“The varmint! Let me get at him and I’ll chaw him up, audacious. Yah—hip! I _want_ his ha’r. Lend me a knife, some one; a hairpin, a toothpick—_any_ cussid thing. I will hev his wool.” “You don’t say thet you are so hot arter blood ez thet ar’, stranger? No—I reckon not; he’s our meat, and we don’t ’low nobuddy else to tech him.” “Tain’t fa’r, anyhow, boss. Hyar I stand jest out of ther blasted hitch and it hurts my feelin’s powerful bad, because I ain’t let to mount him. Say, you pizen sarpint,” he cried, shaking his clenched hand under Rafe’s nose, “why kain’t I chaw ye up?” “You are a fit associate for these two ruffians,” replied Norris, proudly. “It would not surprise me if they allowed you to murder me while my hands are tied.” “Oh, thunder, ef they only _would_! Say, boss, kain’t I hit him once, fur luck?” “You are over zealous in the cause,” said Farrell, coldly. “Stand aside and let the prisoner alone.” “Little boy,” replied the escaped man, “you hurt my feelin’s awful when you talk that way, and I shill feel obliged to jump on ye with both feet.” “That’s enough, my man,” replied Farrell, laying his hand upon a pistol. “What is your name?” “I ain’t heeled—that’s what’s the matter with me—an’ you’ve got the gaffs on. It ain’t ekal—that’s what I say—it ain’t ekal, and you know it ain’t. Let me hev a fourteen inch toothpick in my hand, and ef I don’t crow loud, my name ain’t Velveteens.” “Is that your name? Come, come; you should not quarrel with us, if you want help.” “Velveteens, the boys call me, and they call me that becoz I’m nat’rally so soft and tender-hearted. I be—by gracious. I’m too good fur this wicked, wicked world.” “What do you want?” “I was gwine to jine the brigade, but I’m afeard thar ain’t no chance now. I’ve lost my traps and shootin’-irons.” “That will not trouble you if you can prove yourself a true man. However, you can pass the night here, and in the morning we’ll see what can be done.” “Much obliged; who be you?” “Captain Farrell of the trapping brigade.” “Whew! And to think I lowered myself to rile up at you. It was durned ridiculous.” Dave Farrell took the prisoner in charge, led him to the cabin and put him in a small room in the rear. Rafe did not look up as he heard Myrtle’s exclamation of surprise, but passed on sullenly to his prison, where he sunk down upon the floor and dropped his head upon his arms. The moment the door closed upon Farrell he sprung to his feet and laughed scornfully, for he knew his power well. Yet he listened earnestly while Dave told Myrtle the story to which she listened with a look of horror. “Revenge is sweet,” he muttered. “My hour will come.” CHAPTER V. A COWARD’S DEED.