Four of the five guards had entered the cabin. A stocky man addressed by the others as Bat was arguing with a sleezy fellow called Snafflin. “Aw thunder,” Bat was urging, “give the kid a little while longer, Snafflin, you whopperjawed jackass.”
“Look here, you mutton-head” (Snafflin really called him something much worse, but what he said would better not be repeated here), “you know what the Boss said; ‘Give him till eight o’clock. Then if he won’t come around and write the letter, tie him up in the swamp.’ It’s way after eight now, and either you tie him up or— Well, there’ll be a new leader in this cute little band of cutthroats, savvy?”
“Speak for yourself—about being a cutthroat, Snafflin. Me, there is one throat I hope to cut—yours. One of these days I’ll get you, Snafflin, just remember that. Now—well, you guys are four to one. We’ll tie up the kid.”
Then, speaking to Hike, Bat continued:
“Kid, I’m sure sorry I’ve got to do this. Cummon now, won’t you sign the letter? Aw, cummon!”
“Nope, Bat, I can’t do it. Sorry.” Poodle could just make out Hike’s tired smile as he said it, tied up, down there in the frowsy cabin.
“So’m I sorry. Well, kid, here goes.”
The door opened, and Poodle and the General could see the four men leading out Hike, while the fifth man, still on guard, brought up the rear, rifle on his arm. Hike, with his feet hobbled and his wrists tied tight, stumbled along weakly.
Poodle whispered to the General, “I’ll sneak down and let him loose, and beat it back up here.”
“Good. Go ahead.”