This done, Hunter and Burks allowed him
to mount.
"Don't let him go yet," commanded the leader; "look in his saddle-bags."
Wambush's horse suddenly snorted, kicked up his heels, and tried to
plunge forward, but Burks clung to the reins and held him.
"He dug his spur into his hoss on this side like thunder," said a man
in the crowd. "It's a wonder he didn't rip 'im open."
"S'arch them bags," ordered the leader, "an' ef he makes anuther budge
before it's done, or opens his mouth fer a whisper, drag 'im right down
an' give 'im 'is deserts."
Wambush offered no further resistance. Hunter fumbled in the bags. He
held up a quart flask of corn whiskey over his head, shook it in the
moonlight, and then restored it. "I hain't the heart to deprive 'im of
that," he said, as he walked round the horse; "he won't find any better
in his travels." On the other side he found a forty-four-caliber
revolver.
"That 'u'd be a ugly customer to meet on a dark road," he said, holding
it up for the others to see. "By hunky! it 'u'd dig a tunnel through a
rock mountain.
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