“Hands up! Both of you!”—Croyden cried—“None of that, Hook-nose!—make another motion to draw a gun, and we’ll scatter your brains like chickenfeed.” His own big revolver was sticking out of Macloud’s pocket. He took it. “Now, I’ll look after you, while my friends tie up your pal, and the first one to open his head gets a bullet down his throat.”
“Hands behind your back, Bald-head,” commanded Axtell, briskly. “Be quick about it, Mr. Macloud is wonderfully easy on the trigger. So, that’s better! just hold them there a moment.”
He produced a pair of nippers, and snapped them on. 165
“Now, lie down and put your feet together—closer! closer!” Another pair were snapped on them.
“Now, I’ll do for you,” Axtell remarked, turning toward Hook-nose.
With Croyden’s and Macloud’s guns both covering him, the fellow was quickly secured.
“With your permission, we will search you,” said Croyden. “Macloud, if you will look to Mr. Smith, I’ll attend to Hook-nose. We’ll give them a taste of their own medicine.”
“You think you’re damn smart!” exclaimed Hook-nose.
“Shut up!” said Croyden. “I don’t care to shoot a prisoner, but I’ll do it without hesitation. It’s going to be either perfect quiet or permanent sleep—and you may do the choosing.”
He slowly went through Hook-nose’s clothes—finding a small pistol, several well-filled wallets, and, in his inside waistcoat pocket, the Parmenter letter. Macloud did the same for Bald-head.