“You’re a smart chap,” said he, admiringly. “That sounds like a sensible argument. Shut up, now, and let me think about it.”
After sitting for some time with his chin in his hand, frowning at the landscape, the chief bandit straightened himself up upon his bucket and delivered his final decision.
“We’ll give you three weeks,” said he. “That will allow plenty of time for accidents and delays. Two days each way for you to ride to Bozeman and back. That’s four. Ten days for the people on the other side to raise the money and send it out. That’s two weeks. One whole week for the money to come up from Salt Lake. That’s three weeks. You’ll be back here with the money in three weeks. If you don’t get here by then—well, I needn’t go over all that again. You know what’ll happen if you don’t, that’s all. So, now we’ve got it all comfortably arranged, we’ll go to bed.”
Squeaky here arose, and, taking up his old position behind us, said:
“Here, you,—no, not the cook, the other one,—get up and bring all your blankets.”
Seeing that I was the “other one” alluded to, I brought the blankets and threw them down in a heap.
“Make your bed,” was the next command.
I did so.
“Roll yourself up tight.”
I obeyed.