But he being fretful with his wound, orders his men to disable Brown's fiddle, and lash me up with catgut. Moreover, when I was trussed, this Bull seen fit to kick me on the off chance, a part which ain't referred to in polite society, especially with a boot.

"Brave man!" says I, and the rest of them robbers was so shamed they got me a gag.

"Sorry," says I, "pity I won't be able to guide you to Brown's cigars.

He keeps a bottle, too."

"Where are they?" says Bull.

"Gag Brooke," said I, for Bull went by that name, "and I'll divulge the drinks."

"Gag Brooke," says Whiskers, cheering up a little, "pity he weren't born gagged."

So they gagged Mr. Brooke, and mounted him on sentry while they had Brown's bottle of whisky and cigars. I got some, too.

Of course these or'nary, no-account, range wolves reckoned my friends would wait for day before they attempted tracking. Whereas Dale got the lantern, found my paper trail, and guessed at the ferry. Before we entered the cabin, I'd seen the glint of that lantern behind the rim of the bench, and I knew our boys trusted me to keep the robbers somehow down at the ferry-house. Ginger and the greaser lay down for an hour's sleep, Mr. Brooke, gagged and not at all pleased, kep' guard at the door, Whiskers, since the liquor made his wound worse, lurched groaning around the shack. At the first glint of dawn, he ordered Bull to take out the gag and lie down, then went to the door himself.

It's a pity that Dale, our leader, a sure fine shot, has a slight cast in his near eye, which throws his lead a little to the right. That's why, when Whiskers went to the door, Dale's bullet only whipped off his left ear. Instead of being grateful, Whiskers skipped around holding the side of his face, with remarks which for a poor man was extravagant. The shot made Bull bolt courageous behind the stove, to look for a bandage, he said, while Ginger and the greaser sat up on their tails looking sort of depressed. Not one of the four was happy on finding that they'd bottled themselves in the cabin instead of taking my advice and clearing for the States.

"Prisoner," says, Whiskers, dolesome, holding his poor ear, "you can talk to your friends acrost the river?"

"Why, certainly, Captain."

"What way?"

"Signaling."

"Then tell your friends that if they don't throw all their guns into the river, you die at sunrise. Have you got religion?"

"I didn't mention," says I, sort of thoughtful, "that any of my friends can read the signals."

"Then," says he, in that suicide manner he had, "they won't get your last sad words. Get them weapons thrown in the river, or grab religion right away, for you'll need it."

"Cut the catgut, Colonel."

So Ginger cut me free.

"Show a white flag, General," said I.

So Ginger waved a paper on a stick, and Dale replied with a white scarf from his neck.

When I walked out, the boys acrost the river gave three cheers, but I was halted from behind before I'd got far sideways. "Now," says Whiskers, "signal, and pray that you won't be tempted to send erroneous messages."

"Remember," Bull shouts, "I can read Morse. No fooling."

"All right, Mr. Brooke," I called back, "then I'll use semaph.o.r.e."

I heard Whiskers in tears directing his two youngsters to put Mr.

Brooke's head in the meal sack, and sit hard on top. So I began to signal, explaining each word to Whiskers.

_Swim._ "That," says I, "means 'Dale.'"

_Pool._ "That's 'fool,'" says I, "because he don't give the answer."

_Below._ "That's 'h.e.l.lo.'"

_Rapids._ "That's 'h.e.l.lo' again."

"You lie," says Whiskers, miserable, through his teeth. "You made six letters."

"Sorry," says I, "it got spelt wrong first time."

_Float._ "That's 'skunk,'" says I, "because he's a polecat not to answer me."

_Guns._

"What's that?" asked Whiskers, heaps suspicious because I couldn't think of another word of four letters. "h.e.l.l!" says I.

"Quite right," sighed Whiskers, "to think of your future home."

Dale signaled, _Coming_.

"Says he's ready for the Epistle and Gospel now. Spit it out, Whiskers."

"Tell him to throw his guns in the river, or I'll shoot prisoner. And what's more, young man, you don't want to call me Whiskers."

I wagged all that, word for word, as far as "Whiskers," and when the boys were through laughing, Dale asked if the robbers were serious.

I explained to the general that Dale wouldn't wet good guns to please a lot of--

"Lot of what?"

"Terms of endearment," says I, "which I blushes for Dale's morals."

Dale signaled, _Keep your tail up._

"Well, General," says I, "without being able to read him exact, I guess Dale ain't drawing his men off along the bank with your outfit to shoot them like rabbits the moment they quit cover."

"Tell Dale," said Whiskers in his tired voice, "he needn't trouble to take his men along the bank to whar they can swim the river. Now if you had religion--"

I could have choked with grief.

"Tell Dale," says Whiskers, and his bereaved voice kind of jarred me now, "we're just goin' to keep a gun at your ear-hole while we march up the trail. If Dale's men fire, your wife will be a widow, Mr. Smith."

At that I wagged my arms and signaled. _No call to get wet. Hold-ups marching to Georgia. Kill man with gun. If you miss, ware Widow Smith._ You see if Dale squinted and missed, my widow was apt to reproach. So I added, _Allow windage for squint._

Dale answered, _You bet your life I will._

Then I swung round facing the cabin, and saw the barrel of my own revolver just peering round the door. By its height from the ground I judged that poor young Ginger was the artist. I wished it had been Bull, for I'd taken a fancy to Ginger.