“I hope Braxton Wyatt will be the first to knock at our door,” said Shif'less Sol.
“I wouldn't be sorry,” said Henry.
Paul was sitting in a chair near the fire, and he said nothing. He hoped the waiting would be very short. The light was sufficient for him to see the faces of his comrades, and he noticed that they were all very tense. This was no common watch that they kept. Shif'less Sol remained on the bed, Henry sat on another of the chairs, Tom Ross was on one of the chests with his back to the wall. Long Jim was near the curtain. Close by Paul was a home-made cradle. He put down his hand and touched it. He was glad that it was empty now, but the sight of it steeled his heart anew for the task that lay before them.
Ten silent minutes passed, and Henry went to the window again. He did not open it, but there was a crack through which he could see. The others said nothing, but watched his face. When he turned away they knew that the moment was at hand.
“They've just come from the woods,” he said, “and in a minute they'll be at the door. Now, boys, take one last look at your rifles.”
A minute later there was a sudden sharp knock at the door, but no answer came from within. The knock was repeated, sharper and louder, and Henry, altering his voice as much as possible, exclaimed like one suddenly awakened from sleep:
“Who is it? What do you want?”
Back came a voice which Henry knew to be that of Braxton Wyatt:
“We've come from farther up the valley. We're scouts, we've been up to the Indian country. We're half starved. Open and give us food!”
“I don't believe you,” replied Henry. “Honest people don't come to my door at this time in the morning.”