“No, we can’t,” shouted Gashford, fiercely. “These mean pilferers have become a perfect pest at the diggin’s, an’ we intend to stop their little game, we do, by stoppin’ their windpipes when we catch them. Come, don’t shilly-shally any longer, Paul Bevan. He’s here, and no mistake, so you’d better hand him over. Besides, you owe us something, you know, for coming to your help agin the redskins in the nick of time.”
“Well, as to that I am much obliged, though, after all, it wasn’t to help me you came.”
“No matter,” exclaimed the other impatiently, “you know he is here, an’ you’re bound to give him up.”
“But I don’t know that he’s here, an’ I can’t give him up, cause why? he’s escaped.”
“Escaped! impossible, there is only one bridge to this mound, and he has not crossed that since we arrived, I’ll be bound. There’s a sentry on it now.”
“But an active young feller can jump, you know.”
“No, he couldn’t jump over the creek, unless he was a human flea or a Rocky Mountain goat. Come, since you won’t show us where he is, we’ll take the liberty of sarchin’ your premises. But stay, your daughter’s got the name o’ bein’ a religious gal. If there’s any truth in that she’d be above tellin’ a lie. Come now, Betty, tell us, like a good gal, is Tom Brixton here?”
“No, he is not here,” replied the girl.
“Where is he, then?”
“I do not know.”