Barr Robert
In the Midst of Alarms
“This is what I call a rescue,” whispered Yates to his linked companion.
What is a stern upholder of the law to do when the interferer with justice is a determined and angry woman accustomed to having her own way? Stoliker looked helplessly at Hiram, as the supposed head of the house, but the old man merely shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say: “You see how it is yourself. I am helpless.”
Mrs. Bartlett marched her prisoners through the gate and up to the house.
“All I ask of you now,” said Yates, “is that you will give Renmark and me seats together at the table. We cannot bear to be separated, even for an instant.”
Having delivered her prisoners to the custody of her daughter, at the same time admonishing her to get breakfast as quickly as possible, Mrs. Bartlett went to the gate again. The constable was still on his horse. Hiram had asked, by way of treating him to a noncontroversial subject, if this was the colt he had bought from old Brown, on the second concession, and Stoliker had replied that it was. Hiram was saying he thought he recognized the horse by his sire when Mrs. Bartlett broke in upon them.
“Come, Sam,” she said, “no sulking, you know. Slip off the horse and come in. How’s your mother?”
“She’s pretty well, thank you,” said Sam sheepishly, coming down on his feet again.
Kitty Bartlett, her gayety gone and her eyes red, waited on the prisoners, but absolutely refused to serve Sam Stoliker, on whom she looked with the utmost contempt, not taking into account the fact that the poor young man had been merely doing his duty, and doing it well.
“Take off these handcuffs, Sam,” said Mrs. Bartlett, “until they have breakfast, at least.”
Stoliker produced a key and unlocked the manacles, slipping them into his pocket.
“Ah, now!” said Yates, looking at his red wrist, “we can breathe easier; and I, for one, can eat more.”
The professor said nothing. The iron had not only encircled his wrist, but had entered his soul as well. Although Yates tried to make the early meal as cheerful as possible, it was rather a gloomy festival. Stoliker began to feel, poor man, that the paths of duty were unpopular. Old Hiram could always be depended upon to add somberness and taciturnity to a wedding feast; the professor, never the liveliest of companions, sat silent, with clouded brow, and vexed even the cheerful Mrs. Bartlett by having evidently no appetite. When the hurried meal was over, Yates, noticing that Miss Kitty had left the room, sprang up and walked toward the kitchen door. Stoliker was on his feet in an instant, and made as though to follow him.
“Sit down,” said the professor sharply, speaking for the first time. “He is not going to escape. Don’t be afraid. He has done nothing, and has no fear of punishment. It is always the innocent that you stupid officials arrest. The woods all around you are full of real Fenians, but you take excellent care to keep out of their way, and give your attention to molesting perfectly inoffensive people.”
“Good for you, professor!” cried Mrs. Bartlett emphatically. “That’s the truth, if ever it was spoken. But are there Fenians in the woods?”
“Hundreds of them. They came on us in the tent about three o’clock this morning,—or at least an advance guard did,—and after talking of shooting us where we stood they marched us to the Fenian camp instead. Yates got a pass, written by the Fenian general, so that we should not be troubled again. That is the precious document which this man thinks is deadly evidence. He never asked us a question, but clapped the handcuffs on our wrists, while the other fools held pistols to our heads.”
“It isn’t my place to ask questions,” retorted Stoliker doggedly. “You can tell all this to the colonel or the sheriff; if they let you go, I’ll say nothing against it.”
Meanwhile, Yates had made his way into the kitchen, taking the precaution to shut the door after him. Kitty Bartlett looked quickly round as the door closed. Before she could speak the young man caught her by the plump shoulders—a thing which he certainly had no right to do.
“Miss Kitty Bartlett,” he said, “you’ve been crying.”
“I haven’t; and if I had, it is nothing to you.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that. Don’t deny it. For whom were you crying? The professor?”
“No, nor for you either, although I suppose you have conceit enough to think so.”
“Me conceited? Anything but that. Come, now, Kitty, for whom were you crying? I must know.”
“Please let me go, Mr. Yates,” said Kitty, with an effort at dignity.
“Dick is my name, Kit.”
“Well, mine is not Kit.
“You’re quite right. Now that you mention it, I will call you Kitty, which is much prettier than the abbreviation.”
“I did not ‘mention it.’ Please let me go. Nobody has the right to call me anything but Miss Bartlett; that is, you haven’t, anyhow.”
