“I see,” I said. “I was to be waylaid on the road here and killed.”
“Carried off, more likely. I don't say as it wouldn't end in killin' ye. But, you see, you'd be of mighty small use in tellin' tales if you was dead; but you might be got to talk if they had ye in a quiet place.”
“Good reasoning. But Henry Wilton was killed.”
“Yes,” admitted Mother Borton; “they thought he carried papers, and maybe they ain't got over the idea yit. It's jest as well you're here instid of having a little passear with Tom Terrill and Darby Meeker and their pals.”
“Well,” said I, as cheerfully as I could under the depressing circumstances, “if they want to kill me, I don't see how I can keep them from getting a chance sooner or later.”
Mother Borton looked anxious at this, and shook her head.
“You must call on your men,” she said decidedly. “You must have guards.”
“By the way,” I said, “that reminds me. The men haven't been paid, and they're looking to me for money.”
“Who's looking to you for money?”
“Dicky Nahl—and the others, I suppose.”