"Yes, and I've enough education to guess this ain't no way to treat American citizens. You'll hear of this," he shouted, "from Uncle Sam!"
"Thar," says Dale, "I knew there'd be rewards for you, dead or alive. How much? Two thousand dollars a head?"
Then old Whiskers ordered this Bull to shut his head. He's a curious, slow, mournful voice, like a cat with the toothache.
"I demand—"
"Shut up."
So Bull shut up while we lashed him, likewise young Ginger and the greaser. Seeing the fellow I'd killed might want an inquest, we laid him straight in the ruined shack, and then marched our prisoners off to South Cave, where they'll wait until we get our constable to arrest them.
II
Now on the second day after we captures these ladrones, along toward supper, the depositions of the various parties is as follows, viz.:
Up to the ruined shack two mile north of my home, lies the remains of one robber expecting an inquest. Two miles south, right where the upper cliff cuts off the end of our pasture, there's our cave full of captured bandits, to wit; Whiskers, Bull Durham, Ginger, and the dago. Down on the bench in front of the cave is our guard-camp with Iron Dale in command, and Kate with the boys having supper. Right home at the ranch house is me finishing my chores, and the widow spoiling hash for my supper, because she hates me worse nor snakes for being a Protestant. Away off beyond the horizon is old man Brown cussing blue streaks 'cause he can't find much constable.
Such being the combinations at supper-time, along comes the widow's orphan, young Billy O'Flynn, who handles my pack contract with the Sky-line. He's supposed to be on duty at the guard-camp, and his riding back to the home ranch completely disarranges the landscape. I'm busy, hungry, and expected to take charge of the night guard at the cave, but somehow this Billy attracts my attention by acting a whole lot suspicious. Instead of bringing me some message from Dale, he rides straight to the lean-to kitchen, steps off his pony, and whispers for his mother. I sneaks through the house to the kitchen in time to see this widow with a slip of paper, brown paper what we used to wrap up the prisoners' lunch. At sight of me she gets modest, shoving it into the stove, but I becomes prominent, and grabs it "Shure," she explains, "an' it's only a schlip av paper!"