The Ransom of Red Chief

The Ransom of Red Chief is written by O.Henry. And here follows the text~ 

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It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama—Bill Driscoll and myself—when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward

expressed it, “during a moment of temporary mental apparition”; but we didn’t find that out till later. There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole. Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semi-rural communities; therefore, and for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn’t get after us with anything stronger than constables and, maybe, some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly Farmers’ Budget. So, it looked good. We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright collectionplate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the colour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you. About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions. 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. “Hey, little boy!” says Bill, “would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice ride?” The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick. “That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars,” says Bill, climbing over the wheel. That 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 had hired it, and walked back to the mountain. Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There was a fire burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tail-feathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says:

“Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?”

“He’s all right now,” says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his shins. “We’re playing Indian. We’re making Buffalo Bill’s show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I’m Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief’s captive, and I’m to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard.” Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made him forget that he was a captive himself. He immediately christened me Snakeeye, the Spy, and announced that, when his braves returned from the warpath, I was to be broiled at the stake at the rising of the sun. Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. He made a duringdinner speech something like this: “I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a pet ’possum once, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot’s aunt’s speckled hen’s eggs. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some more gravy. Does the trees moving make the wind blow? We had five puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don’t like girls. You dassent catch toads unless with a string. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can’t. How many does it take to make twelve?” Every few minutes he would remember that he was a pesky redskin, and pick up his stick rifle and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of the hated paleface. Now and then he would let out a war-whoop that made Old Hank the Trapper, shiver. That boy had Bill terrorized from the start. “Red Chief,” says I to the kid, “would you like to go home?” “Aw, what for?” says he. “I don’t have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. You won’t take me back home again, Snake-eye, will you?”

“Not right away,” says I. “We’ll stay here in the cave a while.”

“All right!” says he. “That’ll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life.”

We went to bed about eleven o’clock. We spread down some wide blankets and quilts and put Red Chief between us. We weren’t afraid he’d run away. He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up and reaching for his rifle and screeching:

“Hist! pard,” in mine and Bill’s ears, as the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle of a leaf revealed to his young imagination the stealthy approach of the outlaw band. At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped and chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with red hair. Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams from Bill. They weren’t yells, or howls, or shouts, or whoops, or yawps, such as you’d expect from a manly set of vocal organs—they were simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as women emit when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It’s an awful thing to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at daybreak. I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on Bill’s chest, with one hand twined in Bill’s hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife we used for slicing bacon; and he was industriously and realistically trying to take Bill’s scalp, according to the sentence that had been pronounced

upon him the evening before. I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie down again. But, from that moment, Bill’s spirit was broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was to be burned at the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn’t nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit my pipe and leaned against a rock.

“What you getting up so soon for, Sam?” asked Bill. “Me?” says I. “Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thought sitting up would rest it.” “You’re a liar!” says Bill. “You’re afraid. You was to be burned at sunrise, and you was afraid he’d do it. And he would, too, if he could find a match. Ain’t it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little imp like that back home?” “Sure,” said I. “A rowdy kid like that is just the kind that parents dote on. Now, you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of this mountain and reconnoitre.” 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 dotted with one man ploughing with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither and yon, bringing tidings of no news to the distracted parents. There was a sylvan attitude of somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of the external outward surface of Alabama that lay exposed to my view. “Perhaps,” says I to myself, “it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have borne away the tender lambkin from the fold. Heaven help the wolves!” says I, and I went down the mountain to breakfast. When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to smash him with a rock half as big as a coconut.

