Set free, the young man, in spite of his bubbling rage, felt the madness of further resistance, and the uselessness of wasting breath; so he sprang to his sledge, to begin lashing it fast with the rope.
“Hands off there!” roared the chief scoundrel, taking aim at him. “Now then, run for it, and get yourself warm before we begin to shoot.”
“I’m going,” panted the victim, “but I must fasten up my traps.”
“You ain’t got no traps. They’re ourn,” cried the man. “We give you a chance for your life, so cut at once.”
“What! Send me away like this?” cried the young man, aghast. “It’s murder! Let me have my blankets, man.”
“Run!” shouted the scoundrel, and he shook his pistol.
“You coward!” cried the victim.
“Run!” was roared again.
Feeling that the gang into whose hands he had fallen probably meant to hide their crime by silencing him for ever, the victim turned and ran for his life, and as he ran he felt a sharp pang in the arm.
A heavy fall checked the victim’s panic flight, and as he lay panting and wet with the perspiration which had started from every pore, he realised that one of the bullets had taken effect, ploughing his left arm, which throbbed as if being seared with a red-hot iron.