“A man,” quietly responded the leader. “I intend to search through your wagons, my good fellow.”
“Who are you?”
“Myself, individually.”
“And a blessed cutthroat, too!” savagely said the driver.
The leader smiled.
“You’re not the man to be so severe on cutthroats,” he said. “Now, listen. I don’t want to detain you one minute longer than is necessary, if you are really what you seem to be; but if you are humbugs, why I shall have to scoop you in; so be kind enough to tumble out what goods you’ve got in your truck.”
“If I do, I do,” blustered the driver, “but if I do I’m darned. We’re honest expressmen, driving for the Prairie Express, and, I’d rather die with my weapons in my claws than give up my charge. If you want to see what I’ve got you must come and ride over my dead body.”
He leaped backwards and leaned against the wagon, his pistols held lightly, but firmly, in his hands.
The leader looked admiringly upon the plucky chap.
“You’re gritty,” he said, “and I can admire you; but if you don’t tumble up into that wagon in just half a minute, and tumble out your goods, I’ll be cussed if I don’t tumble you.”