"Dadburn it!" said the mercurial Clenk, as depressed now as a moment
earlier he had been easily elated. "We-uns will jes' hev ter take him
along of us an' keep him till he furgits all about it."
"An' when will ye be sure o' that?" sneered Copenny. "He is as tricky as
a young fox."
Half stunned by the tremendous import of the tragedy he had witnessed,
the child scarcely entered into its true significance in his concern for
his own plight. He realized that he was being riven from his friends, his
own, and made a feeble outcry and futile resistance, now protesting that
he would tell nothing, and now piteously assuring his captors that he
could not talk, while they gathered him up in the rug, which covered head
and feet, even the flaunting finery of his big, white beaver hat.
In the arms of the grandfatherly Clenk he was carried along the
bridle-path in the dulling sunset, and presently dusk was descending on
the austere mountain wilderness; the unmeasured darkness began to pervade
it, and silence was its tenant.
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