“Oh! he wudn’t, eh?” growled Big Gabe, frowning.
“And you know what his father is; he ain’t afraid of any man or any Lumber Trust on earth. Well, the boy’s a chip of the old block. You try to keep his gun, and see what happens to you. I guess you’ll think some black hornets are singin’ around your head in no time.”
Perhaps it was wrong for Amos to taunt the poacher after this fashion. But then Big Gabe, being at the time in a nasty, reckless humor, the chances are he would hardly have backed down anyhow, once he put his hand to the plow.
He looked at Amos reflectively.
“Say, them fellers think a heap o’ ye, I guess, mebbe, Amos?” he remarked.
“They’re mighty fine boys,” admitted the other, falling into the trap.
“And like as not,” continued the poacher, a grim smile beginning to creep over his red face, “if they thort as how you was hurted or lost, now, that Overton boy and the Bradley one, son o’ Mark Bradley the rich manufacturer, would sally out, and try to find ye. Ain’t thet so, Amos?”
Amos knew it was. But he declined to commit himself. Truth to tell, a terrible fear had suddenly taken possession of him. Evidently these two desperate lawless men had been talking over some wild scheme that had for its main object the demand on Mr. Overton or Mr. Bradley, for ransom money, after the two sons of the wealthy men had been made prisoners.
Once the ransom was in their hands no doubt the two men had in mind an asylum across the lake in Canada.