The man had finished tightening the girth. His foot rose to the stirrup.
He swung up from the ground, and his right leg swept across the flank of
the pony. It did not reach the stirrup; for, even as he rose, Jack's
lariat snaked forward and dropped over his head to his breast. It
tightened sharply and dragged him back, pinioning his arms to his side.
Before he could shake one of them free to reach the revolver in his chaps,
he was lying on his back, with Flatray astride of him. The cattleman's
left hand closed tightly upon his windpipe, while the right searched for
and found the weapon in the holster of the prostrate man.
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.
"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."
The man on the ground suddenly gave an upward heave, grasped at the
weapon, and let out a yell for help that echoed back from the cliff, while
the cattleman let the butt of the revolver crash heavily down upon his
face. The heavy gun came down three times before the struggling outlaw
would subside, and then not before blood streamed from ugly gashes into
his eyes.
"I've had enough, damn you!" the fellow muttered sullenly. "What do you
want with me?"
"You'll go along with me. Let out another sound, and I'll bump you off.
Get a move on you."
Jack got to his feet and dragged up his prisoner. The man was a heavy-set,
bowlegged fellow of about forty, hard-faced, and shifty-eyed--a frontier
miscreant, unless every line of the tough, leathery countenance told a
falsehood. But he had made his experiment and failed. He knew what manner
of man his captor was, and he had no mind for another lesson from him. He
slouched to his horse, under propulsion of the revolver, and led the
animal into the gulch.