The boy did. “I'm feeling like a bird,” said he, as they crossed through the mountains next morning on a short cut to the Owybee. “Breakfast will brace you up, Bolles. There'll be a cabin pretty soon after we strike the other road. Keep thinking hard about coffee.” “I wish I could,” said poor Bolles. He was forgiving himself less and less. Their start had been very early; as Drake bid the school-master observe, to have nothing to detain you, nothing to eat and nothing to pack, is a great help in journeys of haste. The warming day, and Indian Creek well behind them, brought Drake to whistling again, but depression sat upon the self-accusing Bolles. Even when they sighted the Owyhee road below them, no cheerfulness waked in him; not at the nearing coffee, nor yet at the companionable tinkle of sleigh-bells dancing faintly upward through the bright, silent air. “Why, if it ain't Uncle Pasco!” said Drake, peering down through a gap in the foot-hill. “We'll get breakfast sooner than I expected. Quick! Give me Baby Bunting!” “Are you going to kill him?” whispered the school-master, with a beaming countenance. And he scuffled with his pocket to hand over his hitherto belittled weapon. Drake considered him. “Bolles, Bolles,” said he, “you have got the New England conscience rank. Plymouth Rock is a pudding to your heart. Remind me to pray for you first spare minute I get. Now follow me close. He'll be much more useful to us alive.” They slipped from their horses, stole swiftly down a shoulder of the hill, and waited among some brush. The bells jingled unsuspectingly onward to this ambush. “Only hear 'em!” said Drake. “All full of silver and Merry Christmas. Don't gaze at me like that, Bolles, or I'll laugh and give the whole snap away. See him come! The old man's breath streams out so calm. He's not worried with New England conscience. One, two, three” Just before the sleigh came opposite, Dean Drake stepped out. “Morning, Uncle!” said he. “Throw up your hands!” Uncle Pasco stopped dead, his eyes blinking. Then he stood up in the sleigh among his blankets. “H'm,” said he, “the kid.” “Throw up your hands! Quit fooling with that blanket!” Drake spoke dangerously now. “Bolles,” he continued, “pitch everything out of the sleigh while I cover him. He's got a shot-gun under that blanket. Sling it out.” It was slung. The wraps followed. Uncle Pasco stepped obediently down, and soon the chattels of the emptied sleigh littered the snow. The old gentleman was invited to undress until they reached the six-shooter that Drake suspected. Then they ate his lunch, drank some whiskey that he had not sold to the buccaroos, told him to repack the sleigh, allowed him to wrap up again, bade him take the reins, and they would use his six-shooter and shot-gun to point out the road to him. He had said very little, had Uncle Pasco, but stood blinking, obedient and malignant. “H'm,” said he now, “goin' to ride with me, are you?”