"Look out for him, Steele!" shouted Turk suddenly. "I'm all tied up."
In an instant Steele was in possession of the incredible fact that Turk's hands were bound with a bit of rope behind him, that another rope, run about his ankles, held him powerless. And, in the same flash, that the look of surprise upon the face of Turk's captor had changed swiftly to one of determination, that the big fellow had whirled and was running toward a tree against which an old rifle rested. …
"At him, Steele!" yelled Turk, straining at his ropes until his fiery complexion grew an ugly purple. "Don't let him get his gun!"
Steele's pack slipped from his back, falling behind him as he sprang forward. His own rifle was in his hands, clutched hard, but he had no desire of using it, being, as Bill Rice had said of him, a man who never turned his back on a fight, but one who had never yet been in the situation from which he could not free himself with his hands. As Turk's captor whipped up his gun Steele was upon him; as Turk, still straining frantically, half whimpered: "Oh, hell. He'll get the drop on you!" Steele shifted his own rifle to his left hand and struck out with his right. A hard fisted blow, driven with all of the force and all of the weight of Bill Steele, landing fair and square in another man's face; a blow to which there was but the one answer, promptly given: the rugged form of the newcomer upon Steele's land crumpled and fell to lie still, half stunned.
Steele, his eyes blazing, wheeled upon Turk.
