“Just this, that unless you let me go, and say not a word, your brother Tim shall swing for a rebel before a week’s out.”
It must have been satisfaction to him to see how I was staggered by this. I had never thought that what I had done to-day might recoil on the head of my own brother. However, I affected not to be greatly alarmed at the threat.
“Tim can take care of himself,” said I, sitting down to load my pistol; “but since that is your game, I’ll save the hangman a job.”
And I levelled the weapon at his face.
“Mercy, Mr Gallagher,” he cried all in a tremble. “Sure, I was only joking. I wouldn’t let out on Captain Tim for the world. Come now, won’t you believe me?”
His face was such a picture of terror and panic that I was almost sorry for him. His fellow-prisoner, too, who stood a good chance of the fag-end of my bullet, was equally piteous in his protestations.
“Mark this,” said I, lowering the pistol, to their great relief, “there’s more eyes on you and your confederates than you think. Murder is no way to help Ireland. Tell on Tim if you dare. My pistol can carry in the dark, and the first of you that has a word to say against him may say his prayers.”
And I left them rolling back to back on the roadside. As for Paddy Corkill, when I went to look for him where he had fallen, there was no sign of him but a pool of blood and a track of footsteps, which presently lost themselves in the bog.