“No man can presume to compel another to part with his horse against his will, I suppose?” said I, affecting a coolness I did not feel.
“There's many a stranger thing than that happens in these wild parts. I've known a chap ride away with a beast,—just without any question at all!”
“That was a robbery!” exclaimed I, in an effort at virtuous indignation.
“It war n't far off from it,” responded Seth; “but there 's a reward for the fellow's apprehension, and there it be!” and as he spoke he threw a printed handbill on the table, of which all that I could read with my swimming eyes were the words, “One Hundred Dollars Reward,”—“a mare called Charcoal,”—“taking the down trail towards the San José.”
“There was no use in carrying that piece of paper so far,” said I, pitching it contemptuously away.
“And why so, lad?” asked he, peering inquisitively at me.
“Because this took place in Texas, and here we are in Mexico.”
“Mayhap, in strict law that might be something,” said he, calmly; “but were I to chance upon him, why should n't I pass a running-knot over his wrists, and throw him behind me on one of my horses? Who's to say 'You sha' n't?' or who's to stop a fellow that can ride at the head of thirty well-mounted lads, with Colt's revolvers at the saddle-bow?—tell me that, boy!”
“In the first place,” said I, “the fellow who would let himself be taken and slung on your crupper, like a calf for market, deserves nothing better; and particularly so long as he owned a four-barrelled pistol like this!”—and here I drew the formidable weapon from my breast, and held it presented towards him, in a manner that it is rarely agreeable to confront.
“Put down your irons, lad,” said he, with the very slightest appearance of agitation in his manner; “we'll come to terms without burning powder.”