He deftly extracted a revolver, glanced at it quickly, and then transferred it to his own pocket.
“Packin’ a Colt’s automatic around, eh?” he snarled. “That’s another charge I’ll soak into yu’—carryin’ concealed weapons.”
His swiftly working brain had, meantime, evolved a definite scheme of action that he felt the circumstances required. Never for a moment underrating the notoriously desperate character of his captive, he was taking no chances, and purposely kept that individual under the tense influence of his powerful will, giving him no opportunity to collect his crafty wits.
“Quick, now, my lad!” he broke out in a fierce undertone, seizing the other’s shirt collar and pushing the muzzle of the revolver into his back; “step out to that big cottonwood down there—keep yore wings up. Make one break an’ this’ll go off!”
Bursting with helpless, impotent rage, the cowed and bewildered man was roughly thrust forward to the indicated spot. Arriving there, Ellis jerked out his handcuffs, opening these carefully so that he would be able to manipulate them with one hand.
“Shove out yore mitts on each side of this stick!” came his sharp command.
Shorty blinked at him with feigned stupidity out of veiled, bloodshot eyes.
“Quick!” snapped the Sergeant, with a fresh burst of fury at the other’s irresolution. “Quick, yu’ sorrel-topped skunk, or I’ll kill yu’!”
Sullenly the gory arms were clasped around the tree and the handcuffs clicked home. His man secure, the policeman turned swiftly.
“Adios, Shorty,” he said, with grim levity. “I’m just takin’ a little paseur now. I’ll be back before the coyotes get yu’.”