"You alone are to blame for present conditions. We were not looking for you. You began shooting at us before we got into the foothills. Who were you shooting at the last time? I mean before you tried to pot me just now."
A growl was the only answer.
"The question is, what are we going to do with this fellow, Tad?" asked Ned. "Surely it won't be safe to let him go, and we can't leave him here to starve to death."
"No. I'll tell you what. We will fix up a litter—-by the way, fellow, are there any more of your kind fooling about here?"
"You'll find out whether there are or not," grunted the prisoner.
"Thank you. You have answered my question. I now know you are alone.
Ned, can you cut down a couple of saplings?"
"Where do you want to carry him?"
"Down to the fork."
"Then let's drag him. Dragging is good enough for that ruffian—-too good for him. He ought to be shot, then rolled down the hill."
"Don't be bloodthirsty. Prisoners of war should be treated with the utmost courtesy and consideration. I guess perhaps we had better not take the time to make a litter. We can carry him down to the fork. Take hold of the feet. I'll take the heavier end. And you, fellow! You will get along much better if you keep quiet. Remember, no yells nor struggles, else I shall be obliged to put you to sleep as I did a short time since. Do you understand?"