“You want to join me?” asked Prime.
“I do,” said Sparrowhawk. “I’m called one of the best engravers in the trade, and a very good dye sinker. I’d like to join the ‘Prairie League.’”
“I can use you then,” said the captain. “In the morning you will be regularly initiated into the band, but until that time your brother of the ‘Bloody Hand’ will take care of you. Clear, and let me snooze.”
The two men left the room and strolled off towards the stables.
“So far so good,” said Sparrowhawk. “Harry intends to lay off for the wagons and scoop them in if he can.”
“How many men has he?”
“Ten.”
“He’ll be swallowed up,” said Jack, with an expression of alarm. “The boys of the band number more, without counting the redskins, and they’re all tough fighters. If Harry gets scooped this enterprise will go up like so much gas.”
“Can’t be helped,” said Sparrowhawk. “Ah, what’s that?”
“The distant sound of guns,” said Jack, as the dull boom of far-away rifles came rolling across the plains. “Harry has got his head in a trap.”