Sergeant McBain rapped out his formula without regard for the letter of it. Then, while one of the troopers placed handcuffs upon the prisoner’s wrists, he turned to those at the canoe.
“How many kegs?” he demanded.
For a moment there was no reply. Holy Dick sniggered. McBain glared furiously, and his impatience rose.
“How many?” he cried again, more sharply.
One of the troopers approached him and spoke in a low voice.
“None, sergeant,” he said, vainly striving to avoid the sharp ears of their prisoner. “The boat’s loaded heavy with loose rocks. It’s——”
A cunning laugh interrupted him. Holy Dick was holding out his manacled arms.
“Guess you’d best grab these off, Sergeant; maybe you’ll need ’em for someone else.”
But the policeman’s reply became lost. A rattle of firearms far off on the other side of the river left it unspoken. Something was happening away over there, something they had not calculated upon. The rest of the patrol, with Fyles, was divided between the other bank and the more distant trail. He turned to his men.
“Loose him and get into the saddle sharp!” he cried. “They’ve fooled us. By God, they’ve fooled us—again!”