"Hey, little boy!" " would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice ride?"
It looked like a good thing; but wait tell till I you. We were down South, in Alabama- Bill Driscoll and myself- when this kidnapping idea struck us.It was Bill afterward expressed it, " during a moment of temporary mental apparition;" but we didn't find that out till later.
"Aw, what for?" "I don't have any fun at home."
We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the color of the magazine you buy at the news stand when you want to catch a train.
"Red Chief, would you like to go home?"
Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset's house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.
The boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave, and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we hired it.
Every few minutes he would remember that he was an Indian, and pick up his stick rifle and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to search for the scouts of the hated paleface. Now and then he would let out a war whoop that made old Hank the Trapper shiver.
I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over the contiguous vicinity. Over toward Summit I expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of the village armed with scythes and pitchforks beating the countryside for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I saw was a peaceful landscape.