“Nothin’ doing, Reddy; I quit!” a hoarse voice suddenly shouted, almost under their feet; and at same instant Bob caught sight of a moving figure, dimly seen in the dense shadows.
“Throw up your hands, quick!” snapped Frank, just as he imagined Old Hank Coombs might call out under similar circumstances.
“They are up, as high as I kin get ’em, Reddy, so don’t bother shootin’!” cried the unknown.
“Drop down on your face then, and lie there!” Bob heard his chum order; and he was more than ever filled with admiration for the clever manner in which Frank seemed able to manage things.
The dark, shadowy figure immediately got down on the ground, as though only too eager to oblige. Frank threw himself upon the fellow’s back without wasting any time.
“Get one of his arms here, and help me put this handkerchief around his wrists, Reddy!” he said, still trying to make his voice sound as gruff as possible, in order to keep up the deception.
Bob understood why he did this. If the man imagined for a single second that he had given in to a couple of boys, he might start fresh hostilities, overcome by a sense of rage and humiliation.
So Bob groped for the fellow’s left arm, finding which he drew it back until Frank could cross the two wrists. Then the big and stout bandana handkerchief was wrapped several times around, to be eventually secured by triple knots.
“That ought to hold him fast, Frank!” remarked Bob, who was feeling a sense of satisfaction over the final success that had followed their hot chase down the side of the foothills.
“It will, too,” replied the other, as he took his knee off the back of the unfortunate man. “Now, get up!”