"The Rangers don't give up their prisoners, my friend. They take 'em an' they keep 'em. You'd ought to know that."
The tendejón-keeper flushed. He had been dragged to justice once by one of the force.
The eyes of the four consulted again. They were still hesitant. The shame of letting this youth take from them their companion without a fight was like a burr under a saddle-blanket to a bronco. But after all, the Ranger stood for law. If they killed him, other Rangers would come to avenge his death.
When men are in doubt the one who is sure dominates the situation. The eye of Roberts carried the compulsion of a deadly weapon. His voice was crisp.
"Come here, Tony," he ordered, and his fingers slipped into the pocket of his coat.
Alviro looked at him for a long second—swore to himself that he would not come—and came.
"Hold out yore hands."
The Mexican set his will to refuse. There was still time to elect to fight. He told himself that was what he was going to do. But he could not hold his own in that steady battle of the eyes. His hands moved forward—empty.
A moment, and the Ranger had slipped and fastened the handcuffs on his wrists.
Roberts had won. Psychologically it was now too late for the others to resort to arms. The tendejón-keeper recognized this with a shrug that refused responsibility for the outcome. After all, Tony had made his own decision. He had chosen to take his chances in Tascosa rather than on the spot with the Ranger.