"I guess when old Eb found out his kid were gone," grated Jake Brewer, "he got a wrench or two hisself."

The heavy voice brought Tess about.

"What'll we do with her?" She flung her hand toward the child in the corner.

"Yer say'll go, brat," put in Longman. "That rich duffer air had his way too long. Us squatters're a goin' to show 'im 'tain't so safe to ride rough shod over everybody."

"You're going to kill her?" asked Tessibel, dully.

"Yep," flung in Brewer, "if ye say so."

Mrs. Brewer was crying softly. Her husband turned fiercely upon her.

"Ma, here," said he, "air makin' some awful fuss over nothin'. She wants the kid took out of the state an' put some'ers. Us men says it air got to die."

"It air too awful, Tessie," sobbed Mrs. Brewer. "The baby ain't done nothin'."

Tessibel refrained from looking at the speaker. Her heart bled afresh at the woman's words. Boy hadn't done anything, either, but Waldstricker'd killed him. It was just, he should give his daughter for her son. It wouldn't bring Boy back, but surely he'd rest easier if Elsie joined him. The thought that her enemy would know the ache that tore her heart, was balm to her own heart. Yet something within her tugged her eyes to the baby on the floor. How Boy'd cried when the convulsive pain had tied his little limbs into cruel knots! She wanted to hear Elsie cry, too. The wails of her enemy's child might drive the shrieks of her own little one from memory.

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"Take the rag off her mouth," said she, quickly.

"She'll cry like a sick cat, if ye do," warned a man.

Tess crossed the room to the corner where Elsie lay and kneeling by her, unfastened the cloth about her mouth. The baby held up her bound hands, blue and swollen from the tight ligature, and whimpered, "Elsie's hands hurt."

The squatter girl had never voluntarily hurt a living thing. All her life quick sympathy had responded instinctively to helplessness and misery. Even the toads and bats knew her tender care. Waldstricker's child was to her, then, the most loathsome of breathing creatures. She might let the squatters kill her; she might even do it herself. But this was another thing! Face to face with the concrete case of pinching a baby's wrists, her instinct sent her fingers to the tight cords about the uplifted hands. Without conscious purpose, she, also, loosened the plump ankles. Elsie rolled in a whimpering, little heap on the floor.




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