“You bitter dogs!” cried up the captive, horror-stricken and overcome at the swiftness of the tragedy. “I refuse any terms you may offer. Why, what could such brutal cowards effect against a couple of honest, determined men? Kill me, if you like, and certify yourselves for the gallows. I back my good fellows to hold you at bay till the snow melts, and there you’ll be caught in a trap and the crows shall banquet. Kill me, and effect more than you’ve done in all these two days!”
Forgetful in his emotion of every prudence, he raised himself on an arm. Brander uttered a hoarse chuckling cry.
“God of thunder!” he exclaimed. “Where’s Joe Corby?”
The man was pushed into the room.
“Joe,” said the villain—“he tempted but couldn’t prevail, eh? Isn’t that so?”
The puzzled fellow scratched his head.
“Work it out, Joe. We cut you short in cutting his bonds, didn’t we?”
He was fingering his second pistol. Tuke cried out in agony:
“The man’s innocent, you hound! ’Twas that ruffian’s knife severed the strands when he slashed at me!”
Brander hesitated; but Joe’s profound amazement was convincing.