“Buell, the kid's fell in with old Bent, the b'ar hunter,” said Bill. “Thet accounts fer the cub. Bent's allus got cubs, an' kittens, an' sich. An' I'll tell you, he ain't no better friend of ourn than Jim Williams.”
“I'd about as soon tackle Williams as Bent,” put in Bud.
Buell shook his fist. “What luck the kid has! But I'll get him, take it from me! Now, what's best to do?”
“Buell, the game's going against you,” said Dick Leslie. “The penitentiary is where you'll finish. You'd better let me loose. Old Bent will find Jim Williams, and then you fellows will be up against it. There's going to be somebody killed. The best thing for you to do is to let me go and then cut out yourself.”
Buell breathed as heavily as a porpoise, and his footsteps pounded hard.
“Leslie, I'm seein' this out—understand? When Bud rode down to the mill an' told me the kid had got away I made up my mind to ketch him an' shet his mouth—one way or another. An' I'll do it. Take thet from me!”
“Bah!” sneered Dick. “You're sca'red into the middle of next week right now.... Besides, if you do ketch Ken it won't do you any good-now!”
“What?”
But Dick shut up like a clam, and not another word could be gotten from him. Buell fumed and stamped.
“Bud, you're the only one in this bunch of loggerheads thet has any sense. What d'you say?”