“Hold on to the blanket, boys. Follow me, Fitz,” I whispered, and climbed out. The strain on my injured arm as I swung off gave me a burning pain, but I repressed the groan that came into my throat. I half-expected a bullet to bring me to the ground in a hurry, for I was not over-trustful of the good faith of Mother Borton's friend. But I got to the ground in safety, and was relieved when Fitzhugh stood beside me, and the improvised rope was drawn up.
“Where now?” whispered Fitzhugh.
“To the stable.”
As we slipped along to the corner a man stepped out before us.
“Don't shoot,” he said; “it's me,—Broderick. Tell Mother Borton I wouldn't have done it for anybody but her.”
“I'm obliged to you just the same,” I said. “And here's a bit of drink money. Now, where are my men?”
“Don't know. In the lockup, I reckon.”
“How is that?”
“Why, you see, Meeker tells the fellows here he has a warrant for you,—that you're the gang of burglars that's wanted for the Parrott murder. And he had to show the constable and the landlord and some others the warrant, too.”
“How many were hurt?”