“Toby, yuh stay here while me and Willison take a run up there tuh see what’s up. All ready, Willison, grab your gun.”
Willison obeyed implicitly, following Wolf Brennan up along the slope to the first ridge on the ascent. Toby McCallum, one hand against a tree, stood and watched them depart. Dick nudged Sandy.
“Now!” he whispered tersely. “You drag down the canoe while I attend to McCallum.”
They clambered up the low embankment, moving swiftly and quietly. Reaching the canoe, Sandy paused while Dick gathering momentum, leaped straight over a low barricade of scraggy brush and hurled himself straight at his adversary.
Turning in time to see Dick leaping for him, McCallum instinctively raised one arm to ward off the attack. However, this defensive action came too late. With all his weight behind it, Dick struck McCallum in a flying tackle just above the knees. The outlaw crashed down like a sack of wheat. He was somewhat stunned by the impact of the fall, but, even then, tried to reach out for his rifle, lying on the ground barely two feet away.
In the meantime, perceiving both Dick and McCallum struggling on the ground, locked in each other’s arms, Sandy dropped the bow of the canoe and hurried to the rescue. Just as Dick succeeded in pinioning McCallum’s arms under him, Sandy caught up the outlaw’s gun.
“Quick, Dick!” he shouted. “I’ve got it.”
Dick released his hold and staggered to his feet.
“Glad you came, Sandy,” he panted. “McCallum, lay right there,” he ordered savagely, “if you know what’s good for you.”
While Sandy covered their prisoner, Dick stooped and unbuckled the cartridge belt from around McCallum’s waist, placed it about his own, then took the rifle from Sandy’s trembling hands.