Travis put his revolver back into his overcoat pocket and quieted his mare.
The two men, one a negro and the other a mulatto, came up to his saddle-skirt and stood waiting respectfully.
“You should have awaited me at The Gaffs, Silos.”
“We did, sir,” said the mulatto, “but the boys are all out here in the woods, and we wanted to hold them together. We didn't know when you would come home.”
“Oh, it's all right,” said Travis pettishly—“only you came near catching one of my bullets by mistake. I thought you were Jack Bracken and his gang.”
The mulatto smiled and apologized. He was a bright fellow and the barber of the town.
“We wanted to know, sir, if you were willing for us to do the work to-night, sir?”
“Why bother me about it—no need for me to know, Silos, but one thing I must insist upon. You may whip them—frighten them, but nothing else, mind you, nothing else.”
“But you are the commander of the League—we wanted your consent.”
Travis bent low over the saddle and talked earnestly to the man a while. It was evidently satisfactory to the other, for he soon beckoned his companion and started off into the woods.