Jurgens was already so close to the tent that the canvas walls were between him and that part of the ridge where the boys were hiding. Whistler was walking directly away from the palm trees, so that his back was turned to the boys.
Matt crawled over the top of the ridge, then got to his feet and glided noiselessly toward the nearest wall of the tent. He could hear Jurgens poking around inside, and could even follow his movements as his head and shoulders brushed against the sloping canvas.
Dropping to his knees, Matt quickly lifted the lower edge of the canvas and rolled inside. Jurgens was passing that spot, at the moment, and Matt kept on rolling. His body struck against Jurgens' legs with sufficient force to overturn him. He gave a yell as he dropped, but the next moment his frantic shouts were stifled by Carl and Dick, who, by that time, had also pushed under the bottom of the tent.
"Hold him tight," whispered Matt, posting himself at the tent opening. "Here comes Whistler, and we've got to have him, too. You take care of Jurgens and I'll look after Whistler."
Matt had hardly finished speaking before Whistler rushed into the tent. He carried a revolver in one hand, and Matt, with a quick blow, dashed the weapon from his fingers. Whistler started back with an oath, only to find the muzzle of a six-shooter staring him in the face.
"Steady!" snapped Matt. "Try to yell, or to run away, and it will be the worse for you. Down on the ground, Whistler—face down!"
"What are you tryin' to——"
"Down, I tell you!"
The weapon almost touched Whistler's face. His gaze traveled along the barrel to the keen gray eyes back of it, and he dropped to his knees and sprawled forward at full length. As he did so, he made an attempt to grasp the weapon Matt had struck from his hand, and which was still lying on the sand.
But Carl was near enough to grab it away.