The boy stood about ten feet away, near a pot-bellied wood stove behind
which he probably had been hiding when Jeff came in. His clothing was
rumpled, but at the same time it was fairly new and not the faded
hand-me-downs that were to be expected on ten-year-olds around
Smithville. His face and hands were dirty, and straight black hair that
had once been well-groomed tumbled all over his head.
Jeff knew a surge of pity. Never, in hill or any other country, should a
ten-year-old stand so. It was not right that any youngster's eyes should
spark with such unbridled fury, or that any child should have the
complete willingness to kill that was so evident in this one. At the
same time, Jeff felt something else. The youngster had control of
himself and the shotgun did not waver. But taut lips seemed ready to
tremble and tears lingered behind angry eyes.
It was as though the boy had taken up burdens which were far too heavy,
but which he was determined to carry, even while he longed for a
friendly arm to help him and a sympathetic ear to which he might tell
his story. And somehow, in spite of his anger, quality was evident
within him.