"Why, don't you know? It's Jim Meagreson, John Dement, or Snakey, as I call him," declared Fyffe, exultantly.
Poynter stared in amazement, but not so the outlaw leader. With a half-stifled howl of rage and vindictive joy, he drew his knife and leaped forward. Jack Fyffe thought he meant murder, and caught him by the arm.
"Dang it, boss, he's bad enough; but don't butcher him in thet way!"
"Stand off!" yelled Crees, throwing the other violently from him. "Stand off, I say. I am not mad. He is of more use to me living than dead, you fool!"
"All right, then," returned Fyffe, rubbing his shoulder dolefully. "I know thet, but was kinder afeard thet you'd fergit when y'ur mad was up. Thar he is; I turn him over to you fellers, an' dog-goned glad to git shet on him, I am, the onmannerly cuss!"
"'Tis him, Poynter; look!" and Crees held back the captive's head so as to more fully expose the wretch's features.
"It is, indeed," gladly exclaimed Clay, as he beheld the man whom he had been falsely accused of murdering. "And an hour since I would have given ten years of my life if this could have been assured me."
"Wal, square, thar he is, 'thout any o' thet. You're welcome to my shar'."
"But how'd you chance upon him, Jack?"
"Thet's a long yarn—too long fer a feller to spin what hain't had no breakfast," added Fyffe.