As the officer advanced, Whipple pulled Pete behind one of the trees.
"Leave it ter me," he whispered savagely. "Harris is comin' this way an' I'll take care o' him. We've got a score ter settle with that dub, anyway."
"I won't stand fer no desperate work, Whipple," warned Pete. "We're tangled up a-plenty as it is."
"You stand by an' keep yer mouth shut!" ordered Whipple. "We got ter nab Harris an' make him do some more talkin'. Hist, now! He's comin' close."
The officer, greatly worried on account of Matt and his friends, and utterly unconscious of lurking danger, was making straight toward the trees, evidently intending to pass between them on his way to the canal.
As he drew nearer, he kept his head moving from side to side, plainly hoping to discover something.
Scarcely breathing, the two fugitives waited for him. Whipple, catching his revolver by the barrel, leaped out from behind the tree just as Harris came abreast of him. At that instant the officer's head was turned away. He heard the noise of the spring and whirled—but too late. Whipple brought the butt of his revolver down on the officer's head with stunning force.
Harris, without a word, flung up his hands and crumpled in an insensible heap to the ground.
"Look here, Whipple," cried the exasperated Pete, "if ye've done fer him I'm goin' ter quit ye, right here."
"I haven't done fer him," scoffed Whipple, "only jest laid him out so'st we can handle him."