George Ashby's sawed-off shotgun looked squarely at the region bounded by Jeff Moore's belt.
“It's your turn, gentlemen,” agreed Rafe, he put his hands in the air.
“You've got us—be decent,” grinned Jeff, as he, too, raised his hands upward.
“Get your hands up higher!” ordered Jim Duff in his deadliest tone. These men were now helpless, and the gambler merely chuckled inwardly at the thought.
“Is this where we shoot them?” queried the mad hotel keeper.
“Yes—after a minute or two!” nodded Jim Duff, who wished first to determine whether the automobiles of the searching party were moving too near to them.
“I can hardly wait for the word!” quivered Ashby.
CHAPTER XXIV. CONCLUSION
“How long are we to keep our hands up, Duff?” questioned Jeff.