Brassy was armed with a small rifle, and he insisted upon remaining in the roadway with his uncle. The other lads with their pistols and guns were placed in advantageous positions behind nearby rocks and trees.
The arrangement was scarcely completed when they heard the tramp of horses’ hoofs over the somewhat rocky trail, and in a minute more Bud Haddon came into view, followed by Jillson and Dusenbury, all on horseback and each of the latter leading an extra steed.
“Throw up your hands!” shouted Jarley Bangs, as the horsemen came closer, and he leveled his shotgun full at Haddon’s head, while Brassy covered Dusenbury with his rifle. The boys behind the rocks and trees covered all three men as well as they were able.
The three rascals had not anticipated such a meeting, and, seeing the guns leveled at them, not only from the front but also from the sides, three pairs of hands went up almost as one.
“It’s Bangs!” murmured the man named Dusenbury. “I reckon the jig is up.”
“Don’t dare to budge or I’ll blow somebody’s head off!” roared Jarley Bangs. And he looked as if he meant what he said.
“You’ve got the drop on me, and I ain’t moving,” answered Bud Haddon surlily.
“Hi, Powell! Come out here, will you?” went on Brassy Bangs’ uncle. And then, as Spouter came from the bushes with rifle in hand, he continued. “Go up there and take every one of their guns away from ’em.”
As soon as they had been disarmed the three rascals were told to dismount and stand in a line along the side of the road. Then, as the boys confronted them, Jarley Bangs went through their pockets once more to make sure that no weapon had been overlooked.
“Fine piece of business, to run away with my horses!” exclaimed the old ranch owner, and he jerked his head in the direction of the two animals the men had been leading.