We are
a-gwine to l'arn you that new settlers cayn't run this community an'
coolly turn the bluecoats agin us mount'in folks."
Westerfelt looked down on the masks upturned to him. Only one of the
band showed a revolver. Westerfelt believed him to be Toot Wambush.
He had not spoken a word, but was one of the two that had ridden close
behind him up the mountain. One of the white figures unstrapped a
pillow from the back part of his saddle. He held it between his knees
and gashed it with a knife.
"By hunkey! they're white uns," he grunted, as he took out a handful.
"I 'lowed they wus mixed; ef my ole woman knowed I'd tuck a poke uv 'er
best goose feathers ter dab on a man she'd get a divorce."
Two or three laughed behind their masks. Another laugh went round as a
short figure returned from the bushes with a bucket of tar which had
been left near the road-side.
"Heer's yore gumstickum." He dipped a paddle in it and flourished it
before Westerfelt, who was still on his horse. "Say, mister, you don't
seem inclined to say anything fer yorese'f; the last man we dressed out
fer his weddin' begged like a whipped child, an' made no end o'
promises uv good behavior.
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