s, I am!" and he glares about
terribly.

Carrie shrinks back to the side of Forty-nine.

"Oh! Help! He will murder him! He will kill him!"

"No, I won't murder you, you brat, but I'll chuck you out in that snow
and let you cool off, while I have your sister all to myself. Come here;
give me your ear!" and the great, strong ruffian seizes his ear and
fairly carries him along by it toward the door. "Give me your ear!"

"Oh, sister, sister! He will kill me!" howls Stumps.

"Forty-nine! save us! We will be murdered!"

"Come, I say, give me your ear!" thunders the brute, as he fairly draws
the boy still toward the door.

"Stop that, or die!"

The frenzied girl, failing to arouse Forty-nine, has caught up the gun
from the corner, and brought the muzzle to the ruffian's breast. He
totters back, and throws up his arms.

"Go back there and sit down, or I will kill you!"

"Give me your ear! Come!" roars Stumps. It is now his turn. "Give me
your ear!" He reaches up and takes that red organ in his hand, and
nearly wrenches it from the brute's head, as he leads him back, with
many twists and gyrations, slowly to a low seat at the other side of the
cabin.

Still holding the gun in level, and in dangerous proximity to the man's
breast, Carrie cries:

"Now if you attempt to move you are a dead man!" "Give me your ear!" and
Stumps wrenches it again, as he sits the man firmly on his low stool,
with his red face making mad distortions from the pain. "John Logan,
come!" calls the girl. "No, don't you start, Gar Dosson. Don't you lift
a finger; if you do, you die!"

The curtains are parted, and John Logan starts forth. "Go, go! There's
not a moment to lose. The sheriff will be here; they are coming! Quick!
Go at once! I hear--I hear them coming!"

The man springs to the door; the latch is lifted; a moment more and he
will be free--safe, at least for the night. Out into the friendly
darkness, where man and beast, where pursuer and pursued, are equal, and
equally helpless.

There is a crushing of snow, a stamping of feet, and one, two, three,
four, five--five forms hurriedly pass the window. The latch is lifted,
and as John Logan again darts back under cover, the party, brushing the
snow from their coats and grizzled beards, hastily enter the cabin.

"Fly around, Carrie, fly around! fix yourself up!" The fresh gust of
wind and storm from the door just opened, fans the glimmering spark of
consciousness into sudden flame, a