with."

His prisoner fell into a paroxysm of rage, and struck at him.

"I'll git pap to kill ye," she shrieked. "I don' know nothin' 'bout yer
Six-Cross-Roads, ner no papers, ner yer dam Mister Harkels neither, ner
_you_, ye razor-backed ole devil! Pap'll kill ye; leave me go--leave me
_go_!--Pap'll kill ye; I'll git him to _kill_ ye!" Suddenly her struggles
ceased; her eyes closed; her tense little muscles relaxed and she drooped
toward the floor; the old man shifted his grip to support her, and in an
instant she twisted out of his hands and sprang out of reach, her eyes
shining with triumph and venom.

"Ya-hay, Mister Razor-back!" she shrilled. "How's that fer hi? Pap'll kill
ye, Sunday. You'll be screechin' in hell in a week, an' we 'ull set up an'
drink our apple-jack an' laff!" Martin pursued her lumberingly, but she
was agile as a monkey, and ran dodging up and down the counters and mocked
him, singing "Gran' mammy Tipsy-Toe," till at last she tired of the game
and darted out of the door, flinging back a hoarse laugh at him as she
went. He followed; but when he reached the street she was a mere shadow
flitting under the courthouse trees. He looked after her forebodingly,
then turned his eyes toward the Palace Hotel. The editor of the "Herald"
was seated under the awning, with his chair tilted back against a post,
gazing dreamily at the murky red afterglow in the west.

"What's the use of tryin' to bother him with it?" old Tom asked himself.
"He'd only laugh." He noted that young William Todd sat near the editor,
whittling absently. Martin chuckled. "William's turn to-night," he
muttered. "Well, the boys take mighty good care of him." He locked the
doors of the Emporium, tried them, and dropped the keys in his pocket.