He spoke quite cheerful.
"Say, Whiskers," I called, "I want to save your lives, you and the greaser. Come and throw up your hands before you're hurt."
There was no answer. Rocky Mountain outlaws may be mean and bad, but they fight like Americans, and they know how to die. I'd only one way left to force their surrender, and save their lives, so I hustled brushwood, cord-wood, coal-oil from the shed, piled up the fuel, and got a sulphur match from the bunch in my hind pocket.
"Boys," I called, "Old Brown sort of values this place. It's all the home he's got, and it ain't insured."
No answer.
The little flame lep' up and caught the brushwood, the crackling lifted to a roar, and the robbers must surely know that their time was come, for if they showed at the door they would be shot. I grabbed my gun from the ground and ran to the doorway to stop our boys from firing. Then I shouted above the noise of the flames, "Come out and throw up your hands!"
They came, poor fellows, and I made them prisoners, marching them down to the ferry.