Ethan Durrell was the only one in the stage who spoke. His voice trembled, so that his words were hardly understood.
“Don’t shoot, please, we’ll get down; we won’t do anything if you’ll be easy with us; be keerful them guns don’t go off—”
“Shut up!” commanded the angry criminal; “we don’t want any talking. Dick, keep your eye on ’em as they come out and don’t stand any nonsense.”
“Do you want me down there, too?” asked the driver, who fancied he ought to be excused.
“You can sit where you are, but don’t forget you’re covered, too, and don’t stir. Come, hurry down, old chap!”
The last remark was addressed to Ethan Durrell, who showed some reluctance to obeying the stern order.
The fact was the New Englander was straining his eyes to the utmost. He saw the tall figure at the side of the highway, just abreast of the horses’ shoulders, but he could not detect any one else. That might not signify anything, as nothing was easier than for several persons to conceal themselves among the trees.
The question the plucky Durrell was asking himself was whether they had been held up by one man or more. If there were more than one it was madness for him to resist, but if there was but one he meant to make a fight, even though he had nothing more formidable than his jack-knife about him.
He hesitated on the step in front, one hand resting on the haunch of the horse and the other grasping the front support of the cover of the coach.
“Don’t wait,” whispered Lenman, “or you’ll make him mad.”