Seeing that the game was up, Bill rested his gun against the wall and stepped forward.
“It’s me he’s talking about,” he said. “I’m Bill Bolton.”
[CHAPTER V—TAKEN FOR A RIDE]
The barracks boss stared at Bill in undisguised amazement, while the others fingered their rifles. Slowly a twinkle came into the man’s eyes and he broke into a roar of laughter.
“When it comes to cast-iron, dyed in the wool nerve?” he choked, “you’re sure a winner, Bill—Bolton! I took a fancy to yer when I first laid eyes on yer and I’m sorry for yer now. If I wasn’t,” he shot out venomously, “I’d certainly put a bullet in yer carcass. The joke has been on me, all right—now it’s on you. If you bumped Diego off, the boss’ll put yer on the spot. Them’s rules. What did yer do with him?“
“He’s lying in the room over at the barracks where he was about to handcuff me and put me into a pair of leg irons. He’s wearing them now, or was when I left him.”
“Did you bump him off?”
“No. His jaw may be broken where I socked him—otherwise, I guess he’s O.K.”
Tom took half a cigar from his pocket, thrust it into his mouth and chewed steadily for a minute or two.
“Well, you’re a smart kid, Bill,” he admitted, “but not quite smart enough for this outfit. Got the keys to them cuffs and leg irons?”