He had been pounced upon by three white men in the heat of the battle, and was unable to contend against such odds.
He was knocked down, kicked once or twice for falling, and then rushed up to the wagon and told to grab his fiddle.
Barney was much bewildered.
Half stunned and totally incapable of anything like connected thought, he grasped his dear old musical companion, and was marched away.
Then he was placed on the back of the horse, his legs tied under the animal’s belly, and trotted off from the scene of his capture at a lively pace.
His three captors kept sharp watch over him.
They were sharp, wide-awake white chaps, and any of them seemed quite a match for Barney, so the Irishman, when he got a little sensible, thought it would only be policy on his part to take the matter lightly, and not appear to be huffy, or to kick up any rumpus.
His brain cleared, and he didn’t very clearly understand how it was that he was riding along in the company of these cut-throats, although a confused notion of his capture kept running in his head.
“It sames that I’m united to this party be very strong toies,” he said to the man who was riding at his right hand.
“I guess yes,” was the laconic reply.