Instead, he dropped to the ground and caught one of the runner’s ankles in both hands. Naturally the fellow plunged to the ground head-first. He turned quickly and leveled a revolver. There was no warning. The shot came instantly, the bullet passing over the boy’s head as he dropped upon the prostrate figure.
With the hand which held the weapon held closely to the ground, Frank struggled with the fellow for an instant, filling the heavy air with his cries for assistance. The first shot had been heard by the sleepers, and help was at hand immediately. The captive was neatly tied by the light of Frank’s flashlight, and the foresters gathered about, still rubbing their eyes.
The “burn” was not all in darkness all the time, for the glare of the smouldering embers to the west lighted the place fairly well. Only for the smoke the ruddy light would have made a pretty good illumination. When the fellow was lifted to his feet an exclamation of astonishment came from the group about him.
“Sawyer!” some one cried.
The prisoner dropped his chin for a moment, as if studying out some difficult proposition, then faced the others sheepishly.
“I thought I could get away with it,” he said.
A cry now came from the men who had hastened to Green’s assistance.
“He’s dead, I guess,” the voice said.
“I didn’t shoot to kill,” Sawyer exclaimed. “He can’t be dead.”
“Why did you shoot at all?” demanded one of the rangers, approaching Sawyer with threatening fists.