“And if he’s let go?”
“If he has done that, why, then, he’s dead.”
“But are you sure the noose would close upon his neck? You, Bill Buck, and Alf Brandon, it was you two that arranged it.”
“Bah!” rejoins Buck; “you seed that same as we. It’s bound to tighten when he drops. Of course we didn’t mean that; and who’d a thought o’ a bar runnin’ straight into us in that way? Darn it, if the nigger has dropped, he’s dead by this time, and there’s an end of it. There’s no help for it now.”
“What’s to be done, boys?” asks Grubbs. “There’ll be an ugly account to settle, I reckon.”
There is no answer to this question or remark.
In the faces of all there is an expression of strange significance. It is less repentance for the act than fear for the consequences. Some of the younger and less reckless of the party show some slight signs of sorrow, but among all fear is the predominant feeling.
“What’s to be done, boys?” again asks Grubbs.
“We must do something. It won’t do to leave things as they are.”
“Hadn’t we better ride back?” suggests Spence.