The only real things were the body of yellow-haired Mary Brown, under the tumbled rocks and dirt of the landslide, and the body of Martin Ryder waiting to be placed in that corner plot where the grass grew quicker than all other grass in the spring of the year.
However, having fallen among madmen, he must use cunning to get away before the outlaw and his men came back from wherever they had gone.
Otherwise there would be more bloodshed, more play of guns and hum of lead.
"Tell me of Hal," he said, and dropped his elbows on his knees as if he accepted his fate.
"Don't know you well enough to talk of Hal." "I'm sorry." The boy made a little gesture of apology.
"I guess that was a mean thing to say.

Sure I'll tell you about Hal--if I can." "Tell me anything you can," said Pierre gently, "because I've got to try to be like him, haven't I ?" "You could try till rattlers got tame, but it'd take ten like you to make one like Hal.

He was dad's own son--he was my brother." The sob came openly now, and the tears were a mist in the boy's eyes.
"What's your name ?" "Pierre." "Pierre?
I suppose I got to learn it." "I suppose so." And he edged farther forward so that he was sitting only on the edge of the bunk.
"Please do." And he gathered his feet under him, ready for a spring forward and a grip at the boy's threatening rifle.
Jack had canted his head a little to one side.

"Did you ever see a horse that was gentle and yet had never been ridden, or his spirit broke, Pierre--" Here Pierre made his leap swift as some bobcat of the northern woods; his hand whipped out as lightning fast as the striking paw of the lynx, and the gun was jerked from the hands of Jack.

Not before the boy clutched at it with a cry of horror, but the force of the pull sent him lurching to the floor and broke his grip.
He was up in an instant, however, and a knife of ugly length glittered in his hand as he sprang at Pierre.
Pierre tossed aside the rifle and met the attack barehanded.