At the words, Creed wheeled and made for the door, Nancy gripping him frantically but mutely.
“Creed—boy—honey!”—she breathed at last, “they’s mo’ than one kind o’ courage. This is jest fool courage—to go an’ git yo’se’f killed up. Them Turrentines won’t hurt Pone. But you—oh, my Lord!”
“I reckon ye better let him go, maw,” Doss Provine chattered from the bed’s edge where he still crouched. “Hit’s best that it should be one, ruther than all of us.”
Old Nancy flung him a glance of wordless contempt. Beezy ran and tangled herself in the tall young fellow’s legs, halting him.
“Creed,” the old woman urged, still below her breath, holding to his arm. “Creed, honey, as soon as you open that do’ and stand in the light, yo’r no better than a dead man. Listen!”
All caution had been thrown aside by the besiegers. Hoarse voices questioned and answered outside, sounds of stumbling footsteps surrounded the house.
“Boys,” called Creed in that clear, ringing voice of his that held neither fear nor great excitement, “I’m coming out to talk to you. Aunt Nancy, take the children away. You’ve got it to do.”
“Well, come on,” replied the voice without. “Talk—that’s all we want. You’ll be as safe outside as in—and a damn’ sight safer.”
Nancy gathered up her youngsters, flung them in a heap into their father’s lap, and, overturning and putting out the candle as she went, sprang to the hearth to quench a small flame which had risen among the embers there.
“Ye might have some sense!” she panted angrily. “The idea of walkin’ yo’se’f into a lighted doorway for them fellers to shoot at! For God’s sake don’t open that do’ till I get the lights out!”