A third voice broke in. "I didn't see a car. They must have cached it somewhere."
"You're right," the first voice agreed. "Find it, and fix it. Where'll we put these kids?"
The second voice had a suggestion. "The old jail across the street. We can lash 'em to the bunks."
Rick felt himself lifted like a sack of grain. He swayed as the man lugged him through the front of the hotel, across the porch, and into the street. His captor rounded the car that was waiting there and Rick strained to turn his head, to try to see the license plate, but couldn't catch a glimpse of it.
A creaky door was swung open and he was carried into an inner room and dropped face down. It knocked the breath out of him for a moment. When he recovered, he was tightly lashed to a rusty iron frame. His groping fingers felt the frame and the rope, but the knots were beyond his reach.
A voice asked, "Will we turn 'em loose later? We don't want 'em to die in here."
"They won't. They can get loose, but it will take a while and we'll be long gone. Come on."
The door creaked again. Rick listened to the sound of footsteps across loose boards, then there was silence.
Scotty whispered, "What do we do now? Wait for the Lone Ranger and Tonto?"
Rick had to grin, in spite of their plight. "Looks like it," he agreed. There was something ridiculous about being bundled into an antique Western jail. "Anyway, we didn't get bitten by that blasted snake."