d dismounted and were singing, capering, and
whooping, thus expressing their satisfied delight in the life of a
jolly outlaw. Rattlesnake Rogers, who stood at the heads of the mules,
jerked a little too vigorously at the rein of the tender-mouthed
Donder, who reared and emitted a loud, protesting snort of pain.
Instantly Fritz, with a scream of anger, flew at the bulky Rogers and
began to assiduously pummel that surprised freebooter with his fists.

"Villain!" shouted Fritz, "dog, bigstiff! Dot mule he has a
soreness by his mouth. I vill knock off your shoulders mit your
head--robbermans!"

"Yi-yi!" howled Rattlesnake, roaring with laughter and ducking his
head, "somebody git this here sour-krout off'n me!"

One of the band yanked Fritz back by the coat-tail, and the woods rang
with Rattlesnake's vociferous comments.

"The dog-goned little wienerwurst," he yelled, amiably. "He's not so
much of a skunk, for a Dutchman. Took up for his animile plum quick,
didn't he? I like to see a man like his hoss, even if it is a mule.
The dad-blamed little Limburger he went for me, didn't he! Whoa, now,
muley--I ain't a-goin' to hurt your mouth agin any more."

Perhaps the mail would not have been tampered with had not Ben Moody,
the lieutenant, possessed certain wisdom that seemed to promise more
spoils.

"Say, Cap," he said, addressing Hondo Bill, "there's likely to be good
pickings in these mail sacks. I've done some hoss tradin' with these
Dutchmen around Fredericksburg, and I know the style of the varmints.
There's big money goes through the mails to that town. Them Dutch risk
a thousand dollars sent wrapped in a piece of paper before they'd pay
the banks to handle the money."

Hondo Bill, six feet two, gentle of voice and impulsive in action,
was dragging the sacks from the rear of the wagon before Moody had
finished his speech. A knife shone in his hand, and they heard the
ripping sound as it bit through the tough canvas. The outlaws crowded
around and began tearing open letters and packages, enlivening their
labours by swearing affably at the writers, who seemed to have
conspired to confute the prediction of Ben Moody. Not a dollar was
found in the Fredericksburg mail.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Hondo Bill to the
mail-carrier in solemn tones, "to be packing around such a lot of old,
trashy paper as this. What d'you mean by it, anyhow? Where do you
Dutchers keep your money at?"

The Ballinger mail