Barreau pushed open the door and walked in without ceremony. Two men were in the room; one lying upon a bunk, the other sitting with his spurred heels on the corner of a table. Each of them looked up at my companion, and both in one breath declared: “I’ll be damned if it ain’t Slowfoot!” After that there was more or less desultory talk, mostly impersonal—no questions pertinent to myself troubled the tongues of either man. One built a fire and cooked us a hot supper. The other made down a bed in one corner of the cabin, and upon this, at the close of the meal Barreau and I lay down to rest. A jolt in the ribs and the flash of a light in my eyes brought me to a sitting posture later in the night. Sleep-heavy, what of the strenuous events that had gone before, it took me a full half-minute to get my bearings. And then I saw that three men in scarlet jackets held the two Sanders under their guns, while Barreau stood backed against the cabin wall with his hands held above his head. Even so it seemed to me that he was regarding the whole proceeding with a distinct curl to his lip. “Come alive now, old chap, and don’t cut up rusty—it won’t do a bit o’ good,” one of these oddly dressed strangers was admonishing; and it dawned upon me that I, too, was included in the threatening sweep of their firearms. “Get into your clothes, old chap.” It is astonishing—afterward—how much and how quickly one can reflect in a few fleeting seconds. A multitude of ideas swarmed in my brain. Plans to resist, to escape, half formed and were as instantaneously discarded. Among the jumble it occurred to me that I could scarcely be wanted for that Benton affair—my capture could scarcely be the cause of such a display. No, thought I, there must be more to it than that. Otherwise, Barreau and the two Sanders would not have been meddled with. Of course, I did not come to this conclusion of deliberate thought; it was more of an impression, perhaps I should say intuition, and yet I seemed to have viewed the odd circumstance from every angle in the brief time it took me to lay hold of my clothes. The queer sardonic expression lingered about Barreau’s lips all the while I dressed. Presently I was clothed. Then the red-coated men mustered the four of us outside, by the light of a lantern. And two of them stood by the doorway and snapped a pair of handcuffs about the wrists of each of us as we passed out. “Now,” said one of them, “you Sanders chaps know what horses you’d care to ride, and what stock Slowfoot George has here. So one of you can come to the stable wi’ me and saddle up.”