There was no doubt about that. Luke Redman was a desperate character, and money would tempt him to any deed of atrocity.
We stepped back from the window and looked at one another in blank amazement. I knew my face was pale, for the blood went rushing back upon my heart, and set it to beating like a trip-hammer. Tom was as white as a sheet, and that added to my terror. He had shown himself to be possessed of a remarkable degree of courage, and I knew that when he became frightened, there was good reason for it.
We were in a terrible predicament. If we remained in our prison, we would certainly lose our lives, and if we surrendered ourselves into the hands of our enemies, we would fare but little better, for they were almost beside themselves with fury, and we could expect nothing but the severest treatment. Seventy blows with a rawhide would be a light punishment, compared with the vengeance they would wreak upon us.
“Well, Tom,” said I, “this is the end of your plan.”
“It looks like it,” he answered, “and of us too. We have our choice between burning up and allowing ourselves to be pounded to death. This is infinitely worse than running a race with the hounds. Which horn of the dilemma shall we take, Joe?”
“Let’s stay where we are, and trust to luck,” I replied, desperately. “Something may turn up in our favor. The logs in the house may prove too green to burn, or the settlers may arrive before the fire gets fairly started.”
“That’s a fact. We’ll risk it, anyhow.”
“Hear me up thar, don’t you?” shouted Luke Redman, who had grown tired of waiting for an answer to his question. “What are you goin’ to do about it?”
“Bring on your kindling-wood,” was Tom’s reply. “We’ll stay here.”
“Wal!” shouted Luke, who seemed utterly confounded at the decision we had made. “Do you want to stay thar an’ be burned up?”