“Then they’ll get behind the barn and fire that, and the wind is this way.”
“We’ve got to save the women and the kids!” cried Amos. At this moment he was a striking and terrible figure. The veins of his temple swelled with despair and impotent fury; his heavy features were transfigured in the intensity of his effort to think—to see; his arms did not hang at his sides; they were held tensely, with his fist clinched, while his burning eyes roamed over every corner of the room, over every picture. In a flash his whole condition changed, his muscles relaxed, his hands slid into his pockets, he smiled the strangest and grimmest of smiles. “All right,” said he. “Ah—Brown, you got any whiskey? Fetch it.” The women stared, while Harned passively found a jug and placed it before him.
“Now some empty bottles and tumblers.”
“There are some empty bottles in the dark room; what do you mean to do?”
“Mean to save you. Brace up! I’ll get them. And you, Mrs. Brown, if you’ve got any paregoric, give those children a dose that will keep them quiet, and up in the loft with you all. We’ll hand up the kids. Listen! You must keep quiet, and keep the children quiet, and not stir, no matter what infernal racket you may hear down here. You must! To save the children. You must wait till you hear one of us, Brown or me, call. See? I depend on you, and you must depend on me!”
Her eyes sought her husband’s; then, “I’m ready, sir,” she said, simply. “I’ll answer for Johnny D., and the others I’ll make quiet.”
“That’s the stuff,” cried Amos, exultantly. “I’ll fix the red butchers. Only for God’s sake hustle!”
He turned his back on the parting to enter the dark room, and when he came back, with his hands full of empty bottles, Harned was alone.
“I told her it was our only chance,” said Harned; “but I’m damned if I know what our only chance is!”