"Thank goodness, they're not next," breathed Clell while his chief, straightening as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, responded: "He only pulled out a few whiskers."
Assured that their hero had received no injury, the crowd considered the matter a huge joke and laughed boisterously, offering all sorts of advice for the restoration of the beard.
But the great outlaw was in no mood for jesting. That someone had discovered that his whiskers were false the exclamation disclosed and the consequences might be far-reaching, especially as both he and his pals were ignorant of who had uttered it.
Consollas had ceased to struggle and was watching his tormentors with fascinated eyes.
"Give a hand here, boys," commanded Jesse. "We'll get this business through and go back to camp as soon as we can."
"Dump the feathers in a pile and we'll chuck the runt into them."
Quickly Clell sprang to the heap of bags, emptying them of their contents, while Frank laid hold of one shoulder of Fred's coat.
"Lift," exclaimed the bandit-chieftain.
With all their strength, the two outlaws pulled at the boy. For a moment he did not move, held fast by the cooling tar, then the strain told, and, with a loud sucking noise, he was hauled from the kettle.