“Don’t you fellows make a move there,” commanded the sheriff, sternly. “I won’t take any nonsense. Get those handcuffs out.”
The wretched plebes were too dumfounded to disobey the order. Indian had sunk down on the ground with a wail of agony, and the rest were in about as complete a state of collapse. As if the situation were not bad enough already, two men stepped forward to handcuff them, and the prisoners recognized the triumphantly grinning features of Bull Harris and Gus Murray.
That was too much of an insult; Mark Mallory started back, his face flashing.
“Don’t you come near me, you wretch!” he cried. I’ll——”
The sheriff swung his gun around until the muzzle stared full in Mark’s face.
“Steady!” said he. “Don’t be a fool.”
Mark saw that there was no use making trouble, and he bit his lip and was silent. He put out his hands meekly and let Bull snap the irons upon him. Bull hadn’t had such a moment of joy as that in his whole lifetime before.
The rest of the Seven gave up then and let themselves be secured; only Texas ventured further protest.
“Look a-yere, Mr. Sheriff,” said he, “I ain’t a lunatic. What’s the use o’ this hyar fool business? I’m a ca——”
“Shut up!”