We've got
'em cornered. You, Matt, strip the jacket off that Mex, an' get his
hat; bunch 'em up together, and set a match to 'em. That's the stuff!
Now, the minute they blaze throw 'em in through that doorway. Come on,
Westcott, be ready to jump."
The hat was straw, and the bundle of blazing material landed almost in
the centre of the floor, lighting up the whole interior. Almost before
it struck, the three men, revolvers gleaming in their hands, had leaped
across the shattered door, and confronted the startled band huddled in
one corner. Brennan wasted no time, his eyes sweeping over the array
of faces, revealed by the blaze of fire on the floor.
"Hands up, my beauties--every mother's son of yer. Yes, I mean you,
yer human catapiller. Don't waste any time about it; I'm the caller
fer this dance. Put 'em up higher, less yer want ter commit suicide.
Now drop them rifles on the floor--gently, friends, gently. Matt,
frisk 'em and see what other weapons they carry. Ever see nicer bunch
o' lambs, Jim?" His lips smiling, but with an ugly look to his
gleaming teeth, and steady eyes.
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