He snatched up his hat.
"Stuff your pistols into your pockets, and come on, Price!" he
said, and stalked toward the door.
He flitted up the street, and the judge puffed and panted in his
wake. They gained the edge of the village without speech.
"There is mystery and rascality here!" said the judge.
"What do you know, Price, and where did you hear this?" Mahaffy
shot the question back over his shoulder.
"At Pegloe's, the Belle Plain overseer had just fetched the news
into town."
Again they were silent, all their energies being absorbed by the
physical exertion they were making. The road danced before their
burning eyes, it seemed to be uncoiling itself serpentwise with
hideous undulations. Mr. Mahaffy was conscious that the judge,
of whom he caught a blurred vision now at his right side, now at
his left, was laboring painfully in the heat and dust, the breath
whistling from between his parched lips.
"You're just ripe for apoplexy, Price!" he snarled, moderating
his pace.
"Go on," said the judge, with stolid resolution.
Two miles out of the village they came to a roadside spring, here
they paused for an instant. Mahaffy scooped up handfuls of the
clear water and sucked it down greedily. The judge dropped on
his stomach and buried his face in the tiny pool, gulping up
great thirsty swallows. After a long breathless instant he stood
erect, with drops of moisture clinging to his nose and eyebrows.
Mahaffy was a dozen paces down the road, hurrying forward again
with relentless vigor.
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