"Now th' one you got holdin' up your belly ... an' your knife!"
The Colt that Hatch had taken from Drew and a bowie with a long blade joined the armament already on the boards. Drew made a fast harvest of all the weapons.
"Well, we sure got us some bounty hunter's bag," Kirby observed as he and Weatherby finished using the captives' own belts to pinion them.
"There may be more comin'; they talked about some captain." Drew brought Boyd back to the warmth of the fire.
Weatherby nodded. "I'll scout." He disappeared out the door.
Jas' was rocking back and forth, holding on one knee the injured hand Kirby had roughly bandaged; his other arm was fastened behind him. There were tears of pain on his cheeks, but after his first outcry he had not uttered a sound. Hatch, on the other hand, had been so foul-mouthed that Kirby had torn off a length of the bed covering and gagged him.
Simmy sat now with his back against the wall, watching their every move. Of the three, he seemed the likeliest to talk. Kirby appeared to share in Drew's thoughts on that subject, for now he bore down on the small man.
"You expectin' some friends?" Compared to his tone of moments earlier, the Texan's voice was now mildly friendly. "We'd like to know, seein' as how we're thinkin' some hospitable thoughts 'bout entertainin' them proper."
Simmy stared up at him, bewildered. Kirby shook his head, his expression one of a man dealing with a stubbornly stupid child.
"Lissen, hombre, me—I'm from West Texas, an' that theah's Comanche country, leastwise it was Comanche country 'fore we Tejanos moved in. Now Comanches, they're an unfriendly people, 'bout the unfriendliest Injuns, 'cept 'Paches, a man can meet up with. An' they have them some neat little ways of makin' a man talk, or rather yell, his lungs out. It ain't too hard to learn them tricks, not for a bright boy like me, it ain't. You able to understand that?"