“It won’t work, young feller. Keep them hands up. I don’t want to shoot you here, but I’ll do it quicker than you can spit if you make one false move. Steady, now.”
Frank heard a step at his back, but he could not look round. He knew Dugan was not alone, and, a moment later he was grasped by a pair of masculine hands.
Dugan advanced, still holding his rifle ready for use.
Frank’s hands were wrenched back behind him and held thus. Then, while Dugan held the muzzle of the rifle within two feet of the head of the captured lad, Merry’s wrists were securely tied by a stout cord.
“Make the knots solid, Huck,” directed the smuggler. “This chap is pretty slippery.”
“Oh, I’ll fix him so he’ll not slip us,” was the assurance of the man behind Frank.
The voice caused Merriwell to start, for it sounded natural.
“It can’t be!” thought Merry. “I am deceived!”
Soon he was tied so that he could not move his hands, and then Dugan lowered the rifle, laughing again in his evil, triumphant manner.
“You didn’t know the kind of man you was dealing with when you hit me,” he said. “As you are no more than a boy, I thought I’d let you off by taking your rifle, which I was bound to have anyhow; but, now that you have followed me here, I’ll put you where you’ll never worry your friends again.”