"Now, you get in, Fanny, and I'll fix the hay so I kin tumble it all down on top on us, and bury us up."
"Suppose they should set the barn afire," suggested Fanny.
"Then they will; we must take our chances, such as they be. We hain't got much chance nohow."
Fanny stepped down into the hole; Ethan followed her, and pulled the mass of hay over so that it fell upon them. They were four or five feet below the surface of the hay.
"I would rather be killed by a bullet than burned to death in the fire," said Fanny, with a shudder, when her companion had adjusted the hay so as to afford them the best possible means of concealment.
"P'rhaps they wouldn't kill you with a bullet. Them redskins is awful creeturs. They might hack you all to pieces with their knives and tomahawks," whispered Ethan.
"It's horrible!" added Fanny, quivering with emotion.
"I've hearn tell that there was some trouble with the redskins up on to the reserves; and I knowed sunthin' had happened when I see them two hosses. I was kind o' skeery when the varmints rid up to the house."
"Do you suppose they have killed my uncle?" asked Fanny, sick at heart.
"I s'pose they hev," answered Ethan, gloomily. "I reckon we'd better keep still, and not say nothin'. Some o' the redskins may be lookin' for us. They're pesky cunnin'."