“Yes, I heard all about it. Some of you fellows shot the driver because he would not stop for you, and you stand a pretty good chance of having your necks stretched.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” said the squawman. “But you must not allow that to be done.”
“I?” exclaimed Carl. “I can’t help you any.”
“Yes, you can. When the war was here—and I know about it, for I was on the Confederate side—they used to exchange prisoners, didn’t they?”
“I believe they did.”
“Well, now, ever since those two fellows were caught I laid out to capture you the first time you crossed the reservation, and get you to write a letter to General Miles, telling him that if he would let those men go I would let you go. But first there has got to be some little business between us.”
Carl leaned his head upon his hands, looked reflectively at the ground, and thought about it. What he had heard went a great way to convince him that his circumstances were not as bad as he thought they were. The squawmen had sent these threatening messages to his father during his lifetime, and he supposed that when he was captured there was nothing but death awaited him; but, somehow, General Miles had managed to capture two of the men who were given to holding up stagecoaches, and that had put a different view on the matter. This squawman—Harding, his name was—came to the conclusion that he had better go easy with Carl. He would offer to exchange him—one scout for two prisoners—and then he would be all right. He could afterward capture Carl, and do what he pleased with him. The scout saw through his scheme as easily as the squawman did; and, furthermore, he was anxious to help it along. Very cautiously he let his hands drop until they rested on his breast. There was one thing upon which Carl congratulated himself at the time of his capture, and that was that the squawman did not attempt to search his clothes in the hope of finding more weapons. He thought that the rifle and single revolver were all he had; but stowed away in the inside pockets of his moleskin jacket were two revolvers which he thought might come handy in time. He could feel them now, as he allowed his hands to drop.
“Well, what are you thinking of?” asked Harding, as he lighted his pipe and sat down on a bed opposite to the one Carl occupied. “You can write, can’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I can write, but I don’t know that it will do any good,” said Carl.
“I will bet you can put it down to him so that it will do some good,” said the squawman with a hideous smile. “Suppose you tell him that the only scout he has got at Fort Scott stands a fair chance of being tied up to the stake if he don’t release my partners. What then?”