Chapter Thirty Eight.
The Sleeping Draught.
Cris Carrol’s fortitude did not desert him, when he once more found himself alone in his prison.
He was not wholly unmoved by the reflection that on the morrow he must die; for it was a death such as even a brave man might not meet bravely, but a lingering death by torture.
The hunter knew what this meant.
“A bullet ain’t nothin’,” said he to himself, “it’s into yer body afore ye knows it, and if it’s in your vitals there’s an end on it; but to stand up to be prodded with burning sticks, requires philosophy a’most as much as this hyar chile have got. Dog-rot it, it won’t bear thinkin’ on—that it won’t. But I’ll be all-fired eternally if them fellows shall know how it hurts Cris Carrol! So let ’em do their worst, dura ’em!”
After this self-consoling soliloquy, he calmly went to work to make himself comfortable, by laying his blanket on the bare ground and improvising a pillow out of some logs that lay within reach.
As he handled the billets, a strange desire seized him. It was to knock his guard’s brains out and make a dash for liberty. But a moment’s reflection convinced him that the attempt at escape would be futile, the men outside being doubtless prepared to oppose his exit.
A disinclination to shed blood uselessly decided him, and he lay down composedly after lighting his pipe.