He had stumbled on until he was within a dozen steps of Chauvenet, who lifted his revolver until it covered Armitage’s head.

“Drop that gun—­drop it damned quick!” and Dick Claiborne swung the butt of his rifle high and brought it down with a crash on Chauvenet’s head; then Armitage paused and glanced about and laughed.

It was Claiborne who freed Durand from the dead horse, which had received the shots fired at Oscar the moment he rose at the wall.  The fight was quite knocked out of the conspirator, and he swore under his breath, cursing the unconscious Chauvenet and the missing Zmai and the ill fortune of the fight.

“It’s all over but the shouting—­what’s next?” demanded Claiborne.

“Tie him up—­and tie the other one up,” said Armitage, staring about queerly.  “Where the devil is Oscar?”

“He’s after the big fellow.  You’re badly fussed, old man.  We’ve got to get out of this and fix you up.”

“I’m all right.  I’ve got a hole in my shoulder that feels as big and hot as a blast furnace.  But we’ve got them nailed, and it’s all right, old man!”

Durand continued to curse things visible and invisible as he rubbed his leg, while Claiborne watched him impatiently.

“If you start to run I’ll certainly kill you, Monsieur.”

“We have met, my dear sir, under unfortunate circumstances.  You should not take it too much to heart about the potato sack.  It was the fault of my dear colleagues.  Ah, Armitage, you look rather ill, but I trust you will harbor no harsh feelings.”

Armitage did not look at him; his eyes were upon the prostrate figure of Chauvenet, who seemed to be regaining his wits.  He moaned and opened his eyes.

“Search him, Claiborne, to make sure.  Then get him on his legs and pinion his arms, and tie the gentlemen together.  The bridle on that dead horse is quite the thing.”

“But, Messieurs,” began Durand, who was striving to recover his composure—­“this is unnecessary.  My friend and I are quite willing to give you every assurance of our peaceable intentions.”

“I don’t question it,” laughed Claiborne.

“But, my dear sir, in America, even in delightful America, the law will protect the citizens of another country.”

“It will, indeed,” and Claiborne grinned, put his revolver into Armitage’s hand, and proceeded to cut the reins from the dead horse.  “In America such amiable scoundrels as you are given the freedom of cities, and little children scatter flowers in their path.  You ought to write for the funny papers, Monsieur.”

“I trust your wounds are not serious, my dear Armitage—­”

Armitage, sitting on a boulder, turned his eyes wearily upon Durand, whose wrists Claiborne was knotting together with a strap.  The officer spun the man around viciously.

“You beast, if you address Mr. Armitage again I’ll choke you!”

Chauvenet, sitting up and staring dully about, was greeted ironically by Durand: