Jack was upon him in a moment, like a cat upon a mouse, and grasping him by the collar with his right hand he pressed his head beneath the water, while he held his rifle ready in his left to strike him upon the skull if he must.
Squeaky was a powerful fellow, but on this occasion he had to do with one as strong as himself. Taken by surprise, deprived of his weapon, assaulted suddenly and vigorously from behind by a silent, unseen enemy, and more than all, choked by the water every time he tried to draw breath, he had no chance. The struggle lasted less than five minutes, during a great part of which time Squeaky’s head was under water. His efforts grew more and more feeble, and at length ceased altogether.
Then, still holding him by the collar, all ready to duck him again if he should be shamming, Jack dragged his defeated foe to the end of the tunnel and dropped him upon dry ground, where he lay motionless, streaming water from every part of his body. He was, in fact, very nearly drowned.
Having whistled to Toby, who at once came wading out of the darkness, Jack cut from the saddle three of the long buckskin strings with which it was adorned, and with them he bound his still unconscious antagonist by his wrists, his elbows, and his ankles.
The enemy being thus rendered entirely helpless, it remained to find out whether he was dead or alive; a question which was solved in a few minutes by the gasping and coughing of the captive as he began to get his breath again. At these signs of recovery Jack felt a good deal relieved, for though in his opinion it would be a benefit to the community if Squeaky were dead, still he had no desire to be himself the executioner.
As soon as Squeaky was sufficiently recovered to sit up, Jack, seeing that he was shivering with cold, unceremoniously seized him by the collar again and dragged him to a spot where the sun’s rays found their way to the bottom of the cañon, and there propped him up with his back against the wall.
“Well, Mr. Morgan,” said he, “it looks to me as if it were my turn now.”
At this address Squeaky opened his little piggy eyes as wide as they would go. His hat, and with it his mask, had remained in the pool.
“Who are you calling ‘Mr. Morgan’?” he asked, with an injured air.
“You,” replied Jack. “That was your name back in Utah, I remember. But I suppose a name doesn’t last more than three months or so with gentlemen in your line of business. Never mind that, though. Where are my friends?”