“How d’ye mean, Zeb?” asked the lanky Bully Banjo, turning quickly on him as a man who is ready to grasp at any suggestion.
“What I mean is jest this: We’ve got these two kids here and the Chink—though the Chink don’t count. But don’t yer see thet as long ez we hold ther kids, we kin dictate terms. Ef Chillingworth gets cantankerous—biff!—one of the kids is sniffed out.”
This amiable plan was proposed in a calm way that alarmed the boys far more than if vehemence had been used. They saw that logically to keep them prisoners was the only thing for the gang to do.
Nevertheless, he hung on Simon Lake’s next words. They were not long in coming.
“Zeb,” he said approvingly, “I allers said yer hed a long haid. Now, by Chowder, I knows it. Thet’s a right smart idee. Here, Death, and you, too, Squinty, take charge of these kids, feed ’em well, but I’ll hold you responsible fer ’em. Take ’em away. I’ll make up my mind later what we’ll do with ’em.”
Then, apparently noticing Tom’s start at the ominous name of one of the worthies who came forward at the word of command, the mighty Bully Banjo condescended to explain:
“Death’s right name is ‘Death on the Trail’ He’s a Chinook, and ef you cut up any didoes, ye’ll find he’s well named.”
The man named Death was a tall, dark-skinned fellow, clad in a buckskin coat and ragged trousers. His companion wore mackinacks and cowhide boots. Both had on ragged sombreros.
“Come on,” said Death, motioning to the boys.
Squinty said nothing, but his crossed eyes glinted malevolently as he produced two coils of rawhide rope.