“Yes,” said another voice, whose words made me shudder; “bit too well, mate. This chap’s a dead ’un.”
“Bah! not he. Crack on the head with a soft bit o’ wood won’t kill a man. Here, let’s see what they’ve got. Make up that fire a bit. Plaguey dark.”
While this was being said, I felt hands busy about my hands and legs, and then a voice by me said—
“There he is, tight as a bull-calf in a butcher’s cart.”
Soon after the fire blazed up vividly, sending its light in amongst the trees; and I saw the faces of the two big fellows, our old friends, and several of the others, who, after making sure of the rifles and revolvers, hunted out what food there was in Gunson’s little tent, and began to prepare themselves a meal.
“Don’t seem to be no whiskey,” said the big fellow, who was leader, as he passed close by me; and there I lay listening, perfectly helpless, and with my heart beating heavily with dread, as I pondered on the man’s words about Gunson.
I waited till the men were talking round the fire, and then whispered—
“Mr Gunson—Mr Gunson,” but there was no reply, and a chill feeling of horror ran through me, and the cold dew gathered on my forehead.
“Ain’t you going to say a word to me, Mayne Gordon?” said Esau, in a piteous voice.
“Say? What can I say?” I replied.