“Now let’s hear from you,” hissed Smirker. “Who was that fellow who came here and passed himself off for you, and why did you help him out in it? Speak, before I choke the life out of you.”
If Fred could have obeyed his reply would have been as defiant as ever; but the powerful grasp on his throat rendered articulation impossible.
“You won’t tell me?” demanded Smirker; “then take the reward of your treachery.”
The robber’s hand glided around his side to his belt, and when it came in sight again it brought with it a gleaming bowie-knife, which was raised in the air above the prisoner’s breast; but just as it was on the point of descending it was arrested as effectually as though the arm which wielded it had been turned into stone.
“Hold hard, thar!”
The words, uttered by a strange voice and spoken in a tone of stern command, rang through the stable with startling distinctness. Smirker raised his eyes and there, standing in the door to which Fred had so often directed his gaze, was a gigantic figure clad in buckskin, holding in his hands a long, heavy rifle, the muzzle of which was pointed straight at the robber’s head.
“Silas Roper!” gasped Fred’s antagonist.
“‘Tain’t nobody else, as you’ll find out mighty sudden if you move an eyelid,” was the reply. “Drop that we’pon an’ get up from thar.”
The command was no sooner uttered than it was obeyed by the trembling Smirker, who threw down his knife and slunk away like a whipped cur before the stalwart trapper, as he came striding into the stable, and retreating toward the nearest stall, held both his hands above his head in token of surrender.