With a churlish gesture the old man pushed the
bread over toward her and with hesitating, trembling fingers she
reached for it.
Bob Berkley was on the death-watch that night, and as he passed
Rufe's cell a wiry hand shot through the grating of his door, and
as the boy sprang away the condemned man's fingers tipped the butt
of the big pistol that dangled on the lad's hip.
"Not this time," said Bob with a cool little laugh, and Rufe
laughed, too.
"I was only foolin'," he said, "I ain't goin' to hang. You hear
that, Red? I ain't goin' to hang--but you are, Red--sure. Nobody'd
risk his little finger for your old carcass, 'cept maybe that
little old woman o' yours who you've treated like a hound--but my
folks ain't goin' to see me hang."
Rufe spoke with some reason. That night the Tollivers climbed the
mountain, and before daybreak were waiting in the woods a mile on
the north side of the town. And the Falins climbed, too, farther
along the mountains, and at the same hour were waiting in the
woods a mile to the south.
Back in Lonesome Cove June Tolliver sat alone--her soul shaken and
terror-stricken to the depths--and the misery that matched hers
was in the heart of Hale as he paced to and fro at the county
seat, on guard and forging out his plans for that day under the
morning stars.
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