called to one of
the Texans. And with the words not out of his mouth, he leaped as if
on springs to his feet. It seemed as if his rifle covered his enemies
all the time, even while he was doing it.

With his head forward, his elbows high and the Winchester laid against
his cheek; stepping like a cat, and swiftly and with his eyes fixed on
the men ahead, Laramie walked toward the wagon. In doing so he
approached Kate, whose horse had subsided. Laramie took no note of
her. She only heard his words as he passed: "You'd better get out of
this." Approaching his prisoners in such a way they could not reach
either the gate or the wagon without crossing his fire, Laramie
compelled Bradley, really nothing loath, to disarm the three cowboys in
turn and drop their guns into the wagonbox. Stone, sullen, was
gingerly approached by Bradley, under strict orders to keep out of
reach of his arms. But the old man knew all the tricks of the play
being staged, even though he was not able to turn them. And when
Stone, cursing, was ordered to lower his right arm and hand his
revolver to Bradley at arm's length, the old man's feet were planted at
least six feet from the foreman for a jump-away in case Stone tried to
clinch him and shoot at Laramie from behind Bradley's cover.

But after he was disarmed, Laramie was not through with Stone. Sullen
and obdurate, he was ordered to face away, while Bradley from behind
searched his pockets. And the crown of his abasement was reached when
Bradley drew from a hip pocket a full flask of whisky. The material
advantage of the find was not great, but the tactical advantage was
enormous. Behind Stone, Bradley silently but jeeringly held it up as
an exhibit for the thirsty Texas men; and to show it was full, uncorked
and with gusto sampled it. Stone was ordered back to his horse.

"How long is this joke, Laramie?" sang out Van Horn, his humor oozing.
"Can't you frisk a few cowboys in less than all day?"

"When I frisk a pair of cut-throats with them, it's different."

"Well, don't waste your valuable time on me. This is your
innings--I'll wait for mine."

"Drop your gun to the ground," returned Laramie. "Pick that up, Bill,"
he added to Bradley as Van Horn threw his revolver contemptuously from
its holster. He was searched with the same scrupulous care by old
Bradley, his morale greatly strengthened by Stone's flask: "I don't
give a d--n whether you get me or not," he retorted at Van