“Don’t know,” I said, “anything about it.”
“Ho! Very good. I say, mates, who’s got the sharpest knife?”
“All on us,” said his principal companion—the man who was with him first.
“Well then, we’ll have his ears off, and if that don’t make him speak, his tongue ain’t no use, and we’ll have off that.”
“You dare to touch him,” cried Dean, fiercely, “and I’ll never rest till the police catch you.”
“Thank ye,” said the big ruffian, and one man burst into a roar of laughter. “There, it’s of no use, boys; tell us where he buried his pile, and you shall have a handful apiece. I don’t know but what we’ll let you stop in camp and cook for us. Now then, out with it.”
“I told you before,” I said firmly, “I don’t know, and if I did I would not tell you.”
“Look here,” said one of the men, “give him a taste o’ Indian. That’ll make him speak.”
“What d’yer mean?”
“Pull off his boots, and put his feet close to the fire to warm.”