Another shot followed, and after it a voice crying,
“You’ve got Creed Bonbright in thar. You let him come out and talk to us, or we’ll batter yo’ do’ in.”
“You Andy—you Jeff!” shouted the old woman in sudden rage. “Ef you want Creed Bonbright you know whar to find him. You go away and let my do’ alone.”
“You quit callin’ out names, Nancy Cyard,” responded the first, menacing voice out of the darkness. “We know Bonbright’s in thar, and we aim to have him out—or burn yo’ house—accordin’ to yo’ ruthers.”
Creed had parted his lips to answer them, when old Nancy sprang at him and set her hand over his open mouth.
“You hush—and keep hushed!” she whispered urgently.
“I just wanted to call to the boys and tell them I’m here,” Creed whispered to her. “Aunt Nancy, I’m bound to go out there and talk to them fellows. I cain’t stay in here and let you and the children suffer for it.”
“Aw, big-mouthed, big-talkin’ brood—what do I keer for them?” demanded Nancy, tossing her head with a characteristic motion to get the grey curls away from her fearless blue eyes; whereupon the tucking comb slipped down and had to be replaced, “You ain’t a-goin’ out thar,” she whispered vehemently from under her raised arm, as she redded back the straying locks with it. Nancy had the reckless, dare-devil courage those blue eyes bespoke. Presuming a bit, perhaps, on her age and sex, she yet ran risks that many men would have shunned without deeming themselves cowards. “You ain’t a-goin’ out thar, I tell ye,” she reiterated. “I wouldn’t let ye ef they burnt the house down over our heads. Pony’ll be along pretty shortly from Hepzibah, and when he sees ’em I reckon he’s got sense enough to git behind a bush and fire at ’em—that’ll scatter ’em.”
As if inspired to destroy this one slender hope, the voice outside spoke again, tauntingly.
“Nancy Cyard, we’ve got yo’ son Pony here—picked him up on the road—an’ ef yo’r a mind to trade Creed Bonbright for him, we’ll trade even. Better dicker with us. Somepin’ bad might happen this young ’un.”