Duke, as if by magic, had produced a pistol and was leveling it at the others. But Duggan was fully his match. A quick jab of his fist, a twist of his wrist, and the revolver went flying out of his hand. It spun through the air toward Jack, landing in the hay close beside the boy. Before any of the three quarreling men knew exactly what had occurred, Jack was facing them, the pistol just knocked out of Duke’s clasp in his hand.
It did not waver as it swept the semi-circle of desperadoes. Blank astonishment was written on their faces as a flash showed them their boyish defier and the formidable weapon—it was an automatic of the latest type—that he grasped.
“Confound you, how did you get that pistol?” bellowed Duke irately.
The others, their late troubles forgotten, made as if to beat a retreat.
“Look out. I’m nervous and my hand might shake,” warned Jack, a mischievous sense of humor overcoming him at their panic. “If it ever did,” he went on, “ten shots would come out of this gun—all at once!”
“You—you—young——” sputtered Duke impotently. He almost appeared to foam at the mouth. “Your hands were tied. How did you get them free, you young jackanapes?”
“No conjurer is bound to tell the secret of his tricks, Mr. Duke,” rejoined Jack, who was actually beginning to enjoy the humor of the situation. “Isn’t it enough that I have got them free, and that you threw me your pistol? That was real kind of you.”
“I—I didn’t throw it to you, you young rascal. Those scoundrels, Blinky and Duggan, jerked up my arm.”
“I’ll take the deed for the will,” declared Jack with perfect coolness. “Don’t move, any of you. I’d hate to discharge this thing.”
Duggan sputtered like a dumb animal, mad with fury. He was past speech.