“Mutual,” laconically returned the horseman. “Don’t think I should have known you. You look like a regular cutthroat. Do you want to know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him my name is Sparrowhawk, and that I’m a New York cracksman. I met Smith, a deserter from his gang; old pal of mine; the police were after me; I cut west; here I am, and want to ring in with him.”
“That’ll do,” said Jack. “Remember, he’s not a chicken to deal with. Keep your eyes open for danger, or I may have to peril all by raking you out of a trap. Dismount, throw your bridle over a bush, and follow me into the house. He’s watching!”
“I twig,” said Sparrowhawk, getting off his horse and disposing of the bridle as Jack had directed. “Fear not for me.”
Jack soon conducted him to the presence of the captain.
“Here’s a chap named Sparrowhawk, capen, from New York, which he’s a cracksman. He met Smith that deserted from you a little time ago; had to get away from the cops, so he come west, and now he wants to join yer. I can vouch for him for all that.”
“How?”
“’Cause we’re both brother members of a great society, ‘The Bloody Hand,’” said Jack. “We’d die for each other.”
And it sounded like truth.