“Neat shot!” said the woodsman; but the note of astonished admiration in his tone was the most thrilling compliment the Boy had ever received.
“What are you going to do with them, Jabe?” he inquired, mildly.
“That’s fer you to say! They’re yourn!” answered Jabe, keeping his eyes on the prisoners.
The Boy looked the two culprits over carefully, with his calm, boyish gaze. He was overwhelmingly elated, but would have died rather than show it. His air was that of one who is quite used to capturing two outlaws,––and having axes hurled at his head,––and putting bullets through men’s 121 shoulders. He could not help feeling sorry for the man with the bullet through his shoulder.
“Well, Jabe,” he said presently, “we can’t let them go with their guns, because they’re such sneaking brutes, they’d shoot us from behind a tree. And we can’t let them go without their guns, because we can’t be sure they wouldn’t starve before they got to their own homes. And we don’t want to take them into camp, for the fellows would probably treat them as they deserve,––and I don’t want them to get anything so bad as that!”
“Maybe it might be better not to let the hands git hold of ’em!” agreed Jabe. “They’d be rough!”
A gleam of hope came into the prisoners’ eyes. The unwounded one spoke. And he had the perspicacity to address himself to the Boy rather than to Jabe, thereby conciliating the Boy appreciably.
“Let us go!” he petitioned, choking down his rage. “We’ll swear to quit, right now an’ fer good; an’ not to try to git back at yez!”
“Ye’ll have to leave yer guns!” said Jabe sternly.
“They’re the only guns we got; an’ they’re our livin’, fer the winter!” protested the half-breed, still looking at the Boy.