“What of it?” Matt demanded, in angry tones. “That’s the very reason I want you to grab him; so’s he won’t have time to use his gun. Now, then, here we go, quiet like, an’ still.”
The three moved off so silently that Joe Wayring would not have heard them if he had been awake and listening for their approach[approach]. They came up on each side of the camp, cutting off every avenue of escape, and at the signal agreed upon made a simultaneous rush. Before Joe could open his eyes he was powerless, for Matt Coyle had seized both his hands, crossed them upon his breast, and pinned them there with a vise-like grasp.
“It’s come our turn to boss things,” said the squatter, returning Joe’s astonished look with an angry scowl. “We’ll learn you to drive us outen Mount Airy an’ tear our house down jest’ cause we’re poor folks an’ ain’t got no good clothes to wear. Jakey, you an’ Sam look around an’ find a rope or something to tie him with.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Joe, when he found his tongue.
“That depends on yourself,” answered Matt. “You can get off without a scratch if you will do jest what I tell you; but if you don’t it will be wuss for you. Where is it?”
“Where’s what?” said Joe, innocently.
“Now jest listen at the blockhead!” exclaimed Matt. “You don’t know what I mean, don’t you? I mean the money you stole from us. The money, you varmint.” And whenever he said “money” he jammed Joe’s hands down upon his breast with terrific force. “The money, I say. Where is it?”
“All the money I have is in my pocket,” replied Joe. “If you want it, I can’t hinder you from taking it.” He spoke with difficulty, for Matt’s furious lunges had nearly knocked the breath out of his body.
“Whoop!” yelled the squatter. “Listen at you! I don’t want the money that’s into your pocket. I want what was stole from the bank. It b’longs to me, an’ I’m goin’ to have it. Where is it, I tell you.”
“I don’t know the first thing about it. I never saw it.”