Pedro, in fact, in his dread lest he be shot, was lying on his stomach, his face between his crossed arms, while Halstead stood over him, holding that wholly useless “pistol.”
“Just move that car a few yards ahead, will you?” begged Tom of the chauffeur, fearing that in the strong light, Pedro might steal a look sideways and find out what a comical “weapon” had scared him.
“There are three of the crowd up there,” added Joe. “They were chasing us, but your arrival scared them off.”
“I’ll make sure of the one we have, first,” returned the constable, going toward the prostrate negro. “My man, put your hands behind you, and be quick about it.”
Pedro obeyed without a murmur, the constable snapping handcuffs on him without loss of an instant. “Now, help me lift him into the auto—front seat,” directed the officer. But Pedro, seemingly afraid of the consequences of any stubbornness, aided his captors.
“Can you keep him, Jack?” asked the constable of the man at the steering wheel.
“I can bring him down, if he tries to bolt,” came the quick retort from the chauffeur.
“’Fore hebben, Ah won’t try nothing funny,” protested Pedro, solemnly. He was seemingly still afraid that the slightest defiance would cost him his life.
“See that this fellow is locked up, Jack,” commanded Jennison, in a low voice. “Speed some, too, and get back here as fast as you can with some more men. It may be that there’s going to be a fight.”
Just as the car started two sharp reports rang out from the hillside above. There were two flashes, and bullets whizzed ominously over the road. One of them pierced Tom’s uniform cap, carrying it from his head.