An Indian had appeared in plain sight and was waving a white cloth in the air.
“Hello, you!” yelled Joe. “Come in, ef you want to.”
The man obeyed and came clambering over the barricade, and at a glance they could see that he was a white man disguised. It was Tom Bantry, who had escaped from associates with whom he could no longer consort.
“Look here, men,” he said. “I’m Tom Bantry. You don’t know me and mebbe you don’t want to. I’ve been one of Dick Garrett and Will Jackwood’s men—I have. Now why don’t you kill me?”
“Don’t see my way to that clear,” said Joe. “Now, Tom Bantry, what d’ye want here?”
“I’ve, quit ’em,” replied Tom, energetically. “I couldn’t stand it, boys, ’pon my word, I couldn’t. I feel mean as dirt ’cause I’ve been with ’em so long; but I tell you I didn’t think they was so mean till last night when they killed poor Mr. Wescott.”
“What’s that you say?” cried Melton, coming forward. “Who killed him; how was he killed?”
“Dick Garrett did it,” replied Tom, in a choking voice. “The ’square give him some cheek, and he had him throwed into the river. Boys, I’m a rough boatman, but I jumped in after him, and they left us alone in the dark on the river. I tried to save him, but it wan’t no use; the current took him under.”
“I believe this man, for one,” said Melton. “He never would dare to come here with such a tale as that unless it was really true. What do you say, boys?”
“He’s all right,” replied Joe, “but ef he ain’t, let him look out, ’cause I shoot awful close, odd times; I do, by gracious. So Dick Garrett is jined with Napope?”