Stumbling and tripping, the struggling, cursing trio came headlong to the ground. Suddenly, with a gurgling yell of pain, Fisk released his grip on Ellis, who was the under dog and, clutching at his own throat, fell backwards; his head, meanwhile, giving curious, spasmodic jerks. Uncomprehending, but quick to follow up his advantage, the Sergeant rolled over upon him; and as he did so, his hands, seeking the other’s neck, encountered a rope, and he instantly realized what had happened.
“Steady, Barney!” he panted. “Ease up a bit. Yu’ll choke him.”
Roughly, and with the swift celerity of men accustomed to throwing and hog-tying steers, they trussed up their late formidable antagonist, winding the forty-foot riata around him as he kicked and raved, with a maze of knots that left him as helpless as a child. Then, utterly spent with their exertions, they lay back, gasping for air and sweating.
Gradually recovering, they regained their speech somewhat.
“G—d!” said Ellis, still breathing heavily, “that’s about the worst man-handling I guess I ever did get! Here! This won’t do, lyin’ on our backs all night. Where in h—l’s them bracelets? I dropped ’em somewheres around here.” And, arising unsteadily, he began to kick amongst the short grass.
With the aid of some matches the missing articles were eventually found. The two men then turned to the huge, bound figure of the rustler, who was still cursing and twisting under his bonds. Cautiously, loosening one great arm at a time, they clasped the steel loops around the enormous wrists.
“Should have a gun,” muttered the Sergeant. “He was a-tryin’ to draw, all right. Can’t get at it, though, while he’s on his back. Here, let’s roll him over on his face, Barney, so’s I can get at his hip-pocket.”
In about as gentle a fashion as a lumber-jack twisting a log with a cant-hook, so the big body was heaved over into the desired position, and Ellis commenced his investigations. A smothered exclamation escaped him.
“Hullo!” he said, “what’s this? So that’s why I didn’t get mine, eh?”
He struck a match, disclosing by its light the butt of a long-barreled Colt’s .45 protruding from the rustler’s right hip-pocket. Being unscabbarded the wing of the hammer had (providentially, for Benton) caught in the torn lining of the pocket and become firmly fixed therein.