Jack’s hands went up reluctantly. “You’ve got the call,” he admitted.
They led him a couple of hundred yards from the trail and tied him hand and foot. Before they left him the outlaw whom he had captured evened his score. Three times he struck Flatray on the head with the butt of his revolver. He was lying on the ground bleeding and senseless when they rode away toward the hills.
Jack came to himself with a blinding headache. It was some time before he realized what had happened. As soon as he did he set about freeing himself. This was a matter of a few minutes. With the handkerchief that was around his neck he tied up his wounds. Fortunately his hair was very thick and this had saved him from a fractured skull. Dizzily he got to his feet, found his horse, and started toward Mesa.
Not many people were on the streets when the sheriff passed through the suburbs of the little town, for it was about the breakfast hour. One stout old negro mammy stopped to stare in surprise at his bloody head.
“Laws a mussy, Mistah Flatray, what they done be’n a-doin’ to you-all?” she asked. 226
The sheriff hardly saw her. He was chewing the bitter cud of defeat and was absorbed in his thoughts. He was still young enough to have counted on the effect upon Melissy of his return to town with one of the abductors as his prisoner.
It happened that she was on the porch watering her flower boxes when he passed the house.
“Jack!” she cried, and on the heels of her exclamation: “What’s the matter with you? Been hurt?”
A gray pallor had pushed through the tan of her cheeks. She knew her heart was beating fast.
“Bumped into a piece of bad luck,” he grinned, and told her briefly what had occurred.