn't shoot 'im," she cried desperately. The man eyed her critically. "Did you do it, kid?" he asked, smiling. "No, I wasn't here!" answered Jinnie, short-breathed. "Then how'd you know he didn't do it?" For a moment Jinnie was nonplussed.
"Ere's a man murderin' the Squire," the driver shouted, and fell from his box upon the navvy's neck. To do them justice, the people of Framlynghame Admiral, so many as were on the platform, rallied to the call in the best spirit of feudalism.
"It's nane else," answered the engineer as he stepped down from his cab and shook hands warmly. "Hoo are ye, Dud, an' whaur hae ye been murderin' the innocent beasties noo? Hae ye kilt yer moose yet? Ye've been chasin' him these mony years." "Not much murdering," replied Hemenway. "I had a queer trip this time away up the Nepisiguit, with old McDonald. You know him, don't you?"
Gien he daur to muv, jist gie him the haill bilin', bree an a', i' the ill face o' 'm; gien ye lat him up he'll kill's a'; only tak care an' haud aff o' the dog, puir fallow! I wad lay the stock o' yer murderin' gun i' the fire gien 'twarna 'at I reckon it's the laird's an' no yours. Ye're no fit to be trustit wi' a gun. Ye're waur nor a weyver."
"`Now, says I, `wot for are ye scraggin' this old man? So they told me how the party that went off to git the murderer met a band o' injuns comin' to deliver him up to be killed, they said, for murderin' the white man. An' they gave up this old Injun, sayin' he wos the murderer. The diggers believed it, and returned with the old boy and two or three others that came to see him fixed off.
This appealed to the crowd the last statements of the doomed men might add another thrill to the evening's entertainment. "Well," said the man who had searched them. "There might o' been some doubts about you before, but they aint none now. You're bein' hung fer abductin' of an' most likely murderin' Miss Abigail Prim."
I heard this from another Indian that was with the murderin' fellow that was shot. The Wild Man did nothing to the other. He let him escape. "Of course the relations of the man who was killed were up immediately, and twenty of them set out to murder the Wild Man. They took their horses, spears, and bows, with them, and lay in wait at a place where he was often seen passing.
The Adam's apple in his thin throat worked up above the collar of the grey flannel Hospital jacket. "I I outed 'im!" said W. Keyse. "O' course you did, deer." Her heart thrilled with pride in her hero. "An' serve 'im glad the narsty, blood-thirsty, murderin' " He interrupted: "'Old 'ard! Wait till you knows 'oo it was." He gulped, and the Adam's apple jerked in the old way.
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