“We’re goin’ to apply the fire. You are goin’ to be rewarded for stealin’, Amos.”
“Oh, don’t—don’t,” pleaded Amos. “I won’t steal any more if you’ll only let me off this time, good witches.”
Slowly the log fell away from the opening and a voice said:
“Come out here, Broadcrook.”
The man needed no second invitation. He scrambled out and made a dash for the heavy timber. But Boy McTavish tripped him up and Paisley gripped his windpipe. He was dragged back into the light of the fire and Boy picked up his gun.
“Get up,” commanded Bill. “Now, you thief, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Broadcrook commended Paisley to the lower regions.
“I’m not goin’ to say a word,” he snarled, “an’ you can’t make me, either.”
He struggled and Paisley’s knee gripped more deeply into his neck.
“Think you’re a mighty strong ’un, don’t you?” growled Amos. “Think you’ve done somethin’, I suppose, in trippin’ me up an’ hold-in’ me down. Any boy could do as much as that. You was scart t’ give me half a chance, you was.”