We were fairly caught, and there was nothing to
do but elevate our digits and paw the air as commanded.
It took one of those Western Turpins about a minute to relieve us of our
artillery, after which he silently proceeded to lead our horses out of
sight. When he did that I began to hope the horses were all they wanted,
that they had no knowledge of the money I carried; but my hopes died an
early death, for he was back in a moment, and the man behind the gun
indicated me with a motion of the Winchester.
"That long, stoop-shouldered gazabo's got the stuff on him," he growled.
There was half a second when I entertained a wild notion of getting
fractious. A fellow hates to make a bungle of the first decent trust
he's had in a long time; but I was in a tight place, and I couldn't
figure where I'd delay giving up beyond the length of time it would take
the gentleman with the Winchester to drill me. Under the circumstances
it didn't take long to decide that it was a heap better all around to be
robbed alive than dead--they'd get the money anyway, and if I got myself
shot up to no purpose that would spoil all chance of getting back at
them later.
The silent partner wasted no time in fruitless search of my person. He
seemed to know right where to look, which was another feature of the
play that I didn't _sabe_ at the time.
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