After the first instant of shock I was not
scared. But blood flowed fast. Warm, oily, slippery, it ran down inside my
shirt sleeve and dripped off my fingers.
"Bud," hoarsely spoke up Bill, breaking the stillness, "mebbe you killed
him!"
Buell coughed, as if choking.
"What's thet?" For once his deep voice was pitched low. "Listen."
Drip! drip! drip! It was like the sound of water dripping from a leak in a
roof. It was directly under me, and, quick as thought, I knew the sound was
made by my own dripping blood.
"Find thet, somebody," ordered Buell.
Drip! drip! drip!
One of the men stepped noisily.
"Hyar it is--thar," said Bill. "Look on my hand. . . . Blood! I knowed it.
Bud got him, all right."
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.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165