CHAPTER VI.
A FIGHT FOR THE HORSES.
I met the man’s bullying look and glanced from him along the barrels of the guns which his companions held pointed at me; and then sat up.
“I don’t see the necessity for it,” I said, quietly.
“No, but I see it, and mean to do it. Get up at once, or you may find it difficult ever to rise again,” he said, savagely.
I scrambled up leisurely, dropping my hand into the pocket where I had my revolver, and my fingers closed on it as I held it ready to shoot without drawing it out.
One of the educational advantages of life in a rough mining camp in the West is the use of a revolver from the safe concealment of a pocket. This man didn’t appear to understand the trick. I didn’t want his blood on my hands; but I wasn’t going to let him tie me up as he proposed.
“Turn round,” he ordered.
“Wait a moment,” I said, quite coolly. “If you do this, how am I to know you’ll set me free again when you go?”
“Do as I tell you,” he cried savagely with another oath.
“No, by God, no.”