“He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back,” explained Bill, “and then mashed it with his foot; and I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun about you, Sam?” I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched up the argument. “I’ll fix you,” says the kid to Bill. “No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but what he got paid for it. You better beware!” After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes outside the cave unwinding it. “What’s he up to now?” says Bill, anxiously. “You don’t think he’ll run away, do you, Sam?” “No fear of it,” says I. “He don’t seem to be much of a home body. But we’ve got to fix up some plan about the ransom. There don’t seem to be much excitement around Summit on account of his disappearance; but maybe they haven’t realized yet that he’s gone. His folks may think he’s spending the night with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbours. Anyhow, he’ll be missed to-day. To-night we must get a message to his father demanding the two thousand dollars for his return.” Just then we heard a kind of war-whoop, such as David might have emitted when he knocked out the champion Goliath. It was a sling that Red Chief had pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head. I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a sigh from Bill, like a horse gives out when you take his saddle off. A niggerhead rock the size of an egg had caught Bill just behind his left ear. He loosened himself all over and fell in the fire across the frying pan of hot water for washing the dishes.

I dragged him out and poured cold water on his head for half an hour. By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says: “Sam, do you know who my favourite Biblical character is?” “Take it easy,” says I. “You’ll come to your senses presently.” “King Herod,” says he. “You won’t go away and leave me here alone, will you, Sam?” I went out and caught that boy and shook him until his freckles rattled. “If you don’t behave,” says I, “I’ll take you straight home. Now, are you going to be good, or not?” “I was only funning,” says he sullenly. “I didn’t mean to hurt Old Hank. But what did he hit me for? I’ll behave, Snake-eye, if you won’t send me home, and if you’ll let me play the Black Scout to-day.” “I don’t know the game,” says I. “That’s for you and Mr. Bill to decide. He’s your playmate for the day. I’m going away for a while, on business. Now, you come in and make friends with him and say you are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at once.” I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill aside and told him I was going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles from the cave, and find out what I could about how the kidnapping had been regarded in Summit. Also, I thought it best to send a peremptory letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom and dictating how it should be paid. “You know, Sam,” says Bill, “I’ve stood by you without batting an eye in earthquakes, fire and flood—in poker games, dynamite outrages, police raids, train robberies and cyclones. I never lost my nerve yet till we kidnapped that two-legged skyrocket of a kid. He’s got me going. You won’t leave me long with him, will you, Sam?” “I’ll be back some time this afternoon,” says I. “You must keep the boy amused and quiet till I return. And now we’ll write the letter to old Dorset.” Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the letter while Red Chief, with a blanket wrapped around him, strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make the ransom fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand. “I ain’t attempting,” says he, “to decry the celebrated moral aspect of parental affection, but we’re dealing with humans, and it ain’t human for anybody to give up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunk of freckled wildcat. I’m willing to take a chance at fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the difference up to me.” So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a letter that ran this way:

Ebenezer Dorset, Esq.:

We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. It is useless for you or the most skilful detectives to attempt to find him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can have him restored to you are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in large bills for his return; the money to be left at midnight to-night at the same spot and in the same box as your reply—as hereinafter described. If you agree to these terms, send your answer in writing by a solitary messenger to-night at half-past eight o’clock. After crossing Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are three large trees about a hundred yards apart, close to the fence of the wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small pasteboard box. The messenger will place the answer in this box and return immediately to Summit. If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand as stated, you will never see your boy again. If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you safe and well within three hours. These terms are final, and if you do not accede to them no further communication will be attempted.

Two Desperate Men.

