To tie the hands of the outlaws securely behind their backs was the work of a few moments, and then they were faced about.
"A fine gang of high-binders!" commented Bill Jordan, as he looked them over. "I had your number, all right, Yancy, though sence yo' growed them wriskers yo' bin castin' asparagus on the good name o' 'Ross!' I reckon, mebbe, the folks down to Albuquerque 'll be right tickled t' see thet there ugly mug o' your'n—'speci'ly the Sher'ff. An' here's my ol' friend, 'One-Card' Tucker, all ornamented up 'ith arrers an' such! I reckon yo' done drawed yo'r last card, ain't yo', Tucker?"
"That's the meanest scoundrel in the whole outfit!" exclaimed Whitey. "If he'd had his way, I wouldn't be here now! He got that hand by swinging a punch at me when I lay on the floor with my hands tied! It must have been Injun who made a pin-cushion out of him with that arrow!"
"'Pin-cushion' is right!" said Jordan, looking at Tucker's arm; "but I want to tell you, Son, the' ain't no such thing as 'the meanest skunk' in thet bunch—the's all the same kind o' pizen. One's 'bout like t' other."
"No," said Whitey, "you're mistaken about that; there's one man here, Crowley, the foreman, who saved my life twice—once when Tucker wanted to shoot me, and once when Ross tried it. He wouldn't have it, and he stood off the whole gang."
"Which is him?" asked Bill, in an incredulous tone.
"Here he is," said Whitey, pointing to the foreman.
"Step out here, yo' Crowley person, an' lemme have a slant at yo'."
Crowley looked at Bill sullenly, but did not move. "I ain't askin' no favors," he said. "I reckon I kin take my medicine with the rest."
"Seems like yo' was some squeamish in this here matter," said Bill, eyeing Crowley keenly. "I'm s'prised at yo'! Was yo' 'fraid?"