now come within the room. “Shut up that woman,” he said.
Ryan went to his wife and placed his hand on her shoulder; but she stared straight ahead over his, at Collins, her breast heaving.
And on the table Collins saw the newspaper, an evening edition marked “Extra” in black affrighted letters, and across the page in great red letters was his name, and in a frame, the names of the men he had killed—five—and those he had wounded—three more.
“Ye murrdhering monster,” panted Mrs. Ryan, following the movement of his eyes.
From the porch outside there came a faint shuffling of feet. Collins crouched, his hand went to his waist-band, the heavy black revolver flew out. “One more sound,” he said—and his voice became low with steady menace—“and I’ll blow out the heads of every wan of you.”
One of the children raised up in her cot; she gazed round-eyed at the strange man above her, and began to cry. Without changing her position, Mrs. Ryan dropped her hand and twined
