"Which means that or something like it. I don't care if the colonel pays it, or the major, so long as I get it back in gold. I won't take any more United States shinplasters. In a few months more they won't be worth the paper they are printed on."
"That's as true as you're born," put in Colonel Bradner.
"What about Confederate scrip?"
"It will be as good as gold—in a short time. But we are talking too much, and I came here on another errand." The guerilla turned to his brother-in-law. "You can keep him locked up for about forty-eight hours, can't you?"
"I had planned to lock him up before you came," answered the crippled veteran. "There is a pantry in the cellar which will make a capital cell."
"All right. Joe, lead the way, and you will follow him, Lyon. I will come after," said the guerilla chief. "March!"
"Supposing I refuse to be locked up," ventured Artie.
"I will put a bullet through your head without hesitation."
"You are a generous enemy, to say the least," was the young captain's comment; and without further words he moved off.
The colored man led the way through the hallway to the rear, where there was an enclosed stairway to the cellar. The latter place was gloomy, and the air far from wholesome. Soon the three stood before the pantry which had been mentioned. It was a square affair, built of heavy planking and with an equally heavy door. There was a bolt on the door, and likewise a padlock.