“I see Wild Bill Jenkins,” suddenly shouted the sheriff. He bent over and picked up one of the rifles with which the side of the chassis was furnished.
A hasty exclamation from Frank checked him.
“Don’t shoot!” cried the boy
“Wall, stranger, if you don’t beat all. The reward holds good for him alive or dead.”
“Well, we can just as easily capture him alive,” said Frank coolly, “and I don’t want to see human life taken in that wanton manner.”
The sheriff regarded him amazedly, but nevertheless put down the weapon.
“Wall, if we lose him it will be your fault,” he remarked grimly.
But they were not to lose the desperado. As the aeroplane swooped to earth the sheriff hailed the auto party which comprised Luther Barr, the red-bearded man, Wild Bill Jenkins, and Fred Reade. They looked up from their frenzied efforts at adjusting the tire and, surmising from the authoritative tones of the sheriff who he must be, old Barr hailed him in a piping voice:
“We have done nothing against the law, sheriff. What do you want?”
By this time the aeroplane had come to a standstill, and the boys and their companion were on the ground.