Only
the merest crumbs remained when Doright entered bearing an armful of
clanking chains. These he threw on the floor.
"Make 'em fast," ordered Lopez, keeping the muzzle of his automatic
pistol ever trained on the group before him. "Put them leg irons on good
and tight. Make sure of your work this time."
Obediently the negro clamped the irons tightly about their ankles. Then
drawing a longer chain through the leg irons he lifted a board from the
floor to pass the long chain under a heavy hewn joist.
A padlock securely fastened the ends of this longer chain and thus the
boys were shackled beyond hope of releasing themselves.
"Now, just to make sure, we'll leave Doright on guard and he'll have a
gun in his hand. He likes to shoot, too. And he knows how."
Never had the voice of the outlaw sounded so coarse and disagreeable as
now when hope seemed gone. His villainous face lighted with evil triumph
as he surveyed the plight of his captives.
"Looks like old times," he gloated, "only now you boys are wearing irons
that have graced the leg of many a slave. And there's a black boy
guarding the white boys now. That's funny."
Throwing back his head he gave vent to peal after peal of laughter.
"What are you expecting to do with us?" inquired Arnold, who was longing
to get at the throat of his jailor.
"Well, Wyckoff hasn't decided yet," replied Lopez. "He has found out
that it's a mighty uncomfortable job keeping prisoners and feeding them.
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