“Well, Kitty, don’t you think it is about time to give somebody the right? Why won’t you look up at me, so that I can tell for sure whether I should have accused you of crying? Look up—Miss Bartlett.”
“Please let me go, Mr. Yates. Mother will be here in a minute.”
“Mother is a wise and thoughtful woman. We’ll risk mother. Besides, I’m not in the least afraid of her, and I don’t believe you are. I think she is at this moment giving poor Mr. Stoliker a piece of her mind; otherwise, I imagine, he would have followed me. I saw it in his eye.”
“I hate that man,” said Kitty inconsequently.
“I like him, because he brought me here, even if I was handcuffed. Kitty, why don’t you look up at me? Are you afraid?”
“What should I be afraid of?” asked Kitty, giving him one swift glance from her pretty blue eyes. “Not of you, I hope.”
“Well, Kitty, I sincerely hope not. Now, Miss Bartlett, do you know why I came out here?”
“For something more to eat, very likely,” said the girl mischievously.
“Oh, I say, that to a man in captivity is both cruel and unkind. Besides, I had a first-rate breakfast, thank you. No such motive drew me into the kitchen. But I will tell you. You shall have it from my own lips. That was the reason!”
He suited the action to the word, and kissed her before she knew what was about to happen. At least, Yates, with all his experience, thought he had taken her unawares. Men often make mistakes in little matters of this kind. Kitty pushed him with apparent indignation from her, but she did not strike him across the face, as she had done before, when he merely attempted what he had now accomplished. Perhaps this was because she had been taken so completely by surprise.
“I shall call my mother,” she threatened.
“Oh, no, you won’t. Besides, she wouldn’t come.” Then this frivolous young man began to sing in a low voice the flippant refrain, “Here’s to the girl that gets a kiss, and runs and tells her mother,” ending with the wish that she should live and die an old maid and never get another. Kitty should not have smiled, but she did; she should have rebuked his levity, but she didn’t.
“It is about the great and disastrous consequences of living and dying an old maid that I want to speak to you. I have a plan for the prevention of such a catastrophe, and I would like to get your approval of it.”
Yates had released the girl, partly because she had wrenched herself away from him, and partly because he heard a movement in the dining room, and expected the entrance of Stoliker or some of the others. Miss Kitty stood with her back to the table, her eyes fixed on a spring flower, which she had unconsciously taken from a vase standing on the window-ledge. She smoothed the petals this way and that, and seemed so interested in botanical investigation that Yates wondered whether she was paying attention to what he was saying or not. What his plan might have been can only be guessed; for the Fates ordained that they should be interrupted at this critical moment by the one person on earth who could make Yates’ tongue falter.
The outer door to the kitchen burst open, and Margaret Howard stood on the threshold, her lovely face aflame with indignation, and her dark hair down over her shoulders, forming a picture of beauty that fairly took Yates’ breath away. She did not notice him.
“O Kitty,” she cried, “those wretches have stolen all our horses! Is your father here?”
“What wretches?” asked Kitty, ignoring the question, and startled by the sudden advent of her friend.
“The Fenians. They have taken all the horses that were in the fields, and your horses as well. So I ran over to tell you.”
“Have they taken your own horse, too?”
“No. I always keep Gypsy in the stable. The thieves did not come near the house. Oh, Mr. Yates! I did not see you.” And Margaret’s hand, with the unconscious vanity of a woman, sought her disheveled hair, which Yates thought too becoming ever to be put in order again.
Margaret reddened as she realized, from Kitty’s evident embarrassment, that she had impulsively broken in upon a conference of two.
“I must tell your father about it,” she said hurriedly, and before Yates could open the door she had done so for herself. Again she was taken aback to see so many sitting round the table.
There was a moment’s silence between the two in the kitchen, but the spell was broken.
“I—I don’t suppose there will be any trouble about getting back the horses,” said Yates hesitatingly. “If you lose them, the Government will have to pay.”
“I presume so,” answered Kitty coldly; then: “Excuse me, Mr. Yates; I mustn’t stay here any longer.” So saying, she followed Margaret into the other room.
