ber 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.

"Ya-hay, Mister Razor-back!" she shrilled. "How's that fer hi? Pap'll
kill ye, Sunday. You'll be screechin' in hell in a week, an' we 'ull set
up an' drink our apple-jack an' laff!" Martin pursued her lumberingly,
but she was agile as a monkey, and ran dodging up and down the counters
and mocked him, singing "Gran' mammy Tipsy-Toe," till at last she tired
of the game and darted out of the door, flinging back a hoarse laugh at
him as she went. He followed; but when he reached the street she was
a mere shadow flitting under the courthouse trees. He looked after her
forebodingly, then turned his eyes toward the Palace Hotel. The editor
of the "Herald" was seated under the awning, with his chair tilted back
against a post, gazing dreamily at the murky red afterglow in the west.

"What's the use of tryin' to bother him with it?" old Tom asked himself.
"He'd only laugh." He noted that young William Todd sat near the editor,
whittling absently. Martin chuckled. "William's turn to-night," he
muttered. "Well, the boys take mighty good care of him." He locked the
doors of the Emporium, tried them, and dropped the keys in his pocket.

As he crossed the Square to the drug-store, where his cronies awaited
him, he turned again to look at the figure of the musing journalist. "I
hope he'll go out to the judge's," he said, and shook his head, sadly.
"I don't reckon Plattville's any too spry for that young man. Five years
he's be'n here. Well, it's a good thing for us folks, but I guess it
ain't exactly high-life for him." He kicked a stick out of his way
impatiently. "Now, where'd that imp run to?" he grumbled.

The imp was lying under the court-house steps. When the sound of
Martin's footsteps had passed away