clear to him
a moment later when a pair of brawny hands reached out of the darkness
behind him and encircled his throat a hand's width below his gleaming
cigarette. Another pair used cords with deftness and despatch and he was
left by himself to browse upon the gag when all his senses returned.
Hopalong, with Red inconsiderately stepping on his heels, felt his
way along the wall of the crevice, alert and silent, his Colt nestling
comfortably in his right hand, while the left was pushed out ahead
feeling for trouble. As they worked farther away from the canyon distant
voices could be heard and they forthwith proceeded even more cautiously.
When Hopalong came to the second bend in the narrow passage he peered
around it and stopped so abruptly that Red's nose almost spread itself
over the back of his head. Red's indignation was all the harder to bear
because it must bloom unheard.
In a huge, irregular room, whose roof could not be discerned in the dim
light of the few candles, five men were resting in various attitudes
of ease as they discussed the events of the night and tried to compute
their profits. They were secure, for Manuel, having by this time put
away the ghost and megaphone, was on duty at the mouth of the crevice,
and he was as sensitive to danger as a hound.
"The risk is not much and the profits are large," remarked Pedro, in
Spanish. "We must burn a candle for the repose of the soul of Carlos
Martinez. It is he that made our plans safe. And a candle is not much
when we—"
"Hands up!" said a quiet voice, followed by grim commands. The Mexicans
jumped as if stung by a scorpion, and could just discern two of the
rowdy gringo cow-punchers in the heavy shadows of the opposite wall, but
the candle light glinted in rings on the muzzles of their six-shooters.
Had Manuel betrayed them? But they had little time or inclination for
cogitation regarding Manuel.
"Easy there!" shouted Red, and Pedro's hand stopped when half way to his
chest. Pedro was a gambler by nature, but the odds were too heavy and he
sullenly obeyed the command.
"Stick 'em up! Stick 'em up! Higher yet, an' hold 'em there," purred
a soft voice from the other end of the room, where Dick Martin smiled
pleasantly upon them and wondered if there was anything on earth harder
to pound good common sense into than a "Greaser's" head. His gun was
blue, but it was, nevertheless, the most prominent part of his make-up,
even if the light was poor.
One of the Mexicans reached involuntarily for his gun, for he was a
gun-man by training; while his companions felt for their knives, deadly
weapons in a melee. Martin, crying, "Watch 'em, Cassidy!" side-stepped
and lunged forward with the speed and skill of a boxer, and his hard
left hand landed on the point of Juan Alvarez' jaw with a force and
precision not to be withstood. But to make more certain that the
Mexican would not take part in any possible demonstration of resistance,
Martin's right circled up in a short half-hook and stopped against
Juan's short ribs. Martin weighed one hundred and eighty pounds and
packed no fat on his well-knit frame.
At this moment a two-legged cyclone burst upon the scene in the person
of Johnny Nelson, whose rage had been worked up almost to the weeping
point because he had lost so much time hunting for the crevice where
it was not. Seeing Juan fall, and the glint of knives, he started in
to clean things up, yelling, "I'm a ghost! I'm a ghost! Take 'em alive!
Take 'em alive!"
Hopalong and Red felt that they were in his way, and taking care of one
Mexican between them, while Martin knocked out another, they watched the
exits,—for anything was possible in such a chaotic mix-up,—and gave
Johnny plenty of room. The latter paused, triumphant, looked around to
see if he had missed any, and then advanced upon his friends and shoved
his jaw up close to Hopalong's face. "Tried to lose me, didn't you!
Wouldn't wait for me! For seven cents an' a toothbrush I'd give you
what's left!"
Red
a moment later when a pair of brawny hands reached out of the darkness
behind him and encircled his throat a hand's width below his gleaming
cigarette. Another pair used cords with deftness and despatch and he was
left by himself to browse upon the gag when all his senses returned.
Hopalong, with Red inconsiderately stepping on his heels, felt his
way along the wall of the crevice, alert and silent, his Colt nestling
comfortably in his right hand, while the left was pushed out ahead
feeling for trouble. As they worked farther away from the canyon distant
voices could be heard and they forthwith proceeded even more cautiously.
When Hopalong came to the second bend in the narrow passage he peered
around it and stopped so abruptly that Red's nose almost spread itself
over the back of his head. Red's indignation was all the harder to bear
because it must bloom unheard.
In a huge, irregular room, whose roof could not be discerned in the dim
light of the few candles, five men were resting in various attitudes
of ease as they discussed the events of the night and tried to compute
their profits. They were secure, for Manuel, having by this time put
away the ghost and megaphone, was on duty at the mouth of the crevice,
and he was as sensitive to danger as a hound.
"The risk is not much and the profits are large," remarked Pedro, in
Spanish. "We must burn a candle for the repose of the soul of Carlos
Martinez. It is he that made our plans safe. And a candle is not much
when we—"
"Hands up!" said a quiet voice, followed by grim commands. The Mexicans
jumped as if stung by a scorpion, and could just discern two of the
rowdy gringo cow-punchers in the heavy shadows of the opposite wall, but
the candle light glinted in rings on the muzzles of their six-shooters.
Had Manuel betrayed them? But they had little time or inclination for
cogitation regarding Manuel.
"Easy there!" shouted Red, and Pedro's hand stopped when half way to his
chest. Pedro was a gambler by nature, but the odds were too heavy and he
sullenly obeyed the command.
"Stick 'em up! Stick 'em up! Higher yet, an' hold 'em there," purred
a soft voice from the other end of the room, where Dick Martin smiled
pleasantly upon them and wondered if there was anything on earth harder
to pound good common sense into than a "Greaser's" head. His gun was
blue, but it was, nevertheless, the most prominent part of his make-up,
even if the light was poor.
One of the Mexicans reached involuntarily for his gun, for he was a
gun-man by training; while his companions felt for their knives, deadly
weapons in a melee. Martin, crying, "Watch 'em, Cassidy!" side-stepped
and lunged forward with the speed and skill of a boxer, and his hard
left hand landed on the point of Juan Alvarez' jaw with a force and
precision not to be withstood. But to make more certain that the
Mexican would not take part in any possible demonstration of resistance,
Martin's right circled up in a short half-hook and stopped against
Juan's short ribs. Martin weighed one hundred and eighty pounds and
packed no fat on his well-knit frame.
At this moment a two-legged cyclone burst upon the scene in the person
of Johnny Nelson, whose rage had been worked up almost to the weeping
point because he had lost so much time hunting for the crevice where
it was not. Seeing Juan fall, and the glint of knives, he started in
to clean things up, yelling, "I'm a ghost! I'm a ghost! Take 'em alive!
Take 'em alive!"
Hopalong and Red felt that they were in his way, and taking care of one
Mexican between them, while Martin knocked out another, they watched the
exits,—for anything was possible in such a chaotic mix-up,—and gave
Johnny plenty of room. The latter paused, triumphant, looked around to
see if he had missed any, and then advanced upon his friends and shoved
his jaw up close to Hopalong's face. "Tried to lose me, didn't you!
Wouldn't wait for me! For seven cents an' a toothbrush I'd give you
what's left!"
Red
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