"I mean business. You see this uniform? Strike that, my man, and you
strike the United States. Who is leading this outfit?"
"I don't know as it's your affair," the man returned, sullenly. "We
ain't takin' no army orders at present, mister. We 're free-born
American citizens, an' ye better let us alone."
"That is not what I asked you," and Brant squared his shoulders, his
hands clinched. "My question was, Who is at the head of this outfit?
and I want an answer."
The spokesman looked around upon the others near him with a grin of
derision. "Oh, ye do, hey? Well, I reckon we are, if you must know.
Since Big Jim Larson got it in the shoulder this outfit right yere hes
bin doin' most of the brain work. So, if ye 've got anythin' ter say,
mister officer man, I reckon ye better spit it out yere ter me, an'
sorter relieve yer mind."
"Who are you?"
The fellow expectorated vigorously into the leaves under foot, and
drawing one hairy hand across his lips, flushed angrily to the
unexpected inquiry.
"Oh, tell him, Ben. What's the blame odds? He can't do ye no hurt."
The man's look became dogged.
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