I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my pocket. As I was about to start, the kid comes up to me and says: “Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black Scout while you was gone.” “Play it, of course,” says I. “Mr. Bill will play with you. What kind of a game is it?” “I’m the Black Scout,” says Red Chief, “and I have to ride to the stockade to warn the settlers that the Indians are coming. I’m tired of playing Indian myself. I want to be the Black Scout.” “All right,” says I. “It sounds harmless to me. I guess Mr. Bill will help you foil the pesky savages.” “What am I to do?” asks Bill, looking at the kid suspiciously “You are the hoss,” says Black Scout. “Get down on your hands and knees. How can I ride to the stockade without a hoss?” “You’d better keep him interested,” said I, “till we get the scheme going. Loosen up.” Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in his eye like a rabbit’s when you catch it in a trap. “How far is it to the stockade, kid?” he asks, in a husky manner of voice. “Ninety miles,” says the Black Scout. “And you have to hump yourself to get there on time. Whoa, now!” The Black Scout jumps on Bill’s back and digs his heels in his side. “For Heaven’s sake,” says Bill, “hurry back, Sam, as soon as you can. I wish we hadn’t made the ransom more than a thousand. Say, you quit kicking me or I’ll get up and warm you good.” I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the postoffice and store, talking with the chawbacons that came in to trade. One whiskerando says that he hears Summit is all upset on account of Elder Ebenezer Dorset’s boy havingbeen lost or stolen. That was all I wanted to know. I boughtsome smoking tobacco, referred casually to the price of black-eyed peas, posted my letter surreptitiously and came away. The postmaster said the mail-carrier would come by in an hour to take the mail on to Summit. When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were not to be found. I explored the vicinity of the cave, and risked a yodel or two, but there was no response. So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank to await developments. In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and Bill wabbled out into the little glade in front of the cave. Behind him was the kid, stepping softly like a scout, with a broad grin on his face. Bill stopped, took off his hat and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. The kid stopped about eight feet behind him. “Sam,” says Bill, “I suppose you’ll think I’m a renegade, but I couldn’t help it. I’m a grown person with masculine proclivities and habits of self-defense, but there is a time when all systems of egotism and predominance fail. The boy is gone. I have sent him home. All is off. There was martyrs in old times,” goes on Bill, “that suffered death rather than give up the particular graft they enjoyed. None of ’em ever was subjugated to such supernatural tortures as I have been. I tried to be faithful to our articles of depredation; but there came a limit.” “What’s the trouble, Bill?” I asks him. “I was rode,” says Bill, “the ninety miles to the stockade, not barring an inch. Then, when the settlers was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain’t a palatable substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to explain to him why there was nothin’ in holes, how a road can run both ways and what makes the grass green. I tell you, Sam, a human can only stand so much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags him down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs black-and-blue from the knees down; and I’ve got to have two or three bites on my thumb and hand cauterized.

“But he’s gone”—continues Bill—“gone home. I showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick. I’m sorry we lose the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to the madhouse.” Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of ineffable peace and growing content on his rose-pink features. “Bill,” says I, “there isn’t any heart disease in your family, is there?” “No,” says Bill, “nothing chronic except malaria and accidents. Why?” “Then you might turn around,” says I, “and have a look behind you.” Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits down plump on the ground and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was afraid for his mind. And then I told him that my scheme was to put the whole job through immediately and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. So Bill braced up enough to give the kid a weak sort of a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a Japanese war with him as soon as he felt a little better. I had a scheme for collecting that ransom without danger of being caught by counterplots that ought to commend itself to professional kidnappers. The tree under which the answer was to be left—and the money later on—was close to the road fence with big, bare fields on all sides. If a gang of constables should be watching for any one to come for the note they could see him a long way off crossing the fields or in the road. But no, sirree! At half-past eight I was up in that tree as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the messenger to arrive. Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road on a bicycle, locates the pasteboard box at the foot of the fencepost, slips a folded piece of paper into it and pedals away again back toward Summit. I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was square. I slid down the tree, got the note, slipped along the fence till I struck the woods, and was back at the cave in another half an hour. I opened the note, got near the lantern and read it to Bill. It was written with a pen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of it was this: Two Desperate Men. Gentlemen: I received your letter to-day by post, in regard to the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-proposition, which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and I agree to take him off your hands. You had better come at night, for the neighbours believe he is lost, and I couldn’t be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing him back.

Very respectfully,

Ebenezer Dorset.

