The fellow was an ugly looking customer, over six feet tall, thin, and with a face horribly pox-marked. He came swaggering up to within five yards of Deck and halted.
"Say, don't yer think this game has been played long enough?" he grunted rather than asked.
"Entirely too long," answered Deck, briefly. He had not yet forgotten the manner in which he had been addressed at the barn.
"We-uns is ready ter make terms if yer don't ask the earth," continued the tall guerilla, swinging his lanky arms into a fold. "Wot do yer say to it?"
"I think you had better make terms."
"Oh, we ain't so terribully skeered, Major. But makin' terms might suit better all around, thet's all."
"Well, what do you propose?"
"This. You-uns let us withdraw on our hosses to the road an' give us half a mile start, an' we-uns will leave everything in the house jest as we found it."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then we'll burn the hull shebang to the ground and take wot comes arfterward," exclaimed the guerilla, vehemently, and added an expression I would not care to transcribe to these pages.