"Thank goodness, they're not next," breathed Clell while his chief, straightening as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, responded: "He only pulled out a few whiskers." Assured that their hero had received no injury, the crowd considered the matter a huge joke and laughed boisterously, offering all sorts of advice for the restoration of the beard. But the great outlaw was in no mood for jesting. That someone had discovered that his whiskers were false the exclamation disclosed and the consequences might be far-reaching, especially as both he and his pals were ignorant of who had uttered it. Consollas had ceased to struggle and was watching his tormentors with fascinated eyes. "Give a hand here, boys," commanded Jesse. "We'll get this business through and go back to camp as soon as we can." "Dump the feathers in a pile and we'll chuck the runt into them." Quickly Clell sprang to the heap of bags, emptying them of their contents, while Frank laid hold of one shoulder of Fred's coat. "Lift," exclaimed the bandit-chieftain. With all their strength, the two outlaws pulled at the boy. For a moment he did not move, held fast by the cooling tar, then the strain told, and, with a loud sucking noise, he was hauled from the kettle. A moment the desperadoes held him in the air that the crowd might see the unfortunate lad. Covered with the shiny, glistening tar from his neck to the soles of his shoes, with generous daubs on his cheeks and in his hair, his appearance was ludicrous. Howls of delight broke from the throats of the men and women and even Jesse was forced to smile at the forlorn sight. "Get a firm hold so we can swing him," he directed his brother then raising his voice, addressed his victim: "I'm sorry we haven't got your father as well as you. Let this be a lesson to you. The next time you think of charging respectable strangers with stealing horses, don't do it. You may not get off so easily." And while the people laughed at the advice, the great outlaw nodded to Frank, they swung Consollas back and forth several times to gain momentum, then sent him swirling, head over heels, into the stack of feathers. As the fluffy things closed over him, the crowd cheered, rushing forward to join in the fun of rolling the lad about in them. Struggling to his feet, Fred screamed and tore at the mass of tar and feathers, looking for all the world like some monster fledgling. But his breathing spell was short. Grasping him by the heels, the men tumbled him into the heap again, repeating the performance as fast as he could scramble out. "This'll be a good time to break away," suggested the brother of the bandit-chieftain as he watched the wild frolic. "Right," returned Jesse and, without attracting attention to themselves, the three outlaws went to their horses, mounted and headed for the Springs. Riding for a while in silence, when they were out of sight of the pasture Frank demanded: "What was in that note?"