Tom assisted the poor man from the wagon. Gates and Morton were already out.
“Now,” said the chief of the highwaymen, turning to the driver, “you can go. But take heed,” he added sternly, “that you say nothing of this adventure. If you do, you are a marked man, and your life will not be worth an hour’s purchase.”
“I understand,” said the man.
Gates turned toward the driver with sudden suspicion.
“I believe you are in league with these men,” he said sternly. “You have led us into a trap.”
“That is not so,” said the driver earnestly. “I swear it.”
“The man speaks truth,” said the captain. “We have never had anything to do with him.”
“Then why don’t you keep him as you do us?”
“We don’t fly at such game. He is a poor laboring man. We don’t prey on such.”
“I am a poor laboring man,” said Herr Schmidt eagerly. “Let me go, too, good Mr. Robber. I am not rich like these gentlemen.”