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." "Likely enough," said Kenton, still reflecting while his eyes roamed around the circle of savages.
"I fit the skunks in Ferginny 'fore you's thought of, Si Kenton, an' down in Car'lina in them hills.