"Yas, yas, it's his funeral!"
"Then let him do ther undertakin'."
Robber Dick was accordingly supported to a sitting posture, and the blood that flowed freely from his wound was stanched. In the operation his mask became loosened and slipped to the ground, but so quickly did he snatch it up and replace it, that no one caught even a glimpse of his face.
In the meantime Clarence Filmore had discharged every load in his two six-shooters into the air. He had an object in doing this; he thought that the reports of fire-arms would reach Deadwood (which was only a short mile distant, around the bend), and arouse the military, who would come to his rescue.
Dick's wound dressed, he stood once more upon his feet, and glared up at the two men on the box. They were plainly revealed in the ghostly moonlight, and their features easily studied.
"Alexander Filmore!" the young road-agent said, a terrible depth of meaning in his voice, that the cowering wretch could but understand.
"Alexander Filmore, you have at last come out and shown your true colors. What a treacherous, double-dyed villain you are! Better so; better that you should take the matter into your own hands and face the music, than to employ tools, as you have done heretofore. I can fight a dozen enemies face to face better than one or two lurking in the bushes."
The elder Filmore uttered a savage curse.
"You triumph now!" he growled, biting his nether lip in vexation; "but it will not always be thus."
"Eh? think not? I think I shall have to adopt you for awhile. Boys, haul down the two, and bind them securely."