Meantime Ware and Murrell had landed and were coming along the path, the outlaw a step or two in advance of his friend. They reached the horses and were untying them when the thicket suddenly disgorged the three men; each held a cocked pistol; two of these pistols covered Murrell and the third was leveled at Ware.
“Hues!” cried Murrell in astonishment, for the man confronting him was the Clan's messenger who should have been speeding across the state.
“Toss up your hands, Murrell,” said Hues quietly.
One of the other men spoke.
“You are under arrest!”
“Arrest!”
“You are wanted for nigger-stealing,” said the man. Still Murrell did not seem to comprehend. He looked at Hues in dull wonder.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Waiting to arrest you—ain't that plain?” said Hues, with a grim smile.
The outlaw's hands dropped at his side, limp and helpless. With some idea that he might attempt to draw a weapon one of the men took hold of him, but Murrell was nerveless to his touch; his face had gone a ghastly white and was streaked with the markings of terror.