“Great pirates of Penzance!” says I; “of all the impudent—” But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most appealing look in his eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or a talking brute. “Sam,” says he, “what’s two hundred and fifty dollars, after all? We’ve got the money. One more night of this kid will send me to a bed in Bedlam. Besides being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is a spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You ain’t going to let the chance go, are you?” “Tell you the truth, Bill,” says I, “this little he ewe lamb has somewhat got on my nerves too. We’ll take him home, pay the ransom and make our get-away.” We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that his father had bought a silver-mounted rifle and a pair of moccasins for him, and we were going to hunt bears the next day. It was just twelve o’clock when we knocked at Ebenezer’s front door. Just at the moment when I should have been abstracting the fifteen hundred dollars from the box under the tree, according to the original proposition, Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars into Dorset’s hand. When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he started up a howl like a calliope and fastened himself as tight as a leech to Bill’s leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like a porous plaster. “How long can you hold him?” asks Bill. “I’m not as strong as I used to be,” says old Dorset, “but I think I can promise you ten minutes.”

 “Enough,” says Bill. “In ten minutes I shall cross the Central, Southern and Middle Western States, and be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border.” And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half out of Summit before I could catch up with him.

Analysis

From the very beginning, the story invokes delusion and irony, as the setting is a flat town whose name is “Summit” (evoking mountain peaks). The crooks at the story’s center condescend to the townspeople, assuming that they are backwards and incapable of thwarting the kidnapping scheme—reasoning that proves just as delusional as the town’s name. Furthermore, Sam’s use of the word “philoprogenitiveness” (meaning the love of one’s children) shows his silliness and pretentiousness. Sam wants to appear serious and intelligent, but he just comes across as ridiculous. The logic of the kidnapping at first seems rational. For maximum impact, it seems effective to take the only child of a rich and important local citizen. However, the plan immediately goes awry when Johnny is not the well-mannered upper-class child they anticipated. The first aspect of their plan (bribing him with candy) immediately earns them physical violence, which is what they deserve for their abhorrent actions, but it is also a surprising act of violence from someone who was meant to be their victim. This shows that their plan cannot account for the complexity of reality, and that the locals are unpredictable. When Johnny hits Bill with the brick, Bill isn’t violent to Johnny in turn—instead, he grouses about how the trouble will cost his father extra money (a threat he doesn’t even follow up on). This begins to suggest Bill’s patience, even under duress. Furthermore, the description of Johnny struggling like a “welter-weight cinnamon bear” cues readers to see the kidnapping as comical and bungled, rather than sinister and frightening. Neither the kidnappers nor the kidnapped seems particularly frightened or cruel.

Instead of being afraid, upset, or even sullen, kidnapped Johnny seems to be having a wonderful time. This is another example of the townspeople not behaving as Bill and Sam anticipated. Furthermore, Bill’s patience is on display again here. Johnny clearly injured him, but Bill’s generous explanation is that they are role playing. Not only does this show that incorporating Bill into his fantasy life has given Johnny real power over this man, but it also literally reverses the terms of the kidnapping, foreshadowing further reversals to come. These purportedly dangerous criminals and kidnappers have taken on the role of camp counselors or even surrogate parents, which shows the extent to which this kidnapping is off the rails. Furthermore, Johnny’s soliloquy is funny and touching, softening Johnny’s previous violence. Clearly, Johnny is simply a young boy who is naïve but curious about the world and is starved for somebody to listen to him. This passage, particularly the moment in which Johnny begs not to go home, hints that his home life is so troubled that he would rather be kidnapped and living in a rustic cave than at home with his rich but cruel father, which intensifies the reader’s sympathy for Johnny’s plight and contextualizes his prior violent behavior. Bill and Sam making Johnny sleep between them is an ambiguous gesture: while it seems restrictive at first, they claim that they are not afraid he would escape, so this seems to have an aspect of protective tenderness, as well. In any case, Johnny's refusal to be tamed continues with fantasy play late into the night, leading Sam to have a bad dream about a red-headed pirate, which is clearly a stand-in for the red-headed Johnny who has already gained tremendous power over his captors in real life. When Bill awakens to being scalped in the morning, Sam describes Bill’s screams as unmanly, thus reserving his harshest criticism for his friend, rather than his young attacker. As Johnny’s primary playmate, Bill has taken the brunt of his abuse while Sam has been the executive of their ransom enterprise. Now, with dawn of the first day following the kidnapping, Sam is also a bit nervous about what Johnny might do to him in his sleep, and Bill jumps at the chance to call Sam out when he shows he is not immune to Johnny’s terrors. In this way, the two continue to bicker, rather than focusing on the job at hand, which makes it difficult to address the unexpected question of who in their right mind would pay for the return of such a terrible child? Sam asserts (without any personal knowledge of course) that parents dote on rowdy kids. He has not yet grasped the depth of their problems, as he goes off to try to familiarize himself with the unfamiliar area.

