A fresh burst of blasphemy greeting his request, he picked up the riata again and, dropping a loop over the rustler’s head and shoulders, drew it taut.
“Yu’ go get me one o’ them hawsses, Barney,” he said quietly.
Gallagher sauntered over to where the two animals had halted after their first scare and were placidly feeding, and returned with Scotty’s horse. The Sergeant mounted and took a turn of the riata around the saddle-horn.
Amidst an ominous silence he swung around in his seat with shortened leg. “Comin’?” he inquired significantly.
Big George was no coward, but he was between the devil and the deep sea; for in the cold cruelty of the policeman’s tones he read aright the signs of a pitiless purpose if he still persisted in further obstinacy. Sullenly he rolled over onto his knees, and awkwardly raised himself on his feet.
“So,” said Ellis approvingly, “that’s better.”
Dismounting leisurely, he drew off the loop and coiled up the riata.
“Get yu’ over to that openin’ in th’ brush, where yore partner is,” he continued, in an authoritative, menacing voice. “Here!—this way.” And, grasping the big man’s shoulder, he guided him over to the indicated spot.
There they found the handcuffed, miserable Scotty. He had made no attempt to run away. Naturally a timid rogue, the rough handling that he had received had knocked whatever little pluck he possessed out of him completely. Now he whined like a frightened child, blaming Fisk for their mutual mischance; but the latter cursed savagely back, threatening him in horrid terms, so he ceased his lamentations in pure dread of the other’s dominant personality, and relapsed into shivering silence. Fisk began to raise his voice again.
“What d’yu’ figure on chargin’ us with, anyways?” he snarled. “Why, yu’ ain’t got nothin’ on us! We was on’y lookin’ fur one o’ our own hawsses, as we thort might—”