Dick received the gentle rebuke with calm indifference. He stared soberly out across the desolate, sun-filled space without speaking.
“Indians make night attack mebbe,” Toma suddenly broke the silence.
“Let ’em come,” growled Dick. “We’ll be ready. All I hope is that Scar-Face leads the attacking party and that I can get a shot at him.”
“They’ll probably be in no hurry about that attack,” Sandy sagely remarked. “They know we’re up here somewhere and practically helpless. It would be a whole lot simpler and easier to starve us out.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Dick. “We’re trapped and they know it.”
“I tell you something,” Toma rose and began pacing back and forth across the narrow, confining space within the barricade. “We have good chance now to make ’em Indians all look foolish. Place over there”—pointing—“where look down camp. You, me, Sandy go over there an’ start shoot rifles. Kill ’em plenty men in very few minutes. We drive ’em all bad fellows out of ravine.”
Dick and Sandy stared at each other aghast.
“What you say?” inquired Toma.
“Never!” shuddered Dick.
“Murder!” shivered Sandy.