The detective sergeant had joined us, and broke in with a hoarse stage whisper audible for miles.
"Ought to have got a pass, eh, what?"
"Refused," said Brat, "Sam wouldn't let me go."
"Long walk, by thundah. Thousand miles—more, to Cheyenne. Ought to have stolen a horse, eh? Damme! Yaas."
"It's too late now," said Brat.
"Shouldn't get caught. Desertion. Looks dam' bad. Can't be done—no, damme. Got to arrest you. Can't have this Lane person reporting me—neglect of duty. Yaas."
Brat looked up at the big whole-hearted ruffian. "Lane would report you, and Sam would break you, Sergeant. I'm not going to run away, to have you smashed. Is there no way, Sergeant?"
Ithuriel F. McBugjuice scratched his head and his piggy eyes narrowed to slits. "It's like—er—your blasted cheek," he said out loud. "Does Shifty Lane know? Eh, what?"
"Know what?" came Lane's rasping voice from the house. "Know what?"
"That your daughtah, young Got-Wet, blast your soul, has been kidnaped by Low Lived Joe, confound you, and sold for a white slave, you—er—jumped up swine, and you stand there gulping as if you liked getting half shares in the price of your girl, you toad! Yaas! damme!"