Roughing It, Mark Twain [dark books to read .TXT] 📗

“Your watch! Your money!”

I said:

“You can have them with pleasure⁠—but take the pistol away from my face, please. It makes me shiver.”

“No remarks! Hand out your money!”

“Certainly⁠—I⁠—”

“Put up your hands! Don’t you go for a weapon! Put ’em up! Higher!”

I held them above my head.

A pause. Then:

“Are you going to hand out your money or not?”

I dropped my hands to my pockets and said:

“Certainly! I⁠—”

“Put up your hands! Do you want your head blown off? Higher!”

I put them above my head again.

Another pause.

“Are you going to hand out your money or not? Ah-ah⁠—again? Put up your hands! By George, you want the head shot off you awful bad!”

“Well, friend, I’m trying my best to please you. You tell me to give up my money, and when I reach for it you tell me to put up my hands. If you would only⁠—. Oh, now⁠—don’t! All six of you at me! That other man will get away while.⁠—Now please take some of those revolvers out of my face⁠—do, if you please! Every time one of them clicks, my liver comes up into my throat! If you have a mother⁠—any of you⁠—or if any of you have ever had a mother⁠—or a⁠—grandmother⁠—or a⁠—”

“Cheese it! Will you give up your money, or have we got to⁠—. There⁠—there⁠—none of that! Put up your hands!”

“Gentlemen⁠—I know you are gentlemen by your⁠—”

“Silence! If you want to be facetious, young man, there are times and places more fitting. This is a serious business.”

“You prick the marrow of my opinion. The funerals I have attended in my time were comedies compared to it. Now I think⁠—”

“Curse your palaver! Your money!⁠—your money!⁠—your money! Hold!⁠—put up your hands!”

“Gentlemen, listen to reason. You see how I am situated⁠—now don’t put those pistols so close⁠—I smell the powder. You see how I am situated. If I had four hands⁠—so that I could hold up two and⁠—”

“Throttle him! Gag him! Kill him!”

“Gentlemen, don’t! Nobody’s watching the other fellow. Why don’t some of you⁠—. Ouch! Take it away, please! Gentlemen, you see that I’ve got to hold up my hands; and so I can’t take out my money⁠—but if you’ll be so kind as to take it out for me, I will do as much for you some⁠—”

“Search him Beauregard⁠—and stop his jaw with a bullet, quick, if he wags it again. Help Beauregard, Stonewall.”

Then three of them, with the small, spry leader, adjourned to Mike and fell to searching him. I was so excited that my lawless fancy tortured me to ask my two men all manner of facetious questions about their rebel brother-generals of the South, but, considering the order they had received, it was but common prudence to keep still. When everything had been taken from me⁠—watch, money, and a multitude of trifles of small value⁠—I supposed I was free, and forthwith put my cold hands into my empty pockets and began an inoffensive jig to warm my feet and stir up some latent courage⁠—but instantly all pistols were at my head, and the order came again:

“Be still! Put up your hands! And keep them up!”

They stood Mike up alongside of me, with strict orders to keep his hands above his head, too, and then the chief highwayman said:

“Beauregard, hide behind that boulder; Phil Sheridan, you hide behind that other one; Stonewall Jackson, put yourself behind that sage-bush there. Keep your pistols bearing on these fellows, and if they take down their hands within ten minutes, or move a single peg, let them have it!”

Then three disappeared in the gloom toward the several ambushes, and the other three disappeared down the road toward Virginia.

It was depressingly still, and miserably cold. Now this whole thing was a practical joke, and the robbers were personal friends of ours in disguise, and twenty more lay hidden within ten feet of us during the whole operation, listening. Mike knew all this, and was in the joke, but I suspected nothing of it. To me it was most uncomfortably genuine.

When we had stood there in the middle of the road five minutes, like a couple of idiots, with our hands aloft, freezing to death by inches, Mike’s interest in the joke began to wane. He said:

“The time’s up, now, aint it?”

“No, you keep still. Do you want to take any chances with these bloody savages?”

Presently Mike said:

“Now the time’s up, anyway. I’m freezing.”

“Well freeze. Better freeze than carry your brains home in a basket. Maybe the time is up, but how do we know?⁠—got no watch to tell by. I mean to give them good measure. I calculate to stand here fifteen minutes or die. Don’t you move.”

So, without knowing it, I was making one joker very sick of his contract. When we took our arms down at last, they were aching with cold and fatigue, and when we went sneaking off, the dread I was in that the time might not yet be up and that we would feel bullets in a moment, was not sufficient to draw all my attention from the misery that racked my stiffened body.

The joke of these highwayman friends of ours was mainly a joke upon themselves; for they had waited for me on the cold hilltop two full hours before I came, and there was very little fun in that; they were so chilled that it took them a couple of weeks to get warm again. Moreover, I never had a thought that they would kill me to get money which it was so perfectly easy to get without any such folly, and so they did not really frighten me bad enough to make their enjoyment worth the trouble they had taken. I was only afraid that their weapons would go off accidentally. Their very numbers inspired me with confidence that no blood would be intentionally spilled. They were not smart; they ought to have sent only one highwayman, with a double-barrelled shot gun, if they desired to see the author of this volume climb a tree.

However, I