Black John had not come in time to lead the gang in the attack on the stage. In his absence, Toby Sam was the leader; and the fact that Toby Sam was the leader accounted in large measure for the precipitate haste of the men engaged in the holdup.
They were in such a hurry that they did no very thorough job. When they could not find the emeralds on Clayton, they simply bundled him on a horse and rode off with him, sure he had them concealed in his clothing, and that they could search him at their leisure, where there was no danger of rifle bullets.
Toby Sam was a coward. That was the explanation of this singular action. Like leader, like man; all were cowards when he led them.
When they had ridden at a sharp gallop for a couple of miles, they stopped their headlong pace and crowded around the prisoner, whose feet were tied under his horse’s belly, and whose hands were tied behind his back.
Toby Sam flashed a glittering revolver and pointed it at him.
“Cough up, now!” he commanded. “We ain’t got no time to fool with you. We want them emeralds you’re carryin’, and we’re goin’ to have ’em. If you don’t fork ’em out, er tell us where to find ’em quick, we’ll tear the clothes off of ye, and cut you into ribbons. Understand, we’re goin’ to have ’em!”
Bruce Clayton smiled disdainfully.
“I haven’t got them,” he said.
“I s’pose you’ll say you don’t know anything about ’em?”
“No, I won’t say that, since you seem to know better; but I haven’t got them.”