Yates drew a long breath of relief. All his old difficulties of preference had arisen when the outer door burst open. He felt that he had had a narrow escape, and began to wonder if he had really committed himself. Then the fear swept over him that Margaret might have noticed her friend’s evident confusion, and surmised its cause. He wondered whether this would help him or hurt him with Margaret, if he finally made up his mind to favor her with his serious attentions. Still, he reflected that, after all, they were both country girls, and would no doubt be only too eager to accept a chance to live in New York. Thus his mind gradually resumed its normal state of self-confidence; and he argued that, whatever Margaret’s suspicions were, they could not but make him more precious in her eyes. He knew of instances where the very danger of losing a man had turned a woman’s wavering mind entirely in the man’s favor. When he had reached this point, the door from the dining room opened, and Stoliker appeared.
“We are waiting for you,” said the constable.
“All right. I am ready.”
As he entered the room he saw the two girls standing together talking earnestly.
“I wish I was a constable for twenty-four hours,” cried Mrs. Bartlett. “I would be hunting horse thieves instead of handcuffing innocent men.”
“Come along,” said the impassive Stoliker, taking the handcuffs from his pocket.
“If you three men,” continued Mrs. Bartlett, “cannot take those two to camp, or to jail, or anywhere else, without handcuffing them, I’ll go along with you myself and protect you, and see that they don’t escape. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sam Stoliker, if you have any manhood about you—which I doubt.”
“I must do my duty.”
The professor rose from his chair. “Mr. Stoliker,” he said with determination, “my friend and myself will go with you quietly. We will make no attempt to escape, as we have done nothing to make us fear investigation. But I give you fair warning that if you attempt to put a handcuff on my wrist again I will smash you.”
A cry of terror from one of the girls, at the prospect of a fight, caused the professor to realize where he was. He turned to them and said in a contrite voice:
“Oh! I forgot you were here. I sincerely beg your pardon.”
Margaret, with blazing eyes, cried:
“Don’t beg my pardon, but—smash him.”
Then a consciousness of what she had said overcame her, and the excited girl hid her blushing face on her friend’s shoulder, while Kitty lovingly stroked her dark, tangled hair.
Renmark took a step toward them, and stopped. Yates, with his usual quickness, came to the rescue, and his cheery voice relieved the tension of the situation.
“Come, come, Stoliker, don’t be an idiot. I do not object in the least to the handcuffs; and, if you are dying to handcuff somebody, handcuff me. It hasn’t struck your luminous mind that you have not the first tittle of evidence against my friend, and that, even if I were the greatest criminal in America, the fact of his being with me is no crime. The truth is, Stoliker, that I wouldn’t be in your shoes for a good many dollars. You talk a great deal about doing your duty, but you have exceeded it in the case of the professor. I hope you have no property; for the professor can, if he likes, make you pay sweetly for putting the handcuffs on him without a warrant, or even without one jot of evidence. What is the penalty for false arrest, Hiram?” continued Yates, suddenly appealing to the old man. “I think it is a thousand dollars.”
Hiram said gloomily that he didn’t know. Stoliker was hit on a tender spot, for he owned a farm.
“Better apologize to the professor and let us get along. Good-by, all. Mrs. Bartlett, that breakfast was the very best I ever tasted.”
The good woman smiled and shook hands with him.
“Good-by, Mr. Yates; and I hope you will soon come back to have another.”
Stoliker slipped the handcuffs into his pocket again, and mounted his horse. The girls, from the veranda, watched the procession move up the dusty road. They were silent, and had even forgotten the exciting event of the stealing of the horses.
CHAPTER XVII
When the two prisoners, with their three captors, came in sight of the Canadian volunteers, they beheld a scene which was much more military than the Fenian camp. They were promptly halted and questioned by a picket before coming to the main body; the sentry knew enough not to shoot until he had asked for the countersign. Passing the picket, they came in full view of the Canadian force, the men of which looked very spick and span in uniforms which seemed painfully new in the clear light of the fair June morning. The guns, topped by a bristle of bayonets which glittered as the rising sun shone on them, were stacked with neat precision here and there. The men were preparing their breakfast, and a temporary halt had been called for that purpose. The volunteers were scattered by the side of the road and in the fields. Renmark recognized the colors of the regiment from his own city, and noticed that there was with it a company that was strange to him. Although led to them a prisoner, he felt a glowing pride in the regiment and their trim appearance—a pride that was both national and civic. He instinctively held himself more erect as he approached.
“Renmark,” said Yates, looking at him with a smile, “you are making a thoroughly British mistake.”
“What do you mean? I haven’t spoken.”
