“That’s a lie,” Reade declared coolly.
“Do you want us to show him to you?”
“Yes,” nodded Tom. “You’d have to show me Dave Fulsbee before I’d believe you.”
“Yank the cub off that horse!” ordered ’Gene Black harshly.
Three or four men seized Reade, dragging him out of the saddle and throwing him to earth. Tom did not resist, for he saw other men standing about with revolvers in their hands. He did not believe that this desperate crew of worthless characters would hesitate long about drilling holes through him.
“Take the horse, you, and ride it away,” directed Black, turning to one of the men, who promptly mounted and rode off into the darkness. “Tie that cub’s hands behind him,” was Black’s next order. “Now, bring him along.”
’Gene Black led the way back from the track and into the woods for a few rods. Then the party wheeled, going eastward in a line parallel with the track.
Tom did not speak during the journey. It was not his nature to use words where they would be worse than wasted.
After proceeding a quarter of a mile or so, Black parted the bushes of a dense thicket and led the way inside. At the centre the brush had been cleaned out, clearing a circular space about twenty feet in diameter and dimly lighted by a lantern placed in the centre of the inclosure.
“A snug little place, Reade,” chuckled the scoundrel, turning about as Reade was piloted into the retreat. “How do you like it?”