“Don’t be a fool, driver!” went on the voice of the unseen speaker. “The leaders are covered, and you and every one in the stage are under our muzzles. You can’t fight, and you can’t run away. Throw up your hands, all of you!”
Lonesome Pete swore under his breath; Hotchkiss muttered angrily; Chick Billings, with a resigned oath, dropped the lines and shoved his hands into the air; De Bray was queerly quiet—considering the fact that he was a recent importation, and the woman, collapsing back in her seat, made not a sound.
As for Little Cayuse, he had vanished from the rear seat, but in the general excitement this fact had not been noticed.
Immediately following his last command, the leader of the road-agents presented himself, riding around a barricade of boulders.
He was well mounted, and, taken altogether, was a striking figure of a man.
His face was concealed by a silk handkerchief, tied just under his eyes. He wore a black sombrero, short, black velvet jacket, with silver-dollar buttons, dark corduroy trousers, and knee-boots of patent leather, with silver spurs at the heels. A gaudy sash about his waist supported a pair of revolvers.
With the guns on each side of the trail drawing a bead on the leaders of the team, and on those in the wagon, the chief of the highwaymen did not find it necessary to draw his own weapons.
Pulling his horse to a halt at one side of the wagon, opposite the front seat, the leader’s black eyes calmly surveyed those whom the rest of his gang held at his mercy.
“Cap’n Lawless!” muttered Lonesome Pete.
With a low laugh, the leader of the robbers pulled the silk handkerchief from his face and thrust it into his pocket.