Bart Witherbee made a flying leap from the auto.
“Don’t come no further, pardner,” grinned Hank. “It might be onhealthy for you.”
“Here, here; what’s all this?” growled the sheriff. “I don’t allow no shooting in my bailiwick. Put up them guns.”
“Let me get by, Hank Higgins,” exclaimed Bart Witherbee angrily.
“Hey, there; what’s that name you mentioned, partner?” asked the sheriff eagerly.
“Hank Higgins, and there’s his partner, Noggy Wilkes,” exclaimed the miner. “The third one, Bill Jenkins, is in jail.”
“Wall, if here ain’t a bit of Christmas luck,” shouted the sheriff exultingly. “I want ’em both for a dozen crimes. Here, you; you’re under arrest. Don’t move or I’ll fire.”
But Noggy Wilkes, with a desperate leap, had gained the side of his horse that stood, western fashion, unhitched, with the reins lying on the horn of his saddle. With one bound the desperado was mounted and galloping off down the trail. The sheriff sent two bullets after him, but both missed. Hank Higgins, however, was not so fortunate. With a muttered:
“I guess you got me right, sheriff,” he submitted to arrest.
In the meantime, Bart Witherbee had burst like a whirlwind into the Government office, upsetting a desk and spilling a bottle of ink over Luther Barr, who had angrily intercepted him.