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Shifting his revolver to his left hand, with his right he took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. One of the cuffs he snapped around Phelps’ left wrist, the other around Benner’s right.

“I won’t stand for this!” cried Phelps; “I’ll be hanged if I——”

The muzzle of the scout’s revolver looked Phelps between the eyes, and his furious protest died on his lips.

“You’ll be hanged quick enough, I reckon,” remarked the scout, “if the law ever comes into its own on the Brazos. Just now you’ll stand for whatever I choose to throw your way.”

“And I’ve got four men right outside there,” muttered Benner.

“Phelps has more men outside than you have, Benner,” said the scout, “and they’re not helping him any more than yours are helping you.”

While he was talking he was snapping the other pair of handcuffs into place on Phelps’ right wrist and Benner’s left.

When the work was done, the cattle barons were cunningly fastened back to back, torturingly helpless. A coiled riata swung from a peg in the wall. The scout put up his revolver, took down the rope and made ready for a short cast of the loop over the heads and shoulders of the barons.