As previously the man’s back had been turned Wilson had shot a frantic glance about him. In their sweep his eyes had fallen on the partly open drawer in the end of the table, immediately below his left hand, and in the drawer had noted the bowl of a pipe. At the moment nothing had resulted, but as the renegade’s back was again turned his eyes again dropped to the drawer, and a sudden wild possibility occurred to him.
His heart seemed literally to stand still at the audacity, the danger of it. But might it not be possible? The light from the single lamp, on the wall opposite, was poor, and his left side thus in deep shadow. And his left hand—he tried it—yes, though tightly bound at the wrist, the hand itself was free.
His first day at the station, the visit of the men from the ranch, Muskoka’s contemptuous greeting, recurred to him. Here was his opportunity of vindication.
With a desperate clenching of the teeth the boy decided, and at once began cautiously straining at the thongs about his wrist, to obtain the reach necessary. Finally they slipped, slightly, but enough. Carefully he leaned sideways, his fingers extended. He reached the pipe, fumbled a moment, and secured it.
Burns was on his knees beside the unconscious guard, splicing a thong. An instant Wilson hesitated, then springing erect, pointed the pipe-stem, and in a voice he scarcely knew, a voice sharp as the crack of a whip, cried:
“Hands up, Burns! I got you!
The renegade cowman, taken completely by surprise, leaped to his feet with a cry, without turning, his hands instinctively half-raised.
“Quick! Up! Up!” cried the boy. A breathlessly critical instant the hands wavered, then slowly, reluctantly, they ascended.
For a moment the young operator stood panting, but half believing the witness of his own eyes to the success of the stratagem. Then at the top of his voice he cried: “Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Muskoka! Wake up! Wake up!”