"Look at that!" and he crookedly points with his crooked fingers at the large letters, and reads: "One thousand dollars (hic) dollars reward for the capture of John Logan! What do you say to that, Carats? That's a fine fellow to have for a lover, now, ain't it?--a waluable lover, now, ain't it? Worth a thousand dollars! Oh, don't I wish he was a-hanging around here now! Wouldn't I sell him, and get a thousand dollars, eh? Yes, I would. I just want that thousand dollars. And I'm the man that's going to get it, too! Eh, old Blossom-nose?" Forty-nine jerks back his dignified head as the bully gesticulates violently. "You will, will you? Well, may-be you will (hic), but if you get a cent of that money (hic) for catching that man you don't enter that door again; no, you don't lift that latch-string again as long as old Forty-nine has a fist to lift!" and he thrusts his doubled hand hard into the boaster's face. "Good for you!" cries Carrie. "Dear, good, brave old Forty-nine; I like you--I love you!" and the girl embraces him, while the boy flourishes his club at the back of the bully. "No, don't you hit a man when he's down, sah," continues Forty-nine. "That's the true doctrine of a gentleman--the true doctrine of a gentleman, sah." He flourishes his hand, totters forward, totters back, and hesitates--"The true doctrine of a gentleman, sah. The little horse in the horse-race, sah--the bottom dog in the dog-fight, sah. The--" And the poor old man totters back and falls helplessly in the great, home-made chair near the corner, where stands the gun. His head is under water. "The true doctrines of a gentleman," snaps Dosson; and he throws out a big hand toward the drooping head. "Old Blossom-nose!" Then turning to Carrie. "The sheriff's a coming; he gave me that 'ere bill--yes, he did. He's down to the grocery, now. He's going around to all the cabins, and a-swearing 'em in a book, that they don't know nothing about John Logan. The sheriff, he's a comin' here, Carats, right off." There is a rift in the curtain, and the pitiful face of the fugitive peers forth. "The sheriff coming here!" He turns, feels the wall, and tries the logs with his hands. Not a door, not a window. Solid as the solid earth. "Coming here? But what is he coming here for?" demands Carrie. "Coming here to find out what you know about John Logan. Oh, he's close after him." "Close after me!" gasps Logan. The man feels for something to lay hand upon by which to defend himself. "I will not be taken alive; I will die here!" He clutches at last, above the bed, a gun. "Saved, saved!" He holds it tenderly, as if a child, or something dearly loved. He takes it to the light and looks at the lock; he blows in the barrel; he mournfully shakes his head. "It is not loaded! Well, no matter; I can but die," and he clubs the gun and prepares for mortal battle. "Oh, come, Carats," cries Gar Dosson, "let's have a little frolic before the sheriff comes--a kiss, eh? Come, my beauty!"