“But this is money.”
“Money!” sneered Tom. “A northern beggar wouldn’t thank you for all he could carry of it. Give it back to him, and every thing else except the cartridges.”
Joe reluctantly restored the wallet, the letters, and the knife, to the pockets from which he had taken them. Tom then directed him to secure the cartridge box of the soldier.
“You are my prisoner,” said Tom; “but I believe in treating prisoners well. You may go into the house, and if your arm is much hurt, Mrs. Burnap may do what she can to help you.”
The prisoner sullenly attended the woman into the house, and Tom followed as far as the front door.
“Now, what am I gwine to do?” said Joe. “You’ve got me into a right smart scrape.”
“I thought I had got you out of one,” replied Tom. “Do you intend to remain here?”
“Sartin not, now. I must clear.”
“So must I; and we have no time to spare. Get what you can to eat, and come along.”
In ten minutes more, Tom and Joe Burnap were travelling towards the mountains.