“Here,” said Sleuth, passing over an automatic pistol, “take this thing, Hook. We’ll render him helpless by disarming him so that he can’t do much when he comes round.”
“Hadn’t—hadn’t we better tie his hands behind his back?” faltered Hooker.
“If we have to, we will,” assured Sleuth; “but it will be liable to cause him a great deal of suffering. You can see that he was shot in the right arm and shoulder. That’s where old Quinn plugged him. His coat sleeve is all bloody. The coat was removed while his wound was bandaged, and his arm is hanging loose inside of it now. Certainly he couldn’t run very fast that way. No wonder he didn’t get away.”
“He isn’t—dead—is he?” whispered Roy, staring at the pale face of the unfortunate wretch and noting a little trickle of blood which was running down across the man’s temple from a cut higher up in the edge of his scalp.
“Oh, I guess not,” answered Piper, with an hysterical little gulp of laughter. “He struck his head on the rocks down here when he fell, and that put him to sleep for fair; but I’ll wager he’ll come round all right pretty soon. This is a big piece of work for us, Hook, old pal. Five hundred dollars for the capture of Mr. James Wilson, alias Gentleman Jim, won’t divvy up so bad between us. Eh? What?”
“But is he—is he Gentleman Jim?” muttered Roy, staring at the man’s face. “Have we got the right man?”
“The right man?” echoed Piper. “He must be the right one, or Fred Sage never would have tried to help him get away. Isn’t he the man you saw and talked with in the woods beyond Culver’s Bridge?”
“No, he’s not,” answered Roy positively.
“Gee!” gasped Sleuth in dismay. “That’s queer!”