Sam's expectation that he would see peasants with pitchforks looking for Johnny contrasts with the reality: nobody seems to care. This is an indication that Sam does not understand the locals as well as he believes he does, casting doubt on the efficacy of their plan. Back in the cave, Bill asks if Sam has a gun. No further mention of a weapon occurs in the story and the fact that weapons have been absent from the story is important: bumbling ineffectiveness is key to maintaining the reader’s sympathy for these crooks since being unarmed signals that they aren’t a threat and gives evidence for how poorly prepared for mayhem these criminals truly are. The idea that Johnny is Bill and Sam’s captive continues to erode as they realize they are the ones who need an exit plan, not Johnny. It's telling that Sam is uttering a sentence about the ransom letter, the key to their plans, just when Johnny knocks Bill over the fire with a slingshot in the style of little David overcoming the giant Goliath. The implication is clear that the tables have turned, and their plans continue to be eclipsed by Johnny's agenda. Since King Herod gave up Jesus for execution in the Bible, Bill’s tongue-in-cheek comment underscores a struggle for authority in the story: Bill is suggesting that Johnny, a child who is being treated as special, really is dangerous and needs to be punished, an understandable perspective for one just clobbered with a rock. On the other hand, Johnny promises to behave, and in doing so, makes clear he is not a rebel but a member of their crew who didn't mean to hurt "Old Hank." Sam then encourages Johnny to apologize directly to his partner, calling him "Mr. Bill" as a term of respect, as one might refer to a teacher. Bill and Sam may be newcomers to Summit, but Johnny shows his allegiance to them by apologizing. Being part of their crew is important to him, and he doesn't want to go home. It becomes clear that Bill and Sam are in over their heads with the ransom scheme, as they have yet to agree upon—let alone issue—a demand. Sam calls the prospective ransom letter “peremptory” (demanding attention or obedience), which will turn out to be another case of wishful thinking, since the matter of payment is anything but settled. Meanwhile, Bill is not happy in his role as primary caretaker. The difficulties with Johnny that lead to the discounting of the ransom are evident in the two colorful words Bill uses to describe Johnny (“skyrocket” and a “wildcat”). Both are not so much insults as grudgingly respectful of Johnny’s energy and power, important factors here foreshadowing the ultimate reversal of fortunes.

