“Well, sir! Nasty mess. He won’t git off easy.”
“No. Say, what’s Bill doin’ neow? Looks interestin’.”
Thomson had taken the gold from Warren’s money-belt and the contents of his saddle-bags and was parcelling money and clothing impartially among his followers. Warren’s revolvers were stowed in Thomson’s own belt; then his garments followed suit, one man getting his boots, another his coat, still another his hat and so on.
While this was going on the unfortunate man revived and stared up into the devilish face of Bill Thomson. He groaned and closed his eyes.
“Howd’y, Mr. Maxwell? Didn’t think I’d meet up with you so soon again, did you? Well, I’ve got you. Been after you ever since you left the ‘Crescent,’ and a mighty pretty chase it’s been. Now, I want my niggers. I ain’t foolin’. Where’s they at?”
“I can’t tell you,” gasped Warren painfully.
“Look here, my friend, you’ve got to tell me. It’s worth your life to you. You answer me true an’ straight an’ I’ll make it all right for you. If you don’t——” He paused ominously. “I’ll let a Missouri crowd kill you! It won’t be nice, easy killin’, neither.”
“I can’t tell you,” again Warren answered, looking up resolutely into the sinister face bending above him.
“Got grit,” muttered Sam to Dave.
Warren was trembling, and the cold drops in the roots of his hair ran down his forehead. He was not afraid; he was a man who did not know the name of fear or cowardice, but Thomson’s evil looks sent a chill to his heart. Ebenezer Maybee’s words of a few nights back rang in his ears monotonously: “You might git a taste of this scrimmage that’d con-vince you that the South is a horned hornet on the nigger question.”