“I’m all right. I’ve got a hole in my shoulder that feels as big and hot as a blast furnace. But we’ve got them nailed, and it’s all right, old man!”
Durand continued to curse things visible and invisible as he rubbed his leg, while Claiborne watched him impatiently.
“If you start to run I’ll certainly kill you, Monsieur.”
“We have met, my dear sir, under unfortunate circumstances. You should not take it too much to heart about the potato sack. It was the fault of my dear colleagues. Ah, Armitage, you look rather ill, but I trust you will harbor no harsh feelings.”
Armitage did not look at him; his eyes were upon the prostrate figure of Chauvenet, who seemed to be regaining his wits. He moaned and opened his eyes.
“Search him, Claiborne, to make sure. Then get him on his legs and pinion his arms, and tie the gentlemen together. The bridle on that dead horse is quite the thing.”
“But, Messieurs,” began Durand, who was striving to recover his composure—“this is unnecessary. My friend and I are quite willing to give you every assurance of our peaceable intentions.”
“I don’t question it,” laughed Claiborne.
“But, my dear sir, in America, even in delightful America, the law will protect the citizens of another country.”
“It will, indeed,” and Claiborne grinned, put his revolver into Armitage’s hand, and proceeded to cut the reins from the dead horse. “In America such amiable scoundrels as you are given the freedom of cities, and little children scatter flowers in their path. You ought to write for the funny papers, Monsieur.”