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Updated: May 28, 2025
It struck something on the wall which emitted a hollow thud, and glancing up the cowmen espied Wilson's new, brilliantly-banded hat. In a trice Muskoka's long arm had secured it, with the common inspiration the cluster of faces withdrew; the hat sailed high in the air, there was an ear-splitting rattle of shots, and the shattered remnant was returned to Wilson with ceremony.
As the renegade tightened a knot securing the boy's left leg to the leg of the table, Muskoka's snoring abruptly ceased, and the sleeper moved uneasily. In a flash Iowa was over him, pistol in hand. But the snoring presently resumed, and after watching him sharply for a moment, Iowa returned to the boy. "Now move, remember, an' I shoot," he repeated warningly.
The cowmen crowded forward, and peering over Muskoka's board shoulders, studied Wilson from head to foot with speechless scorn. Muskoka settled forward on his elbows. "Are you a real operator?" he inquired. In a voice that sounded foolish even to himself Wilson responded in the affirmative. "Actooal, real, male operator?" The cluster of bronzed faces guffawed loudly.
His first day at the station, the visit of the men from the ranch, Muskoka's contemptuous greeting, recurred to him. Here was his opportunity of vindication. With a desperate clenching of the teeth the boy decided, and at once began cautiously straining at the thongs about his wrist, to obtain the reach necessary. Finally they slipped, slightly, but enough.
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