“Young feller,” said Toby Sam, “we aire fer the present believin’ what you’ve told us about them emeralds. We’re goin’ to hold you, because, if you’ve lied, then we’ll have a happy settlement with you later; and, further, because we wants to hear what the boss says about it. But we’re goin’ to send a man to the railroad. He’ll manage to git into communication with the young lady you’re sweet on; and he’ll say to her: ‘We’re holdin’ the man you expect to marry. You’ve got certain emeralds we’re interested in. Hand over them emeralds, and we’ll let your feller go free. Otherwise, we cuts short his career with a swift bullet!’”
“And now, to furnish proof to her that we have really got you, and aire meanin’ bizness, we’re goin’ to ask ye to write her a little letter—jes’ a few words from you to her, to that effeck. If she does hand over the emeralds to our man, well and good fer you; but if she don’t, then we ruther think that we’ll snuff out your life lamp in a hurry. What d’ye say?”
Bruce took time to consider this.
“May I write what I please,” he asked, “or what I’m ordered?”
“You writes what we tells you.”
“Then I refuse to write anything.”
He set his jaws stubbornly.
Toby Sam’s big revolver appeared again, threatening him.
“That’s all right,” said Clayton. “Shoot me, if you want to, and then you’ll never get those emeralds.”
“What’ll you write?” Toby Sam demanded.