“Save your gab, both o’ yuh. Too bad that other feller got away.”
Dick hoped that their captors would take them back to Meade’s road-house. It would be the best thing for him and Sandy. Their chance of getting away would be better. They would feel safer there. Meade, no doubt, would interfere and gain their release.
Sandy had sunk into deep and utter dejection. He recalled, with little shivers of apprehension, the treatment which had been meted out to Creel a few days before. He was not buoyed up by any false hopes. He could see in Burnnel and Emery’s actions only an effort at reprisal—revenge for their previous humiliation. Unlike Dick, he did not believe that they would be taken back to Meade’s road-house. In fact, such a thought had never entered his mind. The partners were too shrewd for that. No, he and Dick would be mistreated and tortured merely to satisfy their craving for revenge. Besides, it would not suit Burnnel and Emery’s purpose to be encumbered with two prisoners. They had other business to attend to.
And, in a way, Sandy was right. Shortly after the boys had been relieved of their guns, Burnnel straightened up, his mouth twisted in a venomous leer.
“Turn out your pockets,” he ordered.
The boys obeyed hastily, their hands nervous and trembling. Emery stood over them, watching like a hawk, seizing from one or the other the miscellaneous assortment of things that were brought to light. Dick, who had acted as treasurer for the three boys, was relieved of a roll of bills and a handful of silver. Burnnel’s eyes lighted with satisfaction at sight of the money, but his partner only grunted. Soon the boys had completed their task. Their pockets had all been emptied.
“Where’s the poke?”
Dick stared incredulously.
“Poke? Why—why—what do you mean?”
“Don’t yuh try tuh look so blame’ innocent. Yuh got it, one o’ yuh.”