this all. Mingled with stolen garments, cans and boxes of
provisions, purses and bags of gold, were the Indian disguises in
which the highwaymen from No-Man's Land had descended on the
prairie-schooners on their tedious journey from Abilene, Kansas,
toward the Southwest.

In the midst of this confusion of disguises, booty and
playing-cards, surrounded by cruel and sensual faces, the child
slept soundly, her lips slightly parted, her cheeks delicately
flushed, her face eloquent in its appeal of helplessness, innocence
and beauty. One of the band, a tall broad-shouldered man of
middle-age, with an immense quantity of whiskers perhaps worn as a
visible sign of inward wildness, was, despite his hardened nature,
moved to remonstrance. Under cover of lurid oaths and outrageous
obscenity, he advanced his opinion that "the kid" needn't be shot
just because her father was a sneak-jug spy.

"Shut up!" roared a tremendous voice, not directly to the
intercessor, or to the prisoner, but to all present. Evidently it
was a voice of authority, for comparative silence followed the
command. The speaker stepped forward, thrust his fingers through
his intensely red shock of hair, and continued, with one leg thrust
forward:

"You know I am something of an orator, or I guess you wouldn't of
made me your leader. Now, as long as I'm your leader, I'm going to
lead; but, I ain't never unreasonable, and when talk is needed, I'm
copious enough. I am called 'Red Kimball,' and my brother yonder,
he is knowed as 'Kansas Kimball.' What else is knowed of us is
this: that we wasn't never wont to turn loose a spy when once