"You seem to have me this time," returned the sergeant, swallowing his rage.
"Yea-bo," chortled the second puncher, who had dismounted to permit the circling and who still held the silver horse. "It'll be the last time on this here range."
"Nice little weapon this," remarked the mounted puncher, whipping Childress' revolver from its holster. He broke the weapon, emptying the cartridges onto the prairie floor. Then he returned the "empty" to its holster, and busied himself tying the helpless non-com to pommel and stirrups.
"What is the meaning of this outrage?" Childress demanded.
"This ain't no outrage; it's a party, ain't it, Roper?" advised the dismounted wrangler. "Didn't yuh get yuhr invite? Anyway yuh come along pretty enough an' just at the right time to save us going over into the cup after yuh."
The two settled back into their saddles to await the return of their companion, who was having trouble, not only with the outlaw's cayuse, but also with his own mount, which Childress recognized as one of the famous Black Hawks, a breed in which Sam Gallegher specialized. The two men who stood guard over him were typical punchers, one a ruddy-cheeked youth, the other a grizzled veteran wearing a drooping mustache which he worried when his fingers were not otherwise engaged. They were not so well mounted as the third of the party, which led the captive to believe that this third was either range boss or foreman. He awaited the leader's return with patience, and he held no further converse with the frolicsome pair.
Even to a natural-born optimist, one who had come through a needle's-eye of danger many a time because of undaunted hopefulness, the situation was far from cheerful. He did not fear for his life. Lynching, even of suspected horse thieves, long since ceased to be an outdoor sport of the Canadian ranges. About the worst that would happen to him was the indignity of being dragged into the Gallegher home ranch "all wound 'round" with a puncher's string. But that would be a little bit of too much, he thought, when he considered Flame Gallegher on hand to view his humiliation. Just why he cared so much, when, whatever befell, would be in the line of duty, he hated to admit. But he did care, and the Flame of Fire Weed, whose smile started with a reappearing dimple, was the reason. Again he cautioned himself to "watch his step."
CHAPTER XIII.
IN PUNISHMENT GULCH.
"Smiling Dick" Murdock, range boss on the Gallegher ranch, was not looking up to his sobriquet when he rode back to the group with a reluctant cayuse in tow. Childress noted a handsome man of about his own age and weight, although probably a trifle shorter when out of the saddle. He was dark, almost to a point of swarthiness, but his frown was not unbecoming.