“Put ’em up!” he commanded.
The Mexican seemed to understand just what the horse
wrangler meant. He slowly, and with a deep scowl
marring his face, raised his empty hands above his
head.
A PRISONER
“It was just like one of those Western photoplays
that sometimes come to the Freeling movie palace,
and which Mrs. Cupp, the ogress of Lake-view Hall,
does not approve of, and never will let us girls attend
if she can help it,” sighed Bess ecstatically,
later on.
Bess Harley was especially fond of such dramas.
And Walter, too, took delight in the imaginative if
rather crude pictures of the West as it used to be.
But here was the real thing. Even Nan was held
breathless by the tense drama. Rhoda’s
hints and tales of adventure had not altogether prepared
her visitors for anything like this.
Hess Kane must have thought that the situation called
for the sudden and stern action he had taken.
Of course, Nan Sherwood thought, that snaky-looking
Mexican was not wearing those two silver-mounted pistols
in his sash just for ornament.
Tom Collins slid out of his saddle at a slight gesture
from Kane and went behind the Mexican to disarm him.
“Keep your hands up,” he said to the fellow.
“Our wrangler ain’t gifted much with speech,
but he’s sure a good shot. Where’s
the rest of your gang?”
“No understand,” said the fellow sullenly.
“Mean to say you are alone?” Tom demanded.
“Si, Senor.”
“Where’s your horse?”
“I am afoot, Senor.”
“Stop it! Don’t try any of your Mex.
jokes. You afoot, and with them spurs on your
shanks?” and the cowboy pointed to the enormous
silver spurs on the man’s boots.
“That’s one of the fellows that stampeded
them steers last night,” said Frank, with conviction.
The Mexican looked startled. His black eyes shot
glances around the group which faced him.
“Look out that we’re not ambushed,”
said Rhoda in a low voice. “There may be
others around.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open,” said
Tom easily. “Guess I’ll tie this
fellow’s wrists, just the same.”
He removed his neckerchief as he spoke. He twisted
it into a string, and suddenly snatched the Mexican’s
hands behind him. The fellow exploded some objection
in his own language, and would have fought Tom, but
Kane thrust the weapon he held forward again and the
prisoner subsided.
Meanwhile Bess excitedly whispered to the other girls:
“Do you know who I believe he is? I feel
sure of it!”
“Who?” Nan and Grace chorused.
“That Juan Sivello that Mexican girl wrote to
Rhoda about.”
“I had thought of that,” said Rhoda, nodding.
“It may be.”
“And if it is,” whispered Bess, thrilling
at the thought, “he’s got the diagram
of the hiding place where his uncle put all that treasure.”
