“Look for yourself.”
The sheriff glanced quickly below him. A man with an axe on his shoulder could be seen plainly making his way through the underbrush not a hundred yards away. The sheriff instantly clapped his hand upon his captive's mouth, but at a look from his eyes took it away again.
“I see,” he said grimly, “you don't want to lure that man within reach of my revolver by calling to him.”
“I could have called him while you were away,” returned the major quietly.
The sheriff with a darkened face loosened the sash that bound his prisoner to the tree, and then, lifting him in his arms, began to ascend the hill cautiously, dipping into the heavier shadows. But the ascent was difficult, the load a heavy one, and the sheriff was agile rather than muscular. After a few minutes' climbing he was forced to pause and rest his burden at the foot of a tree. But the valley and the man in the underbrush were no longer in view.
“Come,” said the major quietly, “unstrap my ankles and I'll WALK up. We'll never get there at this rate.”
The sheriff paused, wiped his grimy face with his grimier blouse, and stood looking at his prisoner. Then he said slowly:—
“Look yer! Wot's your little game? Blessed if I kin follow suit.”
For the first time the major burst into a rage. “Blast it all! Don't you see that if I'm discovered HERE, in this way, there's not a man on the Bar who would believe that I walked into your trap, not a man, by God, who wouldn't think it was a trick of yours and mine together?”
“Or,” interrupted the sheriff slowly, fixing his eyes on his prisoner, “not a man who would ever trust Major Overstone for a leader again?”