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Taken Alive
by
Bute was found alone, and was much surprised at sight of his old gambling acquaintance of better days, for his better days were those of robbery before he had added the deeper stain of murder. Brandt soon allayed active fears and suspicions by giving the impression that in his descensus he had reached the stage of robbery and had got on the scent of some rich booty in the mountains. “But how did you know I was here?” demanded Bute.
“I didn’t know it,” replied Brandt, adopting his old vernacular; “but I guessed as much, for I knew there was more’n one shady feller in this gang, and I took my chances on findin’ you, for, says I to myself, if I can find Bute, I’ve found the right man to help me crack a ranch when there’s some risk and big plunder.”
He then disclosed the fact of hearing that the keeper of the tavern had accumulated a good sum of hard money, and was looking out for a chance to send it to a bank. “We can save him the trouble, yer know,” he concluded, facetiously.
“Well,” said Bute, musingly, “I’m gittin’ tired of this dog’s life, and I reckon I’ll go snacks with yer and then put out fer parts unknown. I was paid t’other day, and there ain’t much owin’ me here. I guess it’ll be safer fer me ter keep movin’ on, too.”
“You may well say that, Bute. I heard below that there was goin’ to be some investigations inter this gang, and that there was more’n one feller here whose pictur was on exhibition.”
“That so?” said Bute, hastily. “Well, I’ll go with yer ter-night, fer it’s time I was movin’. I kin tell yer one thing, though– there’ll be no investigations here unless a fair-sized regiment makes it. Every man keeps his shooter handy.”
“Hanged if we care how the thing turns out. You and me’ll be far enough away from the shindy. Now make your arrangements prompt, for we must be on the road by nine o’clock, so we can get through early in the night and have a good start with the swag. My plan is to ambush the whiskey shop, go and demand drinks soon after everybody is gone, and then proceed to business.”
“Can’t we let my mate, Apache Jack, in with us? I’ll stand for him.”
“No, no, I don’t know anything about Apache Jack; and I can trust you. We can manage better alone, and I’d rather have one-half than one-third.”
“Trust me, kin you? you–fool,” thought Bute. “So ye thinks I’ll sit down and divide the plunder socially with you when I kin give yer a quiet dig in the ribs and take it all. One more man now won’t matter. I’m a-goin’ ter try fer enough ter-night ter take me well out of these parts.”
Bute’s face was sinister enough to suggest any phase of evil, and Brandt well knew that he was capable of what he meditated. It was now the policy of both parties, however, to be very friendly, and Bute was still further mellowed by a draught of liquor from Brandt’s flask.
They had several games of cards in which it was managed that Bute’s winnings should be the larger; and at nine in the evening they started on what was to Bute another expedition of robbery and murder. Mr. Alford, who was on the alert, saw them depart with a deep sigh of relief. The night was cloudy, but the moon gave plenty of light for travelling. Brandt soon secured his horse, and then appeared to give full rein to his careless, reckless spirit.
As they approached the stream, he remarked, “I say, Bute, it’s too bad we can’t use the pasteboards while on the jog; but I can win a five out of you by an old game of ours. I bet you I can empty my revolver quicker ‘n you can.”