“Here we are,” a tired Bill Stewart finally announced as he paused beside the half-buried bandit car. “See our ski tracks leading up to the ridge? The shack’s just below there. Some of you can go around the ridge one way and down to the ledge, some the other. If they’re still in the shack, and it looks like they are, their only chance of escape is straight down the hill and that’s no chance at all unless they have skis.”
“Fine!” said the Sheriff. “You men station yourselves as this lad says. He and I will go up above on the ridge and I’ll call down to those eggs to surrender. Don’t start firing unless I signal. We don’t want to risk the lives of the two boys with ’em ... if we can help it.”
“Poor Max and Phil,” thought Bill. “They’re in a tough spot. My part of this business is soft.”
“Hello, down there!” the Sheriff shouted when his men were in place.
There was a moment of tingling silence. Fingers twitched nervously against triggers.
“Hel-lo!” the Sheriff repeated, as he and Bill peered cautiously over the ridge, down upon the snow-covered shack. There was now no sign of smoke from the chimney.
Z-z-z-ing.
The two instinctively ducked back as a bullet screamed skyward.
“Well, we got an answer!” said the Sheriff as Bill looked his concern. Then, to the barricaded bandits: “You men are surrounded. Better walk out with your hands over your heads and give up peaceable.”