“I will,” says Mr. Dunn emphatic-like.
“But don’t squeal,” says Catty. “It’ll bring the gang down on us hot-foot.”
“Go easy,” says Mr. Dunn. “I can feel that knife right on my spine.”
“Wiggle ahead every time I tell you to,” says Catty. “I’ll slit, and you wiggle, and we’ll make an inch or so, and if they give us time, I’ll get you through.”
“I haven’t got another wiggle in me,” says Mr. Dunn. “If I get out of this you’ll have to carry me. I’m done up.”
“Take it easy. Go slow. We’re coming,” says Catty, and just then we heard a holler back toward the tent and then lots of yells.
“They’ve got away.... They’ve got away,” somebody hollered.
“That’s the guard,” says Catty, as cool as a cucumber. “We’ll have to get a move on us now.”
Then the boss mutineer yelled, “Scatter everybody and look for them. They can’t be far. You’ve got to fetch them back—every one of them....” And there we were with a fat man on our hands—stuck under a barb wire fence.