Old Sol glanced at them pityingly, then looked at the trail; they had reached its termination.
“Come, my boy, cheer up. We’ll hev her soon, you bet! we will go on. Hyar’s the eend of the trail, right hyar on this log. Thar’s a canoe—it must go somewhar. We’ll jump in, as many as kin. Air ye all ready, boys?”
“All ready! lead on!”
“All right; jump in, Cato, you’re the pilot.”
But Cato drew back, and leaped from the log, and stood there with an alarmed and perplexed face, looking now to the island, then back to Sol.
“Come; none of yer foolin’! jump in!”
Sol saw his perplexity and smelt a rat. The negro was in a quandary. If he went across with the men, the robbers, as a matter of course, would think he had turned traitor, and he would be shot dead before they had made half the passage. The prospect of being slaughtered by a sudden and unseen bullet was too glaring for him to face—he would rebel. On the other hand, he knew Sol suspected him of treachery, and would enforce his command. If he refused to enter the canoe and fled, he would be brought to a sudden drop by the lightning hand and murderous aim of the ex-Indian-fighter. What could he do? he was in a bad dilemma.
The men looked at him, some in surprise, others in wonder, and the rest, the majority, surlily. He felt that the eyes of both bands were upon him, and that both would kill him in a second if treacherous. He was betwixt two very slippery and bad stools, one of which would be sure to slip. He knew his danger and perceived his only chance—to parley.
“Now, Mars’r Jacobs, an’ de rest ob de berry kind and good mars’rs—don’t fo’ce de pore niggah wha’ nebber done ye harm, ter sich a ter’ble t’ing. Mars’rs, I’se a brack man—I’se one ob de berry best an’ de berry true ob yer fr’ends. I’se de fr’end ob de mars’rs.”
“What is all this tomfoolery?” hastily asked Walter, turning to go on. “Come; do as he tells you, immediately!”