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Updated: May 1, 2025
But he wasn't; Allen had to admit that he, David, was the straighter shot. He wouldn't step aside for any Hatburn alive. And, he decided, he would smoke nothing but cigars. He considered whether he might light his small clay pipe, concealed under the stoop, before the family; but reluctantly concluded that that day had not yet arrived.
He picked it up, and says he: "'Hatburn, I got Government mail on that stage to get in under contract, and there's a passenger too paid to Crabapple; but when I get them two things done I'm coming back to kill you two dead to hear the last trumpet. "The one on the hoe laughed; but the other picked up a stone like my two fists and let Allen have it in the back.
It surprised him like; he stumbled forward, and the other stepped out and laid the hoe over his head. It missed him mostly, but enough landed to knock Allen over. He rolled into the ditch, like, by the road; and then Hatburn jumped down on him, deliberate, with lumbermen's irons in his shoes." David was conscious of an icy flood pouring through him; a revulsion of grief and fury that blinded him.
The idiot thrust his fingers into his loose mouth, his shirt open on a hairy pendulous chest. The Hatburn who had not yet spoken showed a row of tobacco-brown broken teeth. "He mightn't get a heave on that breath," he asserted. The latter lounged over against a set of open shelves where, David saw, lay a heavy rusted revolver. Hatburn picked up the weapon and turned it slowly in his thin grasp.
The latter were the only mobile feature of his slouching indolent pose, his sullen regard. He might have been a scarecrow, David thought, but for that glittering gaze. The latter leaned forward, the stage barely moving, and looked unwaveringly at the Hatburn beyond. He wondered whether the man knew him David Kinemon?
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