“None whatever. They told us they wanted to go to Bolton, and as we were going right there we offered to show them the way.”
“More like you want to show ’em the way to some place in the mountains whar you can rob ’em,” snapped Zack.
“O, come now,” returned Archie, “that’s rather too far-fetched. I’ve seen whole families composed of such as you. There are some of them in irons now at the Fort.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Zack.
“I mean that there are some men of your calling in irons now in Fort Bolton,” repeated Archie, not in the least terrified by the expression of almost ungovernable fury which settled on the man’s face. “That’s what I mean. Have a care,” he added, as Zack dashed his hat upon the ground with an angry exclamation and started fiercely toward him. “I have a friend here who will not see me imposed upon.”
As Archie spoke he swung himself around beside the horse he was holding, which, believing no doubt that the boy was about to mount him, turned swiftly, thus presenting his heels toward the advancing guide, who halted very suddenly.
“He knows how to handle his feet,” continued Archie, “and I believe he can kick your hat off your head the first time trying. Suppose you put it on and let him make the attempt.”
Zack did not see fit to accept this proposition, and neither did he renew his hostile demonstrations. Whether it was because he did not think it quite safe to trust himself too close to the horse’s heels, or for the reason that he did not like the looks of the sixteen-shooters which Eugene and Featherweight promptly unslung from their backs, we have no means of knowing. Perhaps it was because the emigrants had brought their consultation to an end, and having decided upon their course, came up to announce what it was.
“Are you sure you are right?” asked an old white-headed man, addressing himself to Archie.