“I ain’t so sure about that frum what these boys told me of yer doings last night,” said the sheriff dryly; “but as they ain’t got no proof on you, I suppose we can’t arrest yer. But we want one of your party—Wild Bill Jenkins yonder.”
As he spoke there was the vicious crack of a pistol, and the sheriff’s hat flew off. The man they were in search of had hidden himself behind the tonneau of the machine, and it was he who fired the shot. There would have been further shooting but for the fact that at that moment old man Barr, much alarmed lest he should be implicated in the proceedings, called out:
“You had better give yourself up, Bill Jenkins. I won’t protect you.”
“That’s because I didn’t kidnap the right man for you, you old scalliwag, I suppose, and you got my plan of the mine, too,” angrily muttered Wild Bill. “Well, I’ll get even with you yet. All right, sheriff, I’ll go along with you.”
“Just stick up those hands of yours first, Bill, and throw that gun on the ground,” ordered the sheriff.
The bad man, realizing that there would be no use in putting up a fight, meekly surrendered, and a few seconds later he was handcuffed.
“Now, then,” demanded Frank, stepping up to Luther Barr, “where is our auto that you stole last night and where is Mr. Joyce?”
“Your auto that we stole, my dear young man?” meekly inquired Barr.
“Ha! ha! ha! that’s a good one,” laughed Reade.
“Yes, that you stole—you or the ruffians you have chosen to make your associates.”