His lips kept
closed and his bright black eyes were studying the situation; the
little squad of youngsters, back to back, with their repeating
shot-guns, the line of Falins along the wall toward whom protruded
six shining barrels, the huddled crowd of Tollivers toward whom
protruded six more--old Judd towering in front with young Dave on
one side, tense as a leopard about to spring, and on the other
Bub, with tears streaming down his face. In a flash he understood,
and in that flash his face looked as though he had been suddenly
struck a heavy blow by some one from behind, and then his elbows
dropped on the sill of the window, his chin dropped into his hands
and a murmur arose. Maybe he was too weak to stand and talk--
perhaps he was going to talk from his chair. Yes, he was leaning
forward and his lips were opening, but no sound came. Slowly his
eyes wandered around at the waiting people--in the trees, on the
roofs and the fence--and then they dropped to old Judd's and
blazed their appeal for a sign. With one heave of his mighty chest
old Judd took off his slouch hat, pressed one big hand to the back
of his head and, despite that blazing appeal, kept it there.
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