“His will may be good a-plenty, but he hain’t got the sand in his craw to act the traitor. But never fret, Cap’n Jap. I’ll see that he puts Hen Colton out o’ the way, or down he goes hisself. Come, we’d better git down here. The houn’s begin to smell us a’ready.”
The entire party now dismounted, securing their animals to the rude rail fence, at this point being hidden from the house by the long hay-topped stables. After a few whispered instructions from Jasper Morton, Thompson linked his arm in that of Colton, and glided silently toward the house.
As they crossed the stile-blocks, a furious barking broke the air, and half a dozen large hounds came rushing toward them. Thompson cocked his pistol, as he muttered in Colton’s ear:
“Quiet ’em, Jack—still the brutes, or you’ll never live to make love to Hen’s widow!”
“Should you harm me, those brutes would tear you to pieces before you could fire twice,” coolly replied Colton. “See—they know me.”
The huge hounds had recognized the hand that had so often fed them in days gone by, and their angry greeting turned to one of joy. With difficulty Colton kept them from leaping upon his body in a swarm, licking his hands and face.
Thompson uttered an oath. The baying of the hounds had aroused the inmates of the building, for a faint light shone through the heavily shuttered windows.
“Wal, it don’t matter much, a’ter all. We won’t hev to knock so long. But now mind how ye act, Jack Colton. You see—I hev my shooter cocked an’ ready. The fust crooked step you make—down goes your apple-cart! Onderstand?”
“Yes. But suppose he refuses to open the door?”
“He won’t if you play it fine. You tell him to open; thet you’re hard hit—bin in a muss at the Corners. I’ll sw’ar to it. Thet’ll fetch him, sure. So—kinder lean on me. It’ll look better an’ ’ll hide your barker from him ontil he comes out. Keep cool now, and mind your eye, for your life depends on your doing this job slick an’ without any bunglin’.”