Custer rode slowly out from beneath the tree.
“Hold up your hands, Mr. Pennington!” snapped the marshal.
Custer Pennington was nonplused. They knew who he was, and yet they demanded that he should hold up his hands like a common criminal.
“Hold on there!” he cried. “What’s the joke? If you know who I am, what do you want me to hold up my hands for? How do I know you’re a marshal?”
“You don’t know it; but I know that you’re armed, and that you’re in a mighty bad hole. I don’t know what you might do, and I ain’t taking no chances. So stick ’em up, and do it quick. If anybody’s going to get bored around here it’ll be you, and not none of my men!”
“You’re a damned fool,” said Pennington succinctly; but he held his hands before his shoulders, as he had been directed.
Five men rode from the shadows and surrounded him. One of them dismounted and disarmed him. He lowered his hands and looked about at them.
“Would you mind,” he said, “showing me your authority for this, and telling me what in hell it’s all about?”
One of the men threw back his coat, revealing a silver shield.
“That’s my authority,” he said; “that, and the goods we got on you.”