Nick squatted down and dropped the logs carefully before the fire. He selected some small, dry splints and put them on the coals, blowing gently until they burst into flame. He gave one quick glance around him before he carefully reached forward and placed a larger piece on the blaze. Then with a sharp exclamation of pain he yanked his hands back from the scorching heat, to wipe them on his shirt front, and in the same instant leaped erect and whirled to one side. A revolver appeared in each of his hands, and before one could think two spurts of flame shot out. The fat man yelled and careened against the wall, clutching his right shoulder. Perry crooked his arm with a startled oath as his gun, holster and all, was torn from his numbed fingers.
“Up!” snapped Nick, and the bewildered Tony obeyed.
Henderson dived across the room, leaped prodigiously and sunk his head in the fat man’s stomach. The fat man, who was clawing wildly for his gun with his left hand, grunted and crumpled to the floor in agony. Perry at this instant recovered his wits and rushed forward, snarling, to stagger back, blinded by the impact of a gun-barrel across his eyes.
“Here!” yelled Henderson, squatting before his partner.
Nick lowered one gun, still covering Tony with the other. Henderson grasped the barrel between his wrists and held it against the rawhide thongs.
“Shoot!” he said, and Nick pulled the trigger.
The old man jumped up. His hands and moccasins were scorched, but he was free. He grabbed Tony’s gun and covered Perry before the cursing man had cleared his eyes of dizziness and blood.
A minute later the three invaders lay bound hand and foot. Nick and Henderson stood looking down at them.
“Of course,” said Nick, “it’s easier to draw from your shirt front than your pocket, but I’m pretty near as good as you, ain’t I?”
He bent to examine the fat man’s shoulder.