"Tom," he began, and there was no backbone left
in his voice, "what do you-all want me to promise?"
"Not to drink another drop of whiskey, beer, wine, brandy, or anything
intoxicatin', till we get the Dysert gang corralled--or they get us."
"All right, Tommy. I promise."
Tattle got up and looked at his friend with an expression of mingled
apology and triumph on his big, red face. "I 'm sorry I had to do it.
Nick. You-all know that. But I had to, and you know that, too. We
can't do another thing now till to-morrow, and you 're sober again. I
don't see," he went on grumblingly, "as long as they were goin' to kill
old man Paxton anyway, why they did n't do it before Emerson got
married!"
Nick had been soaking his head in the wash-bowl and he wheeled around
with the water streaming over his face. "Tom, I sure reckon Emerson
would come if you 'd send for him!"
"Mebbe he would, Nick, but I ain't goin' to do it. For he sure had n't
ought to go and get himself killed now, just on our account.
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