“Yes, put ’em up!” wheezed the little chap, shaking his pistol. “Don’t try no funny business, fer dere’s two udder fellers behind ye, see?”
“Great horn spoon!” exploded the Texan. “Partner, it’s a holdup!”
“We’re right here,” announced a voice behind them, “We’re not going to hurt you unless you make a foolish move. Better act sensible.”
In spite of this warning, the Texan made a sudden duck and lunged at the small man who had confronted him. With a sidelong sweep of his arm, Buckhart struck the pistol aside. Evidently, this caused the man’s finger to contract on the trigger, for there was a sudden spurt of fire and a sharp report.
This astonished Brad, who had more than half fancied the holdup was a practical joke. Realizing that the masked men were carrying real pistols which were loaded, the Texan gave a snarl and grappled with the little fellow.
In the meantime, Dick Merriwell had sought to imitate his chum’s example, but had been clutched from behind and flung to the ground.
There were four of the assailants, two of whom had come upon the unsuspecting boys from the rear. These two sought to give their attention to Merriwell, and the trio went flopping and twisting and writhing into the gutter, striking against the electric-light pole with such violence that the stick of carbon in the globe far above their heads was loosened, a contact was made, and, with a spluttering, hissing sound, the light came on.
The big ruffian who had first commanded the boys to put up their hands now turned his attention to Buckhart, who had the smaller rascal pinned fast to the ground.
Reversing the pistol in his hand, the man lifted it and struck Brad a stunning blow upon the head. With a faint, gasping groan, the Texan fell across the little man.
“Come on here, Cully!” said the thug who had dealt the blow, as he kicked Brad one side with his foot, and attempted to lift his comrade.