Not until the steel rim of it pressed against the teeth of the man beneath him did Jack’s fingers loosen. “Make a sound, and you’re a dead man.”
The other choked and gurgled. He was not yet able to cry out, even had he any intention of so doing. But defiant eyes glared into those of the man who had unhorsed and captured him.
“Where are your pals bound for?” Flatray demanded.
He got no answer in words, but sullen eyes flung out an obstinate refusal to give away his associates. 212
“I reckon you’re one of the Roaring Fork outfit,” Jack suggested.
“You know so darn much I’ll leave you to guess the rest,” growled the prisoner.
“The first thing I’ll guess is that, if anything happens to Simon West, you’ll hang for it, my friend.”
“You’ll have to prove some things first.”
Flatray’s hand slid into the man’s coat pocket, and drew forth a piece of black cloth that had been used as a mask.
“Here’s exhibit A, to begin with.”