Of course the Sergeant, not being an imbecile, obeyed.
"Now get up in that tree and stay there while I dress," the Wolf ordered. In three minutes he was arrayed in the habiliments of Sergeant Heath; then he said, "Come down and put on my shirt."
In the pocket of the khaki coat that the Wolf now wore were a pair of steel handcuffs; he tossed them to the man in the shirt commanding, "Click these on."
"I say," the Sergeant expostulated, "can't I have the pants and the coat and your boots?"
The Wolf sneered: "Dif'rent here my bounder; I got to make a get-away. I'll tell you what I'll do—I'll give you your choice of three ways: I'll stake you to the clothes, bind and gag you; or I'll rip one of these .44 plugs through you; or I'll let you run foot loose with a shirt on your back; I reckon you won't go far on this wire grass in bare feet."
"I don't walk on my pants."
"That's just what you would do; the pants and coat would cut up into about four pairs of moccasins; they'd be as good as duffel cloth."
"I'll starve."
"That's your look-out. You'd lie awake nights worrying about where Jack Wolf would get a dinner—I guess not. I ought to shoot you. The damn police are nothin' but a lot of dirty dogs anyway. Get busy and cook grub for two—bacon and tea, while I sit here holdin' this gun on you."
The Sergeant was a grotesque figure cooking with the manacles on his wrists, and clad only in a shirt.