Drawing back behind his followers, he whispers some words to Chisholm, instructing him what is to be done, as also to take direction of it.
“Give up yer guns!” commands the latter, addressing himself to the strangers.
“Why should we?” asks Clancy.
“We want no cross-questionin’, Mister. ’Tain’t the place for sech, nor the time, as you’ll soon larn. Give up yer guns! Right quick, or you’ll have them taken from ye, in a way you won’t like.”
Clancy still hesitates, glancing hastily around the ring of mounted men. He is mad at having permitted himself to be taken prisoner, for he knows he is this. He regrets not having galloped off while there was yet time. It is too late now. There is not a break in the enfilading circle through which he might make a dash. Even if there were, what chance ultimately to escape? None whatever. A score of guns and pistols are around him, ready to be discharged should he attempt to stir from the spot. Some of them are levelled, their barrels bearing upon him. It would be instant death, and madness in him to seek it so. He but says:—
“What have we done, that you should disarm us? You appear to be Indians, yet talk the white man’s tongue. In any case, and whoever you are, we have no quarrel with you. Why should you wish to make us prisoners?”
“We don’t do anything of the sort. That would be wastin’ wishes. You’re our pris’ners already.”
It is Chisholm who thus facetiously speaks, adding in sterner tone:—
“Let go yer guns, or, by God! we’ll shoot you out of your saddles. Boys! in upon ’em, and take their weepuns away!”
At the command several of the robbers spring their horses forward, and, closing upon Clancy, seize him from all sides; others serving Jupiter the same. Both see that resistance were worse than folly—sheer insanity—and that there is no alternative but submit.