The outlaw was lifted from the wagon and carried up stairs to the attic. His ankles as well as his wrists were securely tied, so that he was unable to walk.
"Friend Fox," said Luke, politely, "there is a bed, and there is a shake-down," pointing to the blankets on the floor. "You can take your choice. I hope you will like your hotel."
"I shall like it better if it provides refreshments," replied Fox. "I am simply famished."
"I am sure Mrs. Mason will furnish you with a meal. I will speak to her."
The outlaw seated himself on the bed, and the cord about his wrists was loosened so that he might be able to eat. This might have been regarded as dangerous, as affording him an opportunity to escape, but for two reasons.
In a chair opposite sat Luke Robbins, with a revolver in his hand, watching his prisoner sharply.
"If you make any attempt to escape," he said quietly, "I shall shoot. Now you understand, and will be guided accordingly."
In spite of his unpleasant situation, the outlaw could not help admiring the coolness and resolution of his guard.
"You would make a capital accession to my band," he remarked.
"If that is meant for a compliment," said Luke, dryly, "I thank you."