That very night, with his big rifle, he slipped through the woods
to a turn of the road, over which old Dave Tolliver was to pass
next morning, and built a "blind" behind some rocks and lay there
smoking peacefully and dreaming his Swedenborgian dreams. And when
a wagon came round the turn, driven by a boy, and with the gaunt
frame of old Dave Tolliver lying on straw in the bed of it, his
big rifle thundered and the frightened horses dashed on with the
Red Fox's last enemy, lifeless. Coolly he slipped back to the
woods, threw the shell from his gun, tirelessly he went by short
cuts through the hills, and at noon, benevolent and smiling, he
was on guard again.
The little Court Room was crowded for the afternoon session.
Inside the railing sat Rufe Tolliver, white and defiant--manacled.
Leaning on the railing, to one side, was the Red Fox with his big
pistols, his good profile calm, dreamy, kind--to the other,
similarly armed, was Hale. At each of the gaping port-holes, and
on each side of the door, stood a guard with a Winchester, and
around the railing outside were several more. In spite of window
and port-hole the air was close and heavy with the smell of
tobacco and the sweat of men.
Pages:
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343