Then, leaving Jim to the care of Jackson, he slipped forward to another and bigger tree not more than a dozen paces from the cabin. Standing close in the shadow of the trunk, and drawing his revolver, he called sharply as a gun-shot—“Dan Black.”
Instantly there was a thud within the hut as of some one leaping from a bunk.
“Dan Black,” repeated the Deputy, “the game’s up. I’ve got ye surrounded. Will ye come out quietly an’ give yerself up, or do ye want trouble?”
“Waal, no, I guess I don’t want no more trouble,” drawled a cool voice from within the hut. “I guess I’ve got enough o’ my own already. I’ll come out, Tug.”
The door was flung open, and Black Dan, with his hands held up, stalked forth into the moonlight.
With a roar Jim sprang out from behind the fir tree, dragging Long Jackson with him by the sudden violence of his rush.
“Down, Jim, down!” ordered Blackstock. “Lay down an’ shut up.” And Jim, grumbling in his throat, allowed Jackson to pull him back by the collar.
Blackstock advanced and clicked the handcuffs on to Black Dan’s wrists. Then he took the revolver and knife from the prisoner’s belt, and motioned him back into the hut.
“Bein’ pretty late now,” said Blackstock, “I guess we’ll accept yer hospitality for the rest o’ the night.”
“Right ye are, Tug,” assented Dan. “Ye’ll find tea an’ merlasses, an’ a bite o’ bacon in the cupboard yonder.”