"Nonsense. You are neither hasty nor bloodthirsty, Mr. Ridge. One question from me first, if you please—"
Old Jim waved his hand disgustedly at this polite address, and the "Mistering."
"I just want to know if you know Mr. Brasher, of Varina?"
"Do I know 'Trading Jake?' Muchly; and ever so long. Those bales are for him," pointing to a stack against the walls.
"Then I have a message for you, Mr. Ridge," went on the prisoner, relieved entirely.
"A letter?"
"The letter is lost; I ate it up when a gang of Digger Indians played the joke of making me exchange a good outfit for these rags. Luckily, they thought it was a talisman, and that to cook me and eat me with that medicine paper in my gullet was an error, and so I got away, together with my gun. But I know the contents, and they are important, Mr. Brasher said."
"Fire away!" said Ridge, more and more thawed out towards the speaker.
"But first, some proof I am not being deceived."
"Hang the man!" laughed Jim, amused at being an unknown to one person in this world. "Show him my brand on those packs, Bill."