REVERSING THE TABLES
★
Hamsa whirled toward the officers, a gun in his right hand. Before he
could use it, there was another explosion and Hamsa reeled back against
the wall, his right arm hanging limp and useless, the gun which it had
held falling to the floor.
“Don’t move!” The command was low and husky, but there was authority in
the words and Bob, out of the corner of one eye, saw his uncle step out
of the small room to the rear. From this position of advantage he had
disabled Rap, the machine gunner, and wounded Hamsa. Curt, the flyer, had
his hands in the air.
“Pick up their guns, Bob,” commanded his uncle and Bob picked up the
machine gun and the revolver Hamsa had dropped.
“Search them!”
This time the sheriff stepped forward and with hands long experienced in
that kind of work, searched even the hats of the others. A gun was taken
from the flyer and a stubby but deadly pistol from Rap. These were placed
on the table beside the glittering pile of diamonds.
“Got any handcuffs, sheriff?” asked Bob’s uncle after the young federal
agent introduced his ally.
Two small, compact pairs were produced from the capacious pockets of the
peace officer. One pair was snapped on Hamsa and the other on Curt and
Rap.
While Bob and his uncle went about the task of giving first aid to Rap
and Hamsa, the sheriff went down to the old wharf to inspect the boats.
When he returned, the bandaging was done, for neither wound was serious.
“We can start any time you want to,” he informed the federal men.
“Take these fellows down. We’ll be along shortly,” replied Merritt
Hughes, and when Hamsa and his allies had been led away by the sheriff,
he sat down on one side of the table and motioned for Bob to take a seat
opposite him.
“Let’s hear your side of the story, Bob,” said his uncle as he sat down,
massaging the red marks which the tightly tied ropes had made on his
hands.