“Oh, wow!” wailed the fat boy. “Where you going to take me?”
“None of your business! Is it any of your business?” The fellow thrust the muzzle of a revolver into Stacy’s face.
“N—n—n—no! It isn’t any of my business,” chattered the boy. He was thrown astride the horse; then his captor mounted in front of him, and Stacy clung to the fellow’s shirt with the tips of his fingers.
It was an awful ride, Stacy slipping from side to side with each gallop of the mount, the perspiration streaming down his face from his efforts and the nervous strain.
The ride continued for what seemed hours; then the horseman having halted uttered a sharp, short whistle, which, being answered, he rode ahead. Two men with rifles loomed out of the darkness and peered up at the riders.
“Got him?”
“Yes. Where’s the other one?”
“In the shack. We don’t want to put this one there. They mustn’t get close enough together to talk. We’ll put him in the trough.”
The trough! Stacy began having visions of a ducking in cold mountain water, which thought made him shiver. He was forcibly removed from the horse and made to walk, with a cold hand at the back of his neck. He was taken but a short distance from the horse, then, after his feet had been tied and the arm bonds tightened, Chunky was rolled into what, at home, would have been called a ditch. Here, it was a narrow channel that had been cut through the rocks by water. This was the “trough,” and Stacy was left alone there, while his captors walked away.
It was not long after their departure that he heard excited voices. They were hurrying towards him.