useless weapon. Facing about, he attempted to claw his way up the brushy bank, but Ruthven was upon him in short order. Gripped in each other's hands, the two rolled about, and then Ruthven came uppermost and held his man helpless in fingers of steel.
Just then there was a sound of voices accompanying a scramble of feet, and Ruthven looked around to see four men hastening toward them. Two of them were the detective and the deputy sheriff; the other two evidently were from the freight train.
"He's got him!" cried Hackett jubilantly. "By thunder, Ruthven has got him!"
"Pretty nifty, I call that!" exclaimed Jenkins.
"They had a blamed close call," said one of the trainmen. "I wouldn't have been in their boots a few minutes back for a cool million. They dropped into the river and swam out, eh? But how in blazes did they come to be on the bridge with that hand car and speeder?"
"It's all right," explained Jenkins. "The smaller chap is a notorious crook, and this other man here is after him. The man is Weasel Morrison, and he did that job at Monte Carlo. We had him and a pal bottled up at Jennifer's boarding house in Dry Wash, and Morrison slipped away from us. Ruthven followed him."
"Good work!" approved the conductor of the freight. "If he's the tinhorn that blew up the express car. See that he's put through for it, that's all."
"Get up, Ruthven," said the detective as he and the deputy halted beside the two on the ground. "He's ours now, and we'll take care of him. Jupiter, but you're as wet as a drowned rat! Fine business, though!"
Ruthven released Morrison and arose to his feet. Hackett bent down and pulled the prisoner's wrists together. Click, click! came a sharp staccato double note, and the crook's hands were secured with steel bracelets.
"There you are, Weasel Morrison!" chuckled Jenkins, gripping the prisoner's arms and hoisting him erect by main strength,
"Thank your old friend Ruthven for this," put in the detective. "Your pal, Toby Lane, is a prisoner, too. You might call this a clean sweep. Bolting from Jennifer's didn't do you much good, after all, eh?"
Morrison stood sullenly between the two officers, a melancholy figure in his wet garments. Ruthven picked up the revolver and was examining it.
"We heard the shots," said Jenkins. "He did it, I suppose? None of the bullets reached you?"
Ruthven laughed. "There were no bullets, Jenkins," he answered. "If there had been I'd not be here now. Two cartridges are left in the cylinder—and they are blanks."
"Blanks?" queried the detective incredulously. "In a canister belonging to Weasel Morrison?"
"Show 'em to me!" barked the prisoner in sudden wrath.
The detective took the weapon from Ruthven's hand, "broke" it, and removed one of the two remaining cartridges. These he showed to Morrison, watching his face curiously the while. The face twisted with demoniacal fury.
"Queered!" he fumed. "Queered by that" He broke off, and his voice died in a fierce muttering. "Who tipped me off, Hackett?" he demanded. The detective was silent. "I know!" the prisoner went on. "And I'll get even. It was Arlo McKenzie, of Burt City; McKenzie, the respectable and highly honored member of the Montana legislature; the junior partner in the firm of Long & McKenzie. I'll nail his hide to the barn. You hear me! I warned him what would happen if he tried to give me the dirty end of this, and now
