If you bust that, I'm done with you, Anthony."
"Take my gun--take it quickly, Sally, I can't trust myself; looking at
him, I can see the place where the bullet should strike home."
He forced the butt of his revolver into her hands, rose, and stepped to
the door, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Tell me what he does."
"He's comin' straight toward us as if he didn't fear nothin'--grey
William Drew! He's not packin' a gun; he trusts us."
"The better way," answered Bard. "Bare hands--the better way!"
"He has killed men with those bare hands of his. I can see 'em
clear--great, blunt-fingered hands, Anthony. He's coming around the side
of the house. I'll go into the front room."
She ran past Anthony and paused in the habitable room, spying through a
crack in the wall. And Anthony stood with his eyes tightly closed, his
head bowed. The image of the leashed hound came more vividly to her when
she glanced back at him.
"He's walkin' right up the path. There he stops."
"Where?"
"Right beside the old grave."
"Anthony!" called a deep voice.
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