“I’ve got to have a good piece of it myself, if I’m going to take a chance like that!” was one declaration of the ex-cowpuncher’s that she heard clearly.
Again Ratty said: “They’ll not only suspect me, they’ll know. Won’t the girl tell them? I tell you I want to see my getaway before I make a stir in the matter–you can bet on that!”
Finally, Frances saw the ex-orderly of the Bylittle Soldiers’ Home produce a pad of paper, an envelope, and pencil. He was plainly a ready writer, for he went to work with the pencil at once, while Ratty rolled a fresh cigarette and still watched their captive.
Pete finished his letter, sealed it in the envelope, and addressed it in a bold hand.
“That’ll just about fix the business, I reckon,” said Pete, scowling across at Frances. “That gal’s mighty smart–with her trunk full of junk and all—”
Ratty burst into irrepressible laughter. ‘You sure got Pete’s goat when you played him that trick, Frances. He fair killed himself puntin’ that trunk up the river and hiding it, and then taking the punt back and letting it drift so as to put Peckham’s crew off the scent.
“And when he busted it open—” Ratty burst into laughter again, and held his sides. Pete looked surly.
“We’ll make the old man pay for her cuttin’ up them didoes,” growled the bewhiskered rascal. “And my horse and wagon, too. I b’lieve she and that man with her set the fire that burned up my outfit.”
Frances herewith took part in the conversation.
“Who set the grass-fire, in the first place?” she demanded. “I believe you did that, Ratty M’Gill. You were just reckless enough that day.”