His face was
white and set, but his voice was natural enough as he said:
"Now, gentlemen, whoever cares to interrupt me will get the blade
of this axe buried in his brain, as heaven is my witness."
I didn't even curse as he split the five barrels into slivers and
my well-fought-for whiskey soaked into the slush. Once he lifted
his head and looked at me, and the mouth I didn't understand
revealed itself; there was something about it like a young
Napoleon's.
I never hated a man in my life as I hated Tom Barrett then. That
I daren't resist him made it worse. I watched him finish his caddish
job, throw down the axe, take his coat over his arm, and leave the
clearing without a word.
But no sooner was he out of sight than my devilish temper broke
out, and I cursed and blasphemed for half an hour. I'd have his
blood if it cost my neck a rope, and that too before he could inform
on us. The boys were with me, of course, poor sort of dogs with no
grit of their own, and with the axe as my only weapon we left the
bush and ran towards the river.
I fairly yelled at my good luck as I reached the high bank. There,
a few rods down shore, beside the open water sat Tom Barrett,
calling something out to his folks across the river, and from
upstream came the deafening thunder of the Onondaga Jam that,
loosened by the rain, was shouldering its terrific force downwards
with the strength of a million drunken demons.
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