Although Bill and Sam’s letter to Ebenezer conveys a reduced ransom demand, it still illuminates their lack of situational awareness. For instance, it claims that it is useless for “skillful detectives to attempt to find him,” yet Sam has already observed that no one is looking for him. His elaborate investigation of the roads, crossings, wheat fields, and large trees doesn’t make him a native of the area, just more deluded in thinking he is in control when dealing with Old Dorset. The threat “you’ll never see your boy again” rings hollowest: these men clearly would never hurt Johnny, and it's not even clear that Johnny is missed. The assertion that "these terms are final" is simply untrue, as well, and signing off as "desperate men" is ironic, since it's not their aggression but their weakness that is making them desperate. This is amply illustrated when Johnny, tired of playing Indian, calls for a game of Black Scout, a move that will prove particularly ominous and painful for Bill. Sam says the Black Scout game “sounds harmless” when clearly this is the most humiliating and potentially damaging game Bill has yet suffered. If Sam seems to be the more deluded of the two, Bill is the primary care-giver to Johnny, and the most abused. Yet Bill’s patience is again in evidence: after being kicked repeatedly as a play horse, he merely threatens to “warm you good” and continues the game. This is the kind of moment that builds sympathy for Bill, but there might be a limit reached for the reader: at what point does a person, particularly a grown man dealing with a child, just seem idiotic rather than sympathetic for putting up with abuse? In the first indication that things are actually going as planned for a change, Sam discovers that the local people have at least noticed and are concerned about Johnny’s absence, so some increased confidence in the plan is warranted. Sam's pride is contrasted by Bill’s situation as Johnny's "horse," however, which he finds untenable and humiliating. Sam’s inability to anticipate the seriousness of Bill's growing objections to their criminal endeavor could now be a big issue for their plan.

Abused by Johnny, ridden like a horse, bitten, kicked black-and-blue, and forced to eat sand as if it were oats, Bill finally has snapped and, he believes, sent Johnny home because he can no longer tolerate “supernatural tortures.” Pathetically, he describes in detail his reasons for sending this young boy home—something that did not, in fact, happen. So far, Bill has been more aware of the acute reality of their challenges with Johnny than Sam has been, but here he takes a turn towards fantasy, believing that Johnny is gone when the boy is, in fact, right behind him. When Sam tells Bill to turn around to see Johnny is still there with them, it causes Bill to flop down on the ground and pluck at grass and sticks. This slapstick moment has significance in that usually Sam is deluded while Bill sees their situation all too clearly, but here Sam is literally telling Bill to open his eyes and look at what’s in front of him. The result of pulling the wool from his eyes is shock, apparently, and a full hour of withdrawal from the world. When he comes around, Sam is once again the deluded one, insisting that the scheme will go forward. Sam believes things are going well because he has sent a threatening letter and is receiving a reply. However, despite his assertion that his behavior resembles that of professional kidnappers, Sam actually seems to be participating in fantasy play similar to Johnny’s—after all, he is climbing trees and playing hide and seek with a “half-grown boy” who brings the response from Ebenezer. The "crabbed hand" with which the letter of response is written shows the age of the respondent, which might indicate that Ebenezer is weak—the substance of the letter will upend that implication. In his letter of response, Ebenezer turns the tables and suggests that it’s Bill and Sam who should pay to end this debacle, not he. This reversal is a climax of the plot, establishing Ebenezer as the dominant actor, credibly threatening them in order to get what he wants. Amusingly, it is somewhat unclear if the neighbors would be angry with Sam and Bill for taking Johnny or for bringing him back. In any case, his signature (“very respectfully”) is the sort of business-like formality that is a recognizable feature of otherwise cut-throat business communications.

Sam's reaction to Ebenezer's letter is shock, of course, since to this point he has deluded himself that the kidnapping has a chance of succeeding. Sam and Bill's inability to make good on their threats to hurt Johnny is key to their coming acquiescence to Ebenezer's powerful response. In complying with Johnny's father's demands, they see the only way out of an improbably difficult situation—namely, that they haven't the heart to hurt anyone, and they are terrified of both Johnny and his father. In fact, Johnny's father is such a strong figure in their minds that they use a lie about him buying Johnny a silver rifle and moccasins for a bear-hunting trip as bait to lure Johnny home. It's heartbreaking, highlighting as it does how sad and disappointing the child’s life has been with his father. In the final action, Johnny clings to Bill, rather than to his father, and the father restrains his son while Bill and Sam make their getaway. It’s a denouement that is both strangely sad and funny, illustrating that Johnny's home is no home, and that the strangers who came to town without a clue are leaving it considerably more knowledgeable about who runs things.