Nothing interested him save the thought of
escaping and making his way to Clark. To fail meant infinitely
more than death, of which he had as small fear as most brave men,
and to succeed meant everything that life could offer. So, in the
unlimited selfishness of love, he did not take his companions into
account.
The three stood in a close-set clump of four or five scrub oaks at
the highest point of a thinly wooded knoll that sloped down in all
directions to the prairie. Their view was wide, but in places
obstructed by the trees.
"Men," said Kenton, after a thoughtful and watchful silence, "the
thing looks kind o' squally for us. I don't see much of a chance
to get out of this alive; but we've got to try."
He showed by the density of his voice and a certain gray film in
his face that he felt the awful gravity of the situation; but he
was calm and not a muscle quivered.
"They's jes' two chances for us," said Oncle Jazon, "an' them's as
slim as a broom straw. We've got to stan' here an' fight it out,
or wait till night an' sneak through atween 'em an' run for it."
"I don't see any hope o' sneakin' through the line," observed
Kenton. "It's not goin' to be dark tonight."
"Wa-a-l," Oncle Jazon drawled nonchalantly while he took in a quid
of tobacco, "I've been into tighter squeezes 'an this, many a
time, an' I got out, too.
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