"Git up thar, young feller, an' give an account o'yerself!"
Tom did not hear these words, but he felt a sharp kick in the ribs and gave a gasp of pain and surprise.
"Let up, Sam," he murmured. "Can't you keep your feet out of my—" He broke off short and stared around him. "Wha—what does this mean?" he stammered.
Three men stood around him-rough-bearded men, each heavily armed.
"It means thet we have collared ye!" answered one of the men sharply. "Git up!" And he kicked Tom again.
"See here, keep your toe to yourself!" cried Tom hotly. "If you are Arnold Baxter's tools you can treat me half decently, anyway," and he leaped up and faced the crowd.
"Who is Arnold Baxter?" questioned the leader of the men quickly.
"I guess you know well enough."
"Oh, all right if you don't want to talk. But let me say, young feller, thet you have got yerself in a fine mess. Don't yer know ez how they hang hoss thieves in these parts?"
"A horse thief! What do you mean? I am no horse thief, if that's what you are driving at."