"You lie!" cried the child. "You lie! I am! You leave me go, will you? I'm
lookin' fer pap and you're a liar!"
"You crawled in here to sleep, after your seven-mile walk, didn't you?"
Martin went on.
"You're a liar," she screamed again.
"Look here," said Martin, slowly, "you go back to Six-Cross-Roads and tell
your folks that if anything happens to a hair of Mr. Harkless's head every
shanty in your town will burn, and your grandfather and your father and
your uncles and your brothers and your cousins and your second-cousins and
your third-cousins will never have the good luck to see the penitentiary.
Reckon you can remember that message? But before I let you go to carry it,
I guess you might as well hand out the paper they sent you over here
with."
His prisoner fell into a paroxysm of rage, and struck at him.
"I'll git pap to kill ye," she shrieked. "I don' know nothin' 'bout yer
Six-Cross-Roads, ner no papers, ner yer dam Mister Harkels neither, ner
_you_, ye razor-backed ole devil! Pap'll kill ye; leave me go--leave me
_go_!--Pap'll kill ye; I'll git him to _kill_ ye!" Suddenly her struggles
ceased; her eyes closed; her tense little muscles relaxed and she drooped
toward the floor; the old man shifted his grip to support her, and in an
instant she twisted out of his hands and sprang out of reach, her eyes
shining with triumph and venom.
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