He was inside the house, his arms were resting on the
window-sill. He was kneeling, and in his hands was a rifle, the muzzle
covering Dale and the men who had come with him.
Owen's face was chalk white and working with demoniac passion. His
eyes were wild, and blazing with a wanton malignancy that awed every
man who looked at him--Sanderson included. His teeth were bared in a
horrible snarl; the man was like some wild animal--worse, the savage,
primitive passions of him were unleashed and rampant, directed by a
reasoning intelligence. His voice was hoarse and rasping, coming in
jerks:
"Get out of the way, Sanderson! Stand aside! I'll take care of these
whelps! Get your hands up, Dale! Higher--higher! You damned,
sneaking vulture! Come here to make trouble, eh? You and your bunch
of curs! I'll take care of you! Move--one of you! Move a finger!
You won't! Then go! Go! I'll count three! The man that isn't going
when I finish counting gets his quick! One--two----"
"Wait!! Already on the move, the men halted at the sound of his voice.
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