Buddy cast an awesome look toward the battered, deserted shack with its yawning, sinister windows, and a grave suspicion stole upon him, and mounted to a fear that embraced his soul, and set his knees atremble. The house was haunted!
Buddy shrank away from the fence, moved by a fear that nothing else could inspire, and which has no kindred terror, but he only made two steps. The same voice held him rooted to the spot. This time there was a timbre in the inarticulate utterance that was strangely familiar to Buddy. Then the mysterious voice formed words that were clearly intelligible: "Now draw--draw now--coward--take yore pick--hear me?--draw----"
Buddy knew that voice too well to question it further. He hurried around the corner of the fence, and out under the chestnut tree, where he stopped short for the space of a moment, spellbound and dismayed, mutely gazing at the two prostrate forms stretched eerily before him in the gleam of the moon. The next instant Buddy was on his knees beside Hatfield.
"Johnse--Johnse--air yo' kilt--air yo' hurted bad----?"
"Air thet yo'--little Cap?" inquired Johnse feebly.
"Sho'--I bin a huntin' yo'--air yo' hit bad, Johnse?"
"I'm scratched up some, boy; twixt us two, I don't feel as skeetish as I ded 'bout sun-down. Say, Buddy, th' coward won't draw--I knowed he wouldn't--I jest knowed he'd throw in some ornery trick. Say, Buddy, give me yore rifle-gun down heah--an' fix th' muzzle in his ear fo' me--I lost my Colts--hurry long--han' yore gun down, Buddy----"
The boy had been making a hasty examination of the familiar form that lay inert beside Hatfield. He now leaned over Johnse again.
"Oh, air he?" said Johnse. "I 'low I'll scuse em then fo' not drawin'--I knowed I hit em hard--but I didn't think he 'lowed to die--th' way he jest naturally hung on--he air so karnsarned tricky. Say, Buddy--how is hit a goin'--air th' fellers at em yit?"
"Sho'--we'uns licked 'em bully, Johnse--they's jest a playin' tag now up in town--Sap plugged me twict up by ole Hank's store, as I cum by--Johnse, I got t' rack out now an' git th' men to tote yo' to th' wagons--I reckon th' doc-man kin peert yo' up a pinch--does yo' hurt bad, Johnse?"
"Yep--hit don't hurt powerful bad though--an' our men jest plugged Sap, jest now--didn't yo'-all heer th' shoots?"