Some time after midnight we were awakened by the shuffling and lowing of driven cattle, and went out into the moonlight to see our six oxen, just released from herding, plunging their noses thirstily into the little stream from the 322 spring. Five figures on horseback sat motionless in the background behind them. When the cattle had finished drinking, the horsemen, riding in two couples and one single, turned them into the flat, and then came over to our camp.
After they had approached within plain sight we saw that the single horseman was Cal Marsh; and that Johnny and Old each led an animal on which a man was tied, his arms behind him, his feet shackled beneath the horse’s barrel.
“Here, you fellows,” said Johnny in a low voice, “just catch hold here and help with these birds.”
The three descended rather wearily from their horses, the lead lines of which Cal held while the rest unshackled the prisoners and helped them to dismount. They were both known to me, one as the big desperado, Malone; and the other as the barkeeper at Morton’s place, our old friend of Chagres days. The latter’s head was roughly bound with a bloody cloth. Under Johnny’s direction we tied them firmly. He issued his orders in a low-voiced, curt fashion that precluded anything but the most instant and silent obedience.
“There,” said he at last, “they’ll do. Chuck them inside where they’ll be out of sight. Now about those two horses─”
“I’ll just run ’em up to the Dutchman’s Flat and stake ’em out thar,” interposed Old. “Thar ain’t no one thar; and they won’t be discovered.”
“Well,” conceded Johnny, “if your horse isn’t too tired.”
“She’ll make it,” replied Old confidently.
“Now for our horses,” said Johnny. “Won’t do to be 323 getting in at this time of night. It doesn’t look natural. Don’t believe we can get them to the stable without being spotted. Maybe you’d better stake them up there too. Can you walk back?”
“I reckon,” said Old.