“No,” cried Watson, “but——”
Then there came the sound of horses’ hoofs in the distance. Every one listened eagerly, and none more so than the farmer.
“You’re done for,” he said slowly, casting a half-malevolent, half-triumphant glance at the three Northerners.
“Not by a great deal,” said Watson. “March with me to the parlor, open the front door just a crack, and, when the Vigilants come up, say to them that we three men have escaped from the house, stolen a flatboat, and started to row across the Tennessee River. Send them away and shut the door. I will be standing near you, behind the door, with my pistol leveled at your head. Make one movement to escape, or say anything but what I have told you to say, and you are a dead man!”
The patter of the horses was becoming more and more distinct.
“Will you do as I tell you?” asked Watson, very coolly, as he toyed with his revolver.
“If I won’t?” asked Hare. His face was now convulsed by a variety of emotions—fear, rage, craftiness, and disappointment.
“I give you three seconds to choose,” said Watson. “If you refuse, you will be stretched out on that floor.”
Mrs. Hare, with white cheeks, leaned forward, and whispered to her husband: “Do as he tells you, Jake. Better let these Yankees go, and save your own life.”
“One—two——” counted Watson.