He climbed out and looked their captives over. One of them was a gaunt old man, with a gray, tobacco stained beard. Three of them seemed to be middle-aged, and there were two young fellows. One who had fallen seemed little more than a boy. Apperson was binding his wound. The bullet had drilled through his thigh. Another man was wounded in the shoulder. Neither wound was mortal. Hemingwood was thinking hard as to his next step. Apperson’s wound was practically negligible, although he had to hobble on one foot and it drew a sigh from him every time his other foot touched the ground. Keeping those men prisoners meant a good deal of trouble and red tape. Probably the whole clan would descend on the flyers to revenge themselves if they stayed in the mountains, and very possibly there would be complications of considerable difficulty in even incarcerating them. Besides, his business was to get those pictures. Apperson was lying on the ground, to relieve his pain. Hemingwood looked down at his captives for a moment in silent appraisal. They darted quick, fearful glances at him, like trapped animals. “Listen, you Calleys,” he said conversationally. “You’ve tried to kill us twice. Once it was because you were afraid we were after you. That shows you’re up to something. I could have killed you all then; I wounded one of you by accident, in trying to scare you. Then you pull this. I could have killed you all again. You know that. “Now get this. I don’t give a damn about you. I’m here to take pictures. I don’t want trouble. I don’t care whether you’re making moonshine enough to float the British Navy. I’ve got you now. To show you that I don’t want to bother with you, I’m going to let you take your wounded and vamoose out of here. Go home, lay off me, and behave yourselves. We’ve sniped three of you in exchange for one little wound, and by God, if you lift a finger at me again I’ll mow you all down! Get anywhere near this field and those machine guns’ll start working from the ground.” They wouldn’t know that the guns on the ship were useless on the ground unless dismounted. “And get funny while I’m in the air and the same thing’ll happen. And if you snipe me off some night while I’m here, you’ll have enough of the United States Army combing these woods for you to run you down like rats. All the dope will be mailed in tomorrow, including who you are and what you’ve done. Now I’m going to spank you and send you home like the bad boys you are!” A long sigh came from the astounded prisoners, followed by a deep chuckle from the old man. Apperson showed no surprise. Hemingwood released them, and they got to their feet slowly. The old man smiled slowly, and it made a great change in his fierce, hawk-like face. “Yuh can think o’ the Calleys as yore friends, stranger,” he said slowly. “C’mon hyar, you!” Carrying their wounded, they