“If we take away their guns, what’s the good of making them swear?” demanded the Boy, stepping up and gazing into their eyes. “No, I reckon if they give their oath, they’ll stick to it. Where’s your camp, men?”
“Over yonder, about three mile!” answered the spokesman, nodding toward the northeast.
“If we give you back your guns,” went on the Boy gently, “will you both give us your oath to clear right out of this country altogether, and not trap at all this side of the line? And will you take oath, also, that you will never, in any way, try to get even with either him or me for having downed you this way?”
“Sartain!” responded the spokesman, with obvious sincerity. “I’ll swear to all that! An’ I won’t never want to git even, if you use us so gentlemanlike!”
“And will you swear, too?” inquired the Boy, turning to the silent one who had thrown the axe at him. The fellow glared at him defiantly for a moment, then glanced at his wounded arm, which hung limp at his side. At last he answered with a sullen growl:
“Yes, I’ll swear! Got to! Curse you!”
“Good!” said the Boy. “That’s the best way for all of us. Jabe, will you take their oaths. You know how better than I do!”
“All right!” responded the latter, shrugging his shoulders in a way which said––“it’s your idee, not mine!” Then he proceeded to bind each man separately by an oath which left no loophole, and which was sealed by all that their souls held sacred. This done, he handed back the rifles,––and the two poachers, without a word, turned their backs and made off at a swift lope straight up the open pond. The Boy and Jabe watched them till they vanished among the trees. Then, with a shy little laugh, the Boy picked up the axe which had been hurled at his head.