"I will see about it," I say; and we ride on.
One—two—three miles; it is no joke to the men, they plead their loyalty, and give their names and proffer their honor. The answer they get is, "I am sorry for you—I know it's hard; but I cannot let you go."
"We've been up to old-man Gibbs', near Dresden."
"A tall dark man, who sometimes rides a white mule?"
"No, that's his son. Now you know the kind of folks we've been among, maybe you'll let us go."
"I am sorry for you—I know it's hard; but I cannot let you go."
Four—five—six miles, and they ask:
"Do you mean to take us to Como?"
"Yes."