"Stand back!" warned Tag hoa.r.s.ely. "I don't want to have to do anything worse than I've just done. Stand back, or by the blue sky-----"

CHAPTER XX

SOME IMITATION VILLAINY

"Oh, d.i.c.k, do keep back. He won't harm us further," cried Laura.

Prescott ran forward by leaps and bounds.

"If you will have it-----" growled Tag, c.o.c.king both hammers of his ugly weapon.

Laura uttered another scream, then, with sudden frenzy, seized the barrels of the gun.

"Let go!" yelled d.i.c.k, racing up. "If he fires, even accidentally, you'll be killed."

"Then let him put down the gun," panted Laura without releasing her hold.

Belle seized Tag by his right arm, hanging on frantically.

But d.i.c.k, reaching the spot, laid hands on the shotgun.

"Let go, Laura," he commanded sternly. "I have hold of this gun."

It was the tone of the high school boy, not her own fear, that made Laura Bentley obey.

"Let go of his arm, Belle," d.i.c.k insisted. "You girls get back out of harm's way."

"I won't let go," Belle insisted. Then she resorted, excusably under the circ.u.mstances, to the somewhat feminine trick, of pinching Tag Mosher's arm sharply.

That started the real fight. d.i.c.k tripped the bigger fellow, and the pair went down together as Belle leaped back.

Click! click! sounded both descending hammers of the sawed-off shotgun. For an instant---Prescott's heart was in his mouth, for he knew something of the wicked scattering power of such a weapon, when discharged, and he feared for the girls.

The next instant, however, his common sense told him that the hammers had descended harmlessly. By desperate force he wrenched the piece out of Tag's hands, hurling it away.

Laura's locket, and chain falling to the ground, Belle darted in and rescued them.

"He has my rings in his right-hand coat pocket," Belle announced.

"He'll give them up, then!" predicted d.i.c.k grimly, making a dive for that pocket. He was on top, in the mix-up, and secured the rings, tossing them toward Belle. Then Tag, by a violent effort, hurled Prescott from him and rose, ready for battle.

But d.i.c.k landed close beside the sawed-off shotgun, which he s.n.a.t.c.hed from the ground as he rose to his feet.

"You cur!" said d.i.c.k. "Robbing girls!"

"I hated to do it," growled Tag, looking somewhat shamefaced.

"But I've got to have money to get away from this corner of the world. The deputies are out after me, and they'll get me yet, if I stay here."

With a quick movement d.i.c.k threw the gun open at the breech.

"It isn't loaded," Tag informed him grimly. "This is the piece of iron that holds cartridges."

From a hip pocket he brought a heavy, long-barreled revolver into sight.

"You can't scare me with firearms," declared d.i.c.k doughtily.

"Nor are you going to rob these young women, who are my best friends."

"I'm not going to try again," announced Tag. "What I want is for you to keep away from me, and not follow me. If you do---well, you can guess the answer! Now, as I'm going, give me that gun."

"I won't," d.i.c.k declared firmly, holding it by the muzzle and ready to employ the weapon as a club.

"You'll make a lot of trouble and danger for yourself and the girls if you don't put the gun on the ground and walk away from it," warned Tag, glowering.

"I won't drop the only weapon that I have," d.i.c.k returned firmly.

"You could down me easily unless I had something like this to swing. As long as these young women are under my protection I will not give up the only weapon that I have."

"If I press the trigger of this pistol," challenged Tag, "will you be able to offer the girls much protection then?"

"Perhaps not," Prescott rejoined. "But shooting me will be the only way that you can get this gun from me."

There could be no doubt that the high school boy meant just what he said. Tag, who was not accustomed to wasting time in crises, turned angrily on his heel.

"Hold on there a moment," called d.i.c.k. The other boy baited, turning about. "Do you remember what I told you the other day?"

demanded Prescott.

"You've told me a lot of things I never took from any other kid,"

growled Tag.

"Do you remember what I told you about your father, his love for you, and his desire to meet and claim you?"

"Old Bill Mosher's love?" laughed Tag harshly. "I'd stay and laugh a while at that, but I've other business for to-day."

"No; your real father, Mr. Page!" d.i.c.k cried after him, as Tag started away. "Bill Mosher found you in a railroad wreck. Your real father is a man of wealth. He is nearly broken down from the many anxieties of trying to find you. He spent last night at our camp. This morning he and friends of his started off to find you. Tag, come back here, and I'll take you into camp."

"No, thank you!" leered the larger boy. "I've been taken into camp before, and you're the lad that turned the trick. You turned me over to Valden and Simmons, and they turned me over to the warden at the jail. I'm not going back to that jail---_alive_!"

"You foolish fellow! Can't you understand?" bellowed d.i.c.k, following Tag as he once more turned away. "I'm telling you the truth, and your father is only too anxious to employ all his wealth in protecting whatever rights you may have. Bill Mosher was seen at the jail yesterday, and he admitted that you were not his son, but that he found you as a baby at a railroad wreck! Tag, use your brains, for once, and come back to camp to meet your father!"

"Good-bye!" laughed the larger boy derisively, increasing his fast walk to a run.

Desperately, d.i.c.k Prescott followed. As Tag sprinted, so did the high school boy.

Looking back, young Mosher tripped over a root, and fell heavily.

The revolver flew from his hand landing several feet away. Prescott was now so close that Tag sprang to his feet and ran on without making any effort to recover his lost weapon.