“Hands up there, Red Joe, and all the rest of you,” came in stern tones from their right.
Instantly the breeds obeyed the order and the boys turned to see three men, all carrying automatics in their hands, step from behind trees only a few feet away.
“That’s right,” said one, as he stepped forward. “Just keep ’em up. The first one who makes a move will be bored. Now drop that gun, Joe.”
The breed obeyed without a word but, as Jack afterward declared, if looks would kill, the officer would not have had a chance.
One of the men quickly picked up the gun and dropped it into his pocket.
“Frisk ’em, Bill,” the leader ordered, “while I keep ’em covered.”
“Now you can put ’em down,” he said, after one of his men had taken a revolver and a wicked looking knife from each of them.
“You mak’ one beeg meestake, oui,” the breed whom the officer had called Red Joe, began. “Dis team belong to dees boys.”
The officer laughed.
“It won’t work, Joe. We’ve had an eye on you for some time and know all about you.” Then, turning to Bob, he asked: “Mind telling us who you are? We’re revenue men and we’ve been after these fellows for a long time and now it looks as though we’d got ’em with the goods.”