“No, but I see it in your eye. You are underestimating the enemy. You think this pretty company is going to walk over that body of unkempt tramps we saw in the woods this morning.”
“I do indeed, if the tramps wait to be walked over—which I very much doubt.”
“That’s just where you make a mistake. Most of these are raw boys, who know all that can be learned of war on a cricket field. They will be the worst whipped set of young fellows before night that this part of the country has ever seen. Wait till they see one of their comrades fall, with the blood gushing out of a wound in his breast. If they don’t turn and run, then I’m a Dutchman. I’ve seen raw recruits before. They should have a company of older men here who have seen service to steady them. The fellows we saw this morning were sleeping like logs, in the damp woods, as we stepped over them. They are veterans. What will be but a mere skirmish to them will seem to these boys the most awful tragedy that ever happened. Why, many of them look as if they might be university lads.”
“They are,” said Renmark, with a pang of anguish.
“Well, I can’t see what your stupid government means by sending them here alone. They should have at least one company of regulars with them.”
“Probably the regulars are on the way.”
“Perhaps; but they will have to put in an appearance mighty sudden, or the fight will be over. If these boys are not in a hurry with their meal, the Fenians will be upon them before they know it. If there is to be a fight, it will be before a very few hours—before one hour passes, you are going to see a miniature Bull Run.”
Some of the volunteers crowded around the incomers, eagerly inquiring for news of the enemy. The Fenians had taken the precaution to cut all the telegraph wires leading out of Fort Erie, and hence those in command of the companies did not even know that the enemy had left that locality. They were now on their way to a point where they were to meet Colonel Peacocke’s force of regulars—a point which they were destined never to reach. Stoliker sought an officer and delivered up his prisoners, together with the incriminating paper that Yates had handed to him. The officer’s decision was short and sharp, as military decisions are generally supposed to be. He ordered the constable to take both the prisoners and put them in jail at Port Colborne. There was no time now for an inquiry into the case,—that could come afterward,—and, so long as the men were safe in jail, everything would be all right. To this the constable mildly interposed two objections. In the first place, he said, he was with the volunteers not in his capacity as constable, but in the position of guide and man who knew the country. In the second place, there was no jail at Port Colborne.
“Where is the nearest jail?”
“The jail of the county is at Welland, the county town,” replied the constable.
“Very well; take them there.”
“But I am here as guide,” repeated Stoliker.
The officer hesitated for a moment. “You haven’t handcuffs with you, I presume?”
“Yes, I have,” said Stoliker, producing the implements.
“Well, then, handcuff them together, and I will send one of the company over to Welland with them. How far is it across country?”
Stoliker told him.
The officer called one of the volunteers, and said to him:
“You are to make your way across country to Welland, and deliver these men up to the jailer there. They will be handcuffed together, but you take a revolver with you, and if they give you any trouble, shoot them.”
The volunteer reddened, and drew himself up. “I am not a policeman,” he said. “I am a soldier.”
“Very well, then your first duty as a soldier is to obey orders. I order you to take these men to Welland.”
The volunteers had crowded around as this discussion went on, and a murmur rose among them at the order of the officer. They evidently sympathized with their comrade’s objection to the duties of a policeman. One of them made his way through the crowd, and cried:
“Hello! this is the professor. This is Mr. Renmark. He’s no Fenian.” Two or three more of the university students recognized Renmark, and, pushing up to him, greeted him warmly. He was evidently a favorite with his class. Among others young Howard pressed forward.
“It is nonsense,” he cried, “talking about sending Professor Renmark to jail! He is no more a Fenian than Governor-General Monck. We’ll all go bail for the professor.”
The officer wavered. “If you know him,” he said, “that is a different matter. But this other man has a letter from the commander of the Fenians, recommending him to the consideration of all friends of the Fenian cause. I can’t let him go free.”
“Are you the chief in command here?” asked Renmark.
“No, I am not.”
“Mr. Yates is a friend of mine who is here with me on his vacation. He is a New York journalist, and has nothing in common with the invaders. If you insist on sending him to Welland, I must demand that we be taken before the officer in command. In any case, he and I stand or fall together. I am exactly as guilty or innocent as he is.”
“We can’t bother the colonel about every triviality.”
“A man’s liberty is no triviality. What, in the name of common sense, are you fighting for but liberty?”
