THE FIGHT IN THE CABIN
"I expect so—either his guerillas, or Dunn's Cavalry."
"Thin ye kin count us in, Yank. Git out, Daniel, an' kiver thet winder."
A boy of thirteen, sallow and thin, with stooped shoulders, but firm-set jaw, crawled out from the bed, and, long rifle in hand, clambered up to where he could peer through between the boards. Quickly he pushed the brown barrel out, sighted along it, and pulled the trigger.
"Thet's one of 'em, ma," he said rather wearily, expectorating tobacco juice on the floor.
"Keep 'em a movin', Daniel. Benjamin, whar be ye?"
"Yere, ma."
"Wal, git out 'long with thet jigger et ther door. Gol dern yer, move!"
She caught him by one ear, a younger edition of the same lanky type, and landed him in the centre of the floor, where he stood rubbing his head with one hand, but clinging to a gun with the other. The woman's disgust burst all control.
"Wake up, you!" and she cuffed him. "Benjamin Daniels, ef I hev ter speak agin thar's goin' ter be trouble."
Rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, the lad shuffled over toward O'Brien. His head barely topped the closed half of the door, across which he shoved his rifle barrel. I began to understand the sit-
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