Stacy shrugged his shoulders, but did not take the weapon.
“I—I don’t like to hurt anyone. I—I—I have an aversion to taking human life, and if I were to take that weapon I’m afraid I might forget myself and shoot someone,” stammered the fat boy.
The bandits laughed.
“Called your bluff, didn’t I?” sneered the fellow.
“No. I said if I had a gun you wouldn’t dare do that. Not having a gun I suppose you can do as you like—this time.”
“Sit down thar. I want you to write a letter to your folks back there and tell them that they got to leave the book that one of ’em stole from Petersen, and the bag of gold, too, under a stone on top of the rock behind the camp, and then git out.”
“You mean that I can go then—after I have written the note?” questioned the boy with a hopeful note in his voice.
“I didn’t say nothing of the kind.”
“Then I won’t write it!” declared Stacy with emphasis.
Another whack from the bandit’s ham-like paw sent the boy staggering.