The long arm of the Mounted

by James French Dorrance

As he neared the point of convergence it did not surprise him to hear a loud whoop from the ranchmen. Nor was he alarmed when they separated, urging their horses into a run, and drove up on either side of him, their ropes swirling in long loops, which hung just clear of the ground. This was not an unusual performance when a group of punchers met a stranger riding alone over their own range. Nine times out of ten the demonstration meant nothing but the outlet of excess spirit. He laughed to himself when he thought of the chance they had of frightening him.

Yet the next moment two of the loops spread and hissed out in twin circles, curving above the punchers' heads. One fell with the swoop of a hawk down over Childress' shoulders. The other whipped over Silver's head, and settled around the beast's arched neck. In a flash both ropes came taut with a jerk that almost pulled the sergeant from his saddle, and nearly overbalanced his horse.

For the first time in years Jack Childress was genuinely surprised; he was also indignant, but as yet not alarmed. These horse wranglers had gone further than was usual in the rough play of the range, but he had no idea that they would follow up their advantage. At the moment he did not think of the warning that Flame had carried to his little ranch in the cup of Open A—that the Gallegher gang were going to get him. He expected that any moment the pressure which held the ropes taut would cease, and that they would ride up, grinning at his discomfiture, and insolently demand his tribute to their roping accuracy.

He strained his powerful arms against the clutch which bound them to his sides, but the jerk had come just at the right moment to pinion him securely. He could get no leverage against the rope, and was helpless.

Silver, excited by the undreamed of indignity of being roped when he already carried a rider, began to plunge, but quieted down at a word from the man in the saddle.

Childress called out angrily to the punchers, getting a derisive laugh for his trouble. Once more he realized the potency of the uniform of the Royal and the handicap of operating in mufti. This outrage never would have been thought of had he worn the scarlet. He tried to reach his revolver, but his fingers would not carry to its butt, and his arm was powerless to lend any assistance. By a single strand he was held. Bitterly he condemned in his mind the confidence which had led him into this sisal trap.

Then began a performance which at first he did not understand. The wrangler whose rope was around his body began to ride a wide circle, while the one who had caught the stallion held hard. In no time there was a second circle of rope around his body.

It came to him that they meant to make him prisoner by winding him up in the rope. To checkmate this he endeavored to make his horse wheel with the circle of the puncher, but the second rope interfered and he only succeeded in delaying the winding operation. Meantime the third puncher was busying himself capturing the led cayuse which had broken away in the excitement.

In spite of his extremity, he was forced to admire the skill of his captors. More artistic handling of sixty-foot ropes he had never seen. Not for an instant was the original grip around his arms and body loosened, and rapidly the circlets increased in number until he would be bound up like a mummy. Finally he gave up the struggle against the strands, and ceased his effort to throw off the successive loops.

"Got yuh nice and clean and gentle this time, hawse thief," was the greeting of the puncher who handled the body rope, as he made the final circle.