“Come hyar.”
The two ruffians marched up to the muzzles of the revolvers, each face showing that they felt the tenure of life to be precarious in a high degree. Dave Farrell came forward and took away the weapons of the two men, and bound them hand and foot, while Old Pegs overlooked the work with a cocked revolver in his hand.
“Now don’t you seem ter be a couple of low-lived galloots, you two?” growled the hunter, “don’t you seem mean ez pizen?”
They looked it certainly, and stood with downcast eyes, evidently uncertain what their fate was to be.
“You come hyar ter kill me—kill Old Pegs, a man thet hez tramped these hills for thirty year, man and boy. Didn’t you, now? String ’em up ter thet bush, Dave; we’ll make it hot fur ’em.”
The two scoundrels were stripped to the skin, and some stout switches cut, with which the ruffians were belabored until they roared for mercy. This border vengeance being accomplished, they were tied on their horses with the face to the tail, and led to the mouth of the ravine.
“You got off mighty easy this time gents,” said Old Pegs. “I’m mighty ’shamed ter let you go so easy, but don’t come ag’in. You don’t want any more off me, do you?”
“No,” replied one of the men sincerely. “I’ve got enough.”
“Well, we kin keep yer weepons to remember you by, and we’ve give you suthing to make us dear to you. Who sent you arter me?”
“Velveteens.”