“Stick ’em up!” bawled a hoarse voice from above.
A spurt of flame and the roar of a gun, then Pete’s voice, trembling a bit.
“Got him, Shorty. Are you all right?”
A violent choking, gasping sound from Shorty and Pete, gun in hand, cast off the rope and, leaping to the ground, slid down the trail to his companion’s side.
“Good gosh, man! What’s wrong?” he whispered, loosening the rope and peering into Shorty’s writhing features.
Shorty scrambled to his feet, reaching for his gun.
“My chaw. Swallered ’er. Let’s go,” he gasped, and lunged forward to throw himself upon a dark blot that moved along the bank.
The dull thud of a gun barrel sounded as it struck something.
“Your shot jest winged him, Pete. He’s out fer a spell now. Gimme the rope and we’ll hog-tie him. Then let’s git outa here.”
“Yo’re covered, —— yuh!” called a hidden voice. “Plug ’em if they make a move, Bill. “Stick them —— hands in the air.”