“Thanks, Renmark, thanks,” said Yates; “but I don’t care to see the colonel, and I shall welcome Welland jail. I am tired of all this bother. I came here for rest and quiet, and I am going to have them, if I have to go to jail for them. I’m coming reluctantly to the belief that jail’s the most comfortable place in Canada, anyhow.”
“But this is an outrage,” cried the professor indignantly.
“Of course it is,” replied Yates wearily; “but the woods are full of them. There’s always outrages going on, especially in so-called free countries; therefore one more or less won’t make much difference. Come, officer, who’s going to take me to Welland? or shall I have to go by myself? I’m a Fenian from ‘way back, and came here especially to overturn the throne and take it home with me. For Heaven’s sake, know your own mind one way or other, and let us end this conference.”
The officer was wroth. He speedily gave the order to Stoliker to handcuff the prisoner to himself, and deliver him to the jailer at Welland.
“But I want assistance,” objected Stoliker. “The prisoner is a bigger man than I am.” The volunteers laughed as Stoliker mentioned this self-evident fact.
“If anyone likes to go with you, he can go. I shall give no orders.”
No one volunteered to accompany the constable.
“Take this revolver with you,” continued the officer, “and if he attempts to escape, shoot him. Besides, you know the way to Welland, so I can’t send anybody in your place, even if I wanted to.”
“Howard knows the way,” persisted Stoliker. That young man spoke up with great indignation: “Yes, but Howard isn’t constable, and Stoliker is. I’m not going.”
Renmark went up to his friend.
“Who’s acting foolishly now, Yates?” he said. “Why don’t you insist on seeing the colonel? The chances are ten to one that you would be allowed off.”
“Don’t make any mistake. The colonel will very likely be some fussy individual who magnifies his own importance, and who will send a squad of volunteers to escort me, and I want to avoid that. These officers always stick by each other; they’re bound to. I want to go alone with Stoliker. I have a score to settle with him.”
“Now, don’t do anything rash. You’ve done nothing so far; but if you assault an officer of the law, that will be a different matter.”
“Satan reproving sin. Who prevented you from hitting Stoliker a short time since?”
“Well, I was wrong then. You are wrong now.”
“See here, Renny,” whispered Yates; “you get back to the tent, and see that everything’s all right. I’ll be with you in an hour or so. Don’t look so frightened. I won’t hurt Stoliker. But I want to see this fight, and I won’t get there if the colonel sends an escort. I’m going to use Stoliker as a shield when the bullets begin flying.”
The bugles sounded for the troops to fall in, and Stoliker very reluctantly attached one clasp of the handcuff around his own left wrist, while he snapped the other on the right wrist of Yates, who embarrassed him with kindly assistance. The two manacled men disappeared down the road, while the volunteers rapidly fell in to continue their morning’s march.
Young Howard beckoned to the professor from his place in the ranks. “I say, professor, how did you happen to be down this way?”
“I have been camping out here for a week or more with Yates, who is an old schoolfellow of mine.”
“What a shame to have him led off in that way! But he seemed to rather like the idea. Jolly fellow, I should say. How I wish I had known you were in this neighborhood. My folks live near here. They would only have been too glad to be of assistance to you.”
“They have been of assistance to me, and exceedingly kind as well.”
“What? You know them? All of them? Have you met Margaret?”
“Yes,” said the professor slowly, but his glance fell as it encountered the eager eyes of the youth. It was evident that Margaret was the brother’s favorite.
“Fall back, there!” cried the officer to Renmark.
“May I march along with them? or can you give me a gun, and let me take part?”
“No,” said the officer with some hauteur; “this is no place for civilians.” Again the professor smiled as he reflected that the whole company, as far as martial experience went, were merely civilians dressed in uniform; but he became grave again when he remembered Yates’ ominous prediction regarding them.
“I say, Mr. Renmark,” cried young Howard, as the company moved off, “if you see any of them, don’t tell them I’m here—especially Margaret. It might make them uneasy. I’ll get leave when this is over, and drop in on them.”
The boy spoke with the hopeful confidence of youth, and had evidently no premonition of how his appointment would be kept. Renmark left the road, and struck across country in the direction of the tent.
Meanwhile, two men were tramping steadily along the dusty road toward Welland: the captor moody and silent, the prisoner talkative and entertaining—indeed, Yates’ conversation often went beyond entertainment, and became, at times, instructive. He discussed the affairs of both countries, showed a way out of all political difficulties, gave reasons for the practical use of common sense in every emergency, passed opinions on the methods of agriculture adopted in various parts of the country, told stories of the war, gave instances of men in captivity murdering those who were in charge of them, deduced from these anecdotes the foolishness of resisting lawful authority lawfully exercised, and, in general, showed that he was a man who respected power and the exercise thereof. Suddenly branching to more practical matters, he exclaimed:
“Say, Stoliker, how many taverns are there between here and Welland?”
Stoliker had never counted them.
“Well, that’s encouraging, anyhow. If there are so many that it requires an effort of the memory to enumerate them, we will likely have something to drink before long.”
“I never drink while on duty,” said Stoliker curtly.
“Oh, well, don’t apologize for it. Every man has his failings. I’ll be only too happy to give you some instructions. I have acquired the useful practice of being able to drink both on and off duty. Anything can be done, Stoliker, if you give your mind to it. I don’t believe in the word ‘can’t,’ either with or without the mark of elision.”
Stoliker did not answer, and Yates yawned wearily.
“I wish you would hire a rig, constable. I’m tired of walking. I’ve been on my feet ever since three this morning.”
“I have no authority to hire a buggy.”
“But what do you do when a prisoner refuses to move?”
“I make him move,” said Stoliker shortly.
“Ah, I see. That’s a good plan, and saves bills at the livery stable.”
They came to a tempting bank by the roadside, when Yates cried:
“Let’s sit down and have a rest. I’m done out. The sun is hot, and the road dusty. You can let me have half an hour: the day’s young, yet.”
“I’ll let you have fifteen minutes.”
They sat down together. “I wish a team would come along,” said Yates with a sigh.
“No chance of a team, with most of the horses in the neighborhood stolen, and the troops on the roads.”
“That’s so,” assented Yates sleepily.
He was evidently tired out, for his chin dropped on his breast, and his eyes closed. His breathing came soft and regular, and his body leaned toward the constable, who sat bolt upright. Yates’ left arm fell across the knees of Stoliker, and he leaned more and more heavily against him. The constable did not know whether he was shamming or not, but he took no risks. He kept his grasp firm on the butt of the revolver. Yet, he reflected, Yates could surely not meditate an attempt on his weapon, for he had, a few minutes before, told him a story about a prisoner who escaped in exactly that way. Stoliker was suspicious of the good intentions of the man he had in charge; he was altogether too polite and good-natured; and, besides, the constable dumbly felt that the prisoner was a much cleverer man than he.
“Here, sit up,” he said gruffly. “I’m not paid to carry you, you know.”
“What’s that? What’s that? What’s that?” cried Yates rapidly, blinking his eyes and straightening up. “Oh, it’s only you, Stoliker. I thought it was my friend Renmark. Have I been asleep?”
“Either that or pretending—I don’t know which, and I don’t care.”
“Oh! I must have been pretending,” answered Yates drowsily; “I can’t have dropped asleep. How long have we been here?”
“About five minutes.”
“All right.” And Yates’ head began to droop again.
This time the constable felt no doubt about it. No man could imitate sleep so well. Several times Yates nearly fell forward, and each time saved himself, with the usual luck of a sleeper or a drunkard. Nevertheless, Stoliker never took his hand from his revolver. Suddenly, with a greater lurch than usual, Yates pitched head first down the bank, carrying the constable with him. The steel band of the handcuff nipped the wrist of Stoliker, who, with an oath and a cry of pain, instinctively grasped the links between with his right hand, to save his wrist. Like a cat, Yates was upon him, showing marvelous agility for a man who had just tumbled in a heap. The next instant he held aloft the revolver, crying triumphantly:
“How’s that, umpire? Out, I expect.”
The constable, with set teeth, still rubbed his wounded wrist, realizing the helplessness of a struggle.
“Now, Stoliker,” said Yates, pointing the pistol at him, “what have you to say before I fire?”
“Nothing,” answered the constable, “except that you will be hanged at Welland, instead of staying a few days in jail.”
Yates laughed. “That’s not bad, Stoliker; and I really believe there’s some grit in you, if you are a man-catcher. Still, you were not in very much danger, as perhaps you knew. Now, if you should want this pistol again, just watch where it alights.” And Yates, taking the weapon by the muzzle, tossed it as far as he could into the field.
Stoliker watched its flight intently, then, putting his hand into his pocket, he took out some small object and flung it as nearly as he could to the spot where the revolver fell.
