“They are quite enough, mates—quite enough,” put in the sailor. “We will have to get up early in the morning to get ahead of them.”
“This yere Merriwell certain is no tenderfoot,” agreed Shawmut.
Wiley arose and slapped the speaker on the shoulder in a friendly, familiar manner.
“Now you’re talking,” he nodded. “He is a bad man with a record longer than your arm. I have dealt with hundreds of them, however; and I think my colossal brain will be more than a match for him. Did you ever hear how I got the best of Bat Masterson? It’s a thrilling tale. Listen and I will unfold it to you. You know Bat was the real thing. Beyond question, he was the worst bad man that ever perambulated the border. Yet I humbled him to his knees and made him beg for mercy. That was some several years ago. At that time—”
Wiley was fairly launched on one of his yarns, but at that moment Frank Merriwell heard a slight movement and attempted to turn quickly, when he was given a thrust by a powerful pair of hands, which hurled him forward from the embankment and sent him whirling down toward the tent below.
Frank struck on the tent, which served to break his fall somewhat, but he was temporarily stunned. When he recovered, he found himself bound hand and foot and his three captors surveying him by the light of the fire.
“Well, wouldn’t it jar you!” exclaimed the sailor. “It was almost too easy. Why, mates, he must ’a’ been up there listening to our innocent conversation, and somehow he lost his hold and took a tumble.”
Shawmut laughed hoarsely.
“It was a mighty bad tumble for him,” he said. “He falls right into our paws, and we has him foul. Now we’re all right. Talk about luck; this is it!”
Kip Henry shook his wounded and bandaged hand before Frank’s eyes.