The prisoner knew that the outlaws were sitting
before the fire in the outer room, probably jesting and smoking,
but they might have been far away for all evidences of their
presence he heard.
With individual noises thus shut away by the noise of the downpour,
the boy felt himself isolated and alone. For the first time since
his capture, his courage was wavering, not so much because of the
peril of the moment, but because of the general hopelessness of the situation.
Only a few days before he had been a trusted and respected member of
the Cameron family, one of the wealthiest and most exclusive in New
York. Now, discredited and in danger from the threatened exercise
of a law he had not violated, he was presumably a prisoner on his
way back to the Tombs. And yet, was he really on his way there?
That was a question fully as puzzling as any other feature of the case.
It seemed a short time since he, with other members of the Black
Bear Patrol, had visited in their luxurious club-house, planning
a trip to Mexico. He had reached Mexico, all right, he thought,
bitterly, but under what adverse circumstances. Instead of the
companionship of his friends, instead of the jolly camps on the hills
and long, pleasant days on the river, he was here a prisoner.
And he was the prisoner of a man who was desperate enough to take
his life at any moment. Indeed, the renegade might not be taking
him to the border at all. Fremont suspected another purpose.
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