“I’ll do it,” whined the negro, whose terror was doubled when his back was turned to the object of his alarm; “don’t you go for to shoot, an’ I won’t make no trouble.”
“Benton, come here,” said Nick.
The old man advanced, grinding his teeth.
Meanwhile Nick put one of the revolvers into his pocket, and drew out a pair of handcuffs.
As Benton held out his hands, Nick, for an instant, removed the pistol’s muzzle from a direct line with the other’s head.
Benton’s eye was quick to see this. Instantly he leaped forward to seize Nick’s hand, at the same time calling upon Pete to help him.
But the first word barely escaped his lips.
The hand in which Nick held the fetters leaped out and struck Benton on the point of his jaw, and he fell like a rag baby.
Pete turned at the sound of his name, but his head spun round again without any delay.
He saw Nick holding Benton’s unconscious form across his arm, as one might hold an old coat.