The outlaw stood up facing him, and took from the breast of his shirt a folded paper. Balshannon and I spread it open, and found a careful plan of Holy Cross. At the foot of the paper there was a memorandum signed "George Ryan."
"I may tell you," said the robber, "that if I succeeded in burning yo' home, stealing yo' hawsses, and running yo' cattle, Mr. George Ryan proposed to pay my wolves the sum of ten thousand dollars."
"Carry out your plans," the patrone was pleased all to pieces. "I'd love to fight your wolves. I've got some dynamite, too! Think of what you're losing!"
"Lose nothing!" said the robber. "I'll collect fifty thousand dollars compensation from Ryan!" He stooped down and gathered his son in his arms.
"And now, will you have us for guests in yo' home? Say the word, and we go."
Balshannon lifted his hat and made a little bow, much polite. "My house," he answered in Spanish, "is yours, señor!"
CHAPTER V
BACK TO THE WOLF PACK
Being given to raising fowls, I'm instructed on eggs a whole lot. Killed young, an egg is a sure saint, being a pure white on the outside, and inwardly a beautiful yellow; but since she ain't had no chance to go bad she's not responsible. But when an egg has lingered in this wicked world, exposed to heat, cold, and other temptations, she succumbs, being weary of her youth and shamed of virtue. So she participates in vice to the best of her knowledge and belief. Yes, an old egg is bad every time, and the more bluff she makes with her white and holy shell, the more she's rotten inside, a whited sepulchre.