Assured of this I rose to my feet, revolver in hand, and pressing close against the side of the building, advanced quickly and silently.  At the corner I peered about, scarcely daring to breathe, but with heart pounding, as I caught sight of the fellow, not over three feet distant.  He was seated on an overturned bucket, his back toward me, both hands clasping a musket, his head bent slightly forward.  He seemed listening to some noise in the distance, totally unconscious of my approach.  The man’s fingers were nowhere near the trigger of his gun, and my straining eyes could perceive no sign of any other weapon.  This had to be silent work—­silent and swift.  With one step forward I had my revolver pressed hard against his cheek, my other hand crushing his fingers to the musket.

“Keep quiet, man!  Not a move!  I’ll blow your head off if you lift a hand!”

“Oh!  Good God!”

He was but little more than a boy; I could see his face now under the slouch hat, and I had already frightened the life half out of him.

“Drop your gun!  Now stand up!” He obeyed like an automaton, his brain seemingly paralyzed.  There was nothing to fear from this fellow, yet I knew better than to become careless—­terror has been known to drive men crazy.  I caught him by the collar, whirling him about, my Colt still at his ear.

“Go straight to the stable door, son!”

“Who—­who are you?  W—­what do you want?”

“Don’t stop to ask questions—­you trot, unless you want to get hurt.  Do you hear me?—­the stable door!  That’s it; now undo the button, open the door, and go inside.”

I held him like a vice, assured his belt contained no weapons, and thrust him forward against the wall.  He was so helpless in my grasp that it was like handling a child.

“Feel along there—­higher up—­and tell me what you find.  Well, what is it?”

“A—­a bridle,” his voice barely audible.

“Halter strap on it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take it off, and hand it back here.  Now go on, and feel the next stake.”

“There’s a blanket, and—­and a rope halter.”

“Good! give me that; now, son, put both hands back here, cross the wrists.  Come, stand up to it; this is better than getting killed, isn’t it?  Now here is a nice soft spot to lie on, and I guess you’ll remain there for a while.  Do you want me to gag you, or will you keep still?”

“I’ll—­I’ll keep still!”

“Well, be sure you do; your life isn’t worth a picayune if you raise any row.”

I arose to my feet, confident the boy had been safely disposed of, and feeling blindly around in the darkness, seeking to locate the stalls.  At that instant a horse neighed outside; then I heard the sound of hoofs pounding on soft soil.  Whoever the fellow was, he was almost there—­coming up at a trot, just back of the stables.  My brain worked in a flash—­there was but once chance to stave off discovery.  With a bound I was beside the boy, and had jerked off his hat, jamming it down on my own head, as I muttered in his ear, “One word from you now, and you’ll never speak again—­don’t take the chance!”