Finally a whistle was heard, and in a minute afterwards Sandy Flash entered the door. The bright blaze of the hearth shone upon his bold, daring, triumphant face.
“That's right, Deb.,” he said. “I'm dry and hungry, and here's a rabbit you can skin and set to broil in no time. Let's look at you, old gal! The devil!—I didn't mean to mark you like that. Well, bygones is bygones, and better times is a-comin'.”
“Sandy!” she cried, with a sudden, appealing energy, “Sandy—once't more! Won't you do for me what I want o' you?”
His face darkened in an instant. “Deb!” was all the word he uttered, but she understood the tone. He took off his pistol-belt and laid it on the shelf. “Lay there, pets!” he said; “I won't want you to-night. A long tramp it was, and I'm glad it's over. Deb., I guess I've nigh tore off one o' my knee-buckles, comin' through the woods.”
Placing his foot upon one of the logs, he bent down to examine the buckle. Quick as lightning, Deb., who was standing behind him, seized each of his arms, just above the elbows, with her powerful hands, and drew them towards each other upon his back. At the same time she uttered a shrill, wild cry,—a scream so strange and unearthly in its character that Sandy Flash's blood chilled to hear it.
“Curse you, Deb., what are you doing? Are you clean mad?” he ejaculated, struggling violently to free his arms.
“Which is strongest now?” she asked; “my arms, or your'n? I've got you, I'll hold you, and I'll only let go when I please!”
He swore and struggled, but he was powerless in her iron grip. In another minute the door of the cabin was suddenly burst open, and two armed men sprang upon him. More rapidly than the fact can be related, they snapped a pair of heavy steel handcuffs upon his wrists, pinioned his arms at his sides, and bound his knees together. Then, and not till then, Deb. Smith relaxed her hold.
Sandy Flash made one tremendous muscular effort, to test the strength of his bonds, and then stood motionless. His white teeth flashed between his parted lips, and there was a dull, hard glare in his eyes which told that though struck dumb with astonishment and impotent rage, he was still fearless, still unsubdued. Deb. Smith, behind him, leaned against the wall, pale and panting.
“A good night's work!” remarked Chaffey, the constable, as he possessed himself of the musket, pistol-belt, and hunting-knife. “I guess this pitcher won't go to the well any more.”