Suddenly Poynter gave a convulsive start. It seemed to him he had heard, above the din, some words spoken in a friendly tone—words of hope.
"Keep a stiff upper lip, square. We'll git you cl'ar afore day!"
These were the words he had, or thought he had, heard, close to his ear, and turned his eyes wonderingly to that point. He could distinguish the rough features of Jack Fyffe, the man who had knocked Polk Redlaw down at the time of arrest.
But he had no time for a question, or any thing beyond seeing that Fyffe supported his right shoulder; for the next moment he was rudely cast down at the foot of one of the gigantic sycamores, beside the outer door. The tumult was horrible, and for a time nothing was done, each man issuing orders, but no one appearing to care about executing them.
"Jim Henderson," yelled Polk Redlaw, who now took a decided lead with the brutalized crowd, "fetch out some cords; rope or something, quick!"
"Quick y'urself, Injun Polk," growled the little host. "I hain't y'ur nigger. Y'u're black enough to wait on y'urself!"
"Curses on you, you little hop-toad!" foamed Polk. "Call me that again, and I'll blow a hole through you big enough to kick a dog through!"
"Ef so be you know when y'ur well off, Mr. White Man, es-quire," coolly returned Jim, drawing his revolver, "you'll not buck ag'in' me. Others may be as quick on the trigger as you be, if not more so."
"Don't get to fighting among yourselves," interrupted Reeves, with a series of oaths. "We've enough to do now. Here's a couple of halters that'll answer, bully."
But during this by-play, Clay Poynter had received considerable encouragement from Jack Fyffe, who still crouched over him, apparently to prevent his arising.