Old man Brown was away, but as I'd left the scow on the near bank, the robbers were able to cross, and put the Fraser between me and rescue. That ought to have cheered them up, since it gave them a start of several hours toward safety, but instead of skinning out of British Columbia, as I advised them with powerful strong talk, they'd got to stop for breakfast on old Brown's beans and sow-belly, cussing most plenteous because he wasn't there to cook hot biscuits.
After breakfast they wasted an hour dressing his paw for old Whiskers, and wondering whether they'd waste one of my cartridges on me, or keep them all for my friends. On that I divulged a lot of etiquette out of my book. I told these misbegotten offspring they'd been brung up all wrong, or they'd have enough deportment to make tracks. "Now," says I, "in the land of the free and the home of the brave you been appreciated, whereas if you linger here till sunup you'll be shot."
That made poor Whiskers still more suspicious, wondering what sort of bear traps guileful Smith was projecting. "Wants to get us up on the bench," says he, "that means ware traps. We'll stay right here, boys, for daylight, when we'll be able to see ourselves, how to save them cattle."
"We'd better kill the prisoner," Bull argues, and this reminds me of his ancient friendship.
"Shut your fool head," says Whiskers. "His friends would rather us go free than see him killed before their eyes. You've no more brains than a poached owl."
"You're dead right, Whiskers!" says I. "Hair on you!"
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."
"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.