"I think he'll be quiet now," he said to Pierre. "Strap his limbs. That will do. Let's have a look at him." The moonlight failed to reveal much of the man's appearance except that his face looked more like that of a beaten dog than anything else.
"Smells like a distillery," Rex commented, turning his nose away. "He's been well primed for this job."
"Were we tak' heem?" asked Pierre, more material in thought.
Britton considered the matter for a short moment.
"We'll have to take him back to Laurance's and watch him by turns," he finally said. "I can pack the rascal on to Ainslie's Camp to-morrow and collect my half of the reward from Charlie Anderson. He can pay you a like amount on your return trip from Thirty Mile. How does that suit?"
"Bon, for sure t'ing," Pierre returned. "Ah t'ink dat suit me bully. Mak' de five hondred ver' easy."
"Anderson will think it's well worth it for the return of his goods with the gentleman on top," observed Britton. "Turn your outfit, and I'll load this Whiskey-John into the empty sleigh. Whoa! Easy–that's correct, bon camarade! Go ahead now. I'll follow with the contraband."
There was no jingle of bells, nothing but the sober plunging of the sleds as the two dog-trains filed back to Laurance's cabin on Indian River.
CHAPTER X.
"So you've captured the condemned parasite!" cried Jim Laurance, as the returning ones reached his yard.