We got off our horses and
stooped over the man, forgetting for the moment that danger might lurk
in the surrounding thicket. Mac swore under his breath when he bent and
peered keenly at the man's face; then he straightened up and kicked a
part of the clay covering from the smoldering embers. As the bright glow
of a little cascade of sparks pierced the darkness, a voice in our rear
called sharply: "Hands up!" and we swung round to behold two masked
faces regarding us from behind steadily held Winchesters.
The very suddenness of the hold-up made it a complete success. Apart,
and moving, we might have scattered in the brush like young quail, and
so have been able to give the gentlemen a hard run for the money. But we
were bunched together, shocked out of all caution, staring at the
pitiful figure at our feet when MacRae unmasked the fire, and the flare
of it surrounded us with a yellow nimbus that made us fair marks for a
gun. With that dazzling light in our eyes and those ugly-looking
customers at the business end of the guns, it would have been out and
out suicide to reach for a six-shooter. For at that period in
Northwestern history, when a man had the drop on you under such
conditions, there was absolutely no question of what would happen if you
made a suspicious move.
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