Into the barrel a cracker was thrust, the wick was ignited at a piece of smouldering 'punk '-- which could be carried in the pocket in a tin matchbox--and it only needed the exercise of a little imagination to satisfy oneself that the resulting explosion spread death and desolation in the ranks of the enemy.
All preliminaries were arranged during the afternoon: in the evening, just before night fell, Dick and Peterson, hidden with their trusty steeds amongst the saplings about three hundred yards beyond the toll-bar, awaited the coming of their companions in crime.

They had not long to wait; in a few minutes Jacker Mack, Ted, and Phil Doon came riding up the dusty track on their brave billies.

They were accompanied by a pedestrian, an interloper, who lurked behind and evidently did not anticipate a friendly reception.

It was Gable.
'He saw us comin' an' he would foller,' explained Jacker.
'Yah!' cried Dick in disgust; 'why didn't you boot him ?' 'So I did.

Fat lot o' good that done.