“Not that, Mister Trooper—fer Gawd’s sake, don’t iron me! There’s four fellers right after me——”
“I know that,” said Denis warily. “And one of them’s Ballard, the man you cheated down on the Peace River. Your chickens are coming home to roost with a vengeance, eh? Stick out your hands!”
He held out the open handcuffs. But Cowley, breathing hoarsely, drew back in fear that was by no means assumed.
“I tell ye they’re after me!” he repeated. “Look-a-here, don’t lay me up where I can’t shoot, ye fool! Them fellers aims to murder me, an’ I got to handle a gun in about two minutes!”
“You’ll handle no more guns for a while.” Denis was smiling slightly, his eyes steady. “Bray has gone back to Vermilion, and I’ve just had the pleasure of smashing up your liquor stock and distillery. So you ran into Ballard, eh? I heard some shots—what happened down there?”
Cowley made as if to wipe his dripping brow, but halted as Denis’ linger tightened on the trigger.
“They seen me first an’ let drive. I dropped one o’ them—leastways I winged him a bit, then I shoved fer home. Now, use sense! You ain’t a-goin’ to fix me where they’ll pump lead into me without me gettin’ a chance to shoot——”
“Shut up that nonsense!” broke in Denis. “You’re not going to be hurt unless you get gay with me. If you don’t stick your hands here in ten seconds, I’m going to drop you with a bullet in your leg—take your choice!”
He meant the words, for he saw that the situation was grave in the extreme. Cowley had shot one of the four pursuers, and that meant trouble. Men of Ballard’s stamp would require tenfold vengeance for that shot. None the less, Denis saw his duty clear-cut before him, and intended to protect his prisoner to the utmost.
With a growling snarl, Cowley advanced and held forth his hands, wrists together. Denis lifted the open handcuffs in his left hand—and, as he did so, Cowley swiftly struck the rifle aside and bore him down with a pantherlike leap.