A moment the desperadoes held him in the air that the crowd might see the unfortunate lad.
Covered with the shiny, glistening tar from his neck to the soles of his shoes, with generous daubs on his cheeks and in his hair, his appearance was ludicrous.
Howls of delight broke from the throats of the men and women and even Jesse was forced to smile at the forlorn sight.
"Get a firm hold so we can swing him," he directed his brother then raising his voice, addressed his victim: "I'm sorry we haven't got your father as well as you. Let this be a lesson to you. The next time you think of charging respectable strangers with stealing horses, don't do it. You may not get off so easily."
And while the people laughed at the advice, the great outlaw nodded to Frank, they swung Consollas back and forth several times to gain momentum, then sent him swirling, head over heels, into the stack of feathers.
As the fluffy things closed over him, the crowd cheered, rushing forward to join in the fun of rolling the lad about in them.
Struggling to his feet, Fred screamed and tore at the mass of tar and feathers, looking for all the world like some monster fledgling.
But his breathing spell was short. Grasping him by the heels, the men tumbled him into the heap again, repeating the performance as fast as he could scramble out.
"This'll be a good time to break away," suggested the brother of the bandit-chieftain as he watched the wild frolic.
"Right," returned Jesse and, without attracting attention to themselves, the three outlaws went to their horses, mounted and headed for the Springs.