n York was
kneeling close beside the blaze, holding to the coals a hickory stick,
which served as spit for the roasting of a squirrel. The brilliance
shone full on the frowsy gray whiskers, and, above them, the blinking,
rheumy eyes, so intent on the proper browning of the game. None of the
outlaws had a weapon in his grasp--a fact noted with satisfaction by
the chief of the raiders, who knew that these men would not scruple
against bloodshed to escape arrest. There were arms at hand, of
course; Hodges' rifle was visible, leaning against a ground pine
within his reach. But Stone hoped that the surprise would be such that
the gang could not avail themselves of their weapons.

Hodges had just completed a strident rendering of "Cripple Crick," and
had thumped out the opening bars of "Short'nin' Bread," when the
marshal gave the signal for attack--a single flash of his electric
torch. In the same second, the raiders' rifles crashed out. The big
bullets struck true to aim in the ground of the open place before the
fire. A shower of dirt and pebbles spat back viciously. Some of the
flying fragments struck the men, terrifying them with the thought of
bullet wounds. Hodges, as the reports sounded, felt the bruise of
stones on his bare legs, and shrieked in panic fear. His instinctive
recoil carried him over backward, from the stool to the ground. The
banjo jangled discordant triumph over his fall. When, dazed by the
suddenness of it all, he would have struggled up, he found himself
fast in the clutches of two raiders, who locked manacles on his
wrists. Stone grunted joyously as he surveyed the captive. The others
of the gang, except Ben York, had contrived to slip away into the
laurel, whither it would avail nothing to follow them, save useless
risk of being killed from ambush. But the marshal cared little for the
escape of the lesser malefactors. He had succeeded in taking prisoner
the most notorious criminal of the mountains.

Ben York had failed to effect his usual flight, because of being at a
disadvantage on his knees. Before he could scramble up for a plunge
into the thickets the enemy was upon him. Yet, even in this moment of
shock, the old scoundrel's cunning sought and found a ruse. He stood
swaying for seconds, and then tumbled limply headlong to the ground,
in a drunkard's fall, familiar to his muscles by experience through
three-score years. So he lay inert, seemingly sodden from the kettle's
brew. His captors, if