“Regular war, isn’t it?” replied Cutler, smilingly.
“Looks like it,” admitted the sheriff.
“Well, seeing you are trying that game, I’ll just do a little in the war line myself,” said Cutler. “You walk up this path towards me, and if you so much as wink your eye I’ll put a hole in you that a tramcar could go through!”
The sheriff could hardly believe his ears. “Don’t be a fool, Cutler,” he said, angrily.
“Never mind about my being a fool; you do as you’re told or I’ll drop you quick.”
Benson evidently had no doubts about the matter, for, though beside himself with rage, he promptly did as Cutler ordered. The sheriff was forced to walk ahead, and no doubt, had his captor been almost any other man than Jim Cutler, there would have been one big fight on Table Hill, gun or no gun, but Benson knew that Cutler would do just as he said he would. Arrived at the top, Benson was forced to write a note saying that he was a captive, and that perhaps it would be just as well not to fire the cannon in the direction it was now trained. Furthermore, one man was to approach the hill with food, whisky, and tobacco. The note was then secured to a large stone by the aid of Sheriff Benson’s braces, and while Cutler “stood by” Benson was ordered to throw this stone toward the deputy in charge of the waiting horsemen below. This man, or one of those with him, picked up the stone, and read the message to the others. There was a great laugh below—plainly heard by the two men on the ledge—and, needless to say, the merriment of his assistants did not add to Benson’s peace of mind. Cutler now laid his rifle down, first having drawn a six-shooter. Then, approaching Benson, he searched him for concealed firearms, but the sheriff was unarmed. The latter was now told to sit down and make himself comfortable at the opening which led to the path, Cutler being thereby able to watch both his prisoner and the approach from below. Soon a solitary figure came from the camp, carrying the food “ordered.” It was brought as near as Cutler permitted it to be, and then Benson, under cover of the rifle, was sent to fetch it. It looked for a moment as though there might be a fight after all, but Cutler’s business-like demeanour soon caused his prisoner to change his mind.
With the food there was a note, reading, “Are we to wait for you or not?” This did not appeal to the sheriff’s sense of humour, and he tore the paper into shreds.
Just at sundown a large cloud of dust was noticed in the distance, which soon turned out to be a number of mounted men with a wagon, or “prairie schooner.” The new-comers were presently merged with those in camp, and not long afterwards two men, escorting a woman, rode slowly toward Table Hill. Again the white flag was raised, and a voice shouted from below, “Hi, Jim, it’s me—Ludlow.”
Cutler permitted his friend to approach, and when he gained the ledge Ludlow had a hard struggle to restrain his laughter at the unfortunate sheriff’s predicament.
“I’ve brought some news for you, Jim,” said Ludlow. “That school-ma’am is a brick, and no mistake. When I told her how things stood, she came right to the front, and not only saw Judge Nolan, but drove twenty miles to see Governor Hill, and here’s the result.”