XIV. A PRISONER
It chanced that as I lay on my side my eye caught a gleam of light through
a little ragged hole in the matting of pine branches. Part of the interior
of the cabin, the doorway, and some space outside were plainly visible. The
thud of horses had given place to snorts, and then came a flopping of
saddles and packs on the ground. "Any water hyar?" asked a gruff voice I
recognized as Bill's. "Spring right thar," replied a voice I knew to be
Bud's.
"You onery old cayuse, stand still!"
From that I gathered Herky was taking the saddle off his horse.
"Here, Leslie, I'll untie you--if you'll promise not to bolt."
That voice was Buell's. I would have known it among a thousand. And Dick
was still a prisoner.
"Bolt! If you let me loose I'll beat your fat head off!" replied Dick. "Ha!
A lot you care about my sore wrists. You're weakening, Buell, and you know
it. You've got a yellow streak."
"Shet up!" said Herky, in a low, sharp tone. A silence followed. "Buell,
look hyar in the trail. Tracks! Goin' in an' comin' out."
"How old are they?"
"I'll bet a hoss they ain't an hour old."
"Somebody's usin' the cabin, eh?"
The men then fell to whispering, and I could not understand what was said,
but I fancied they were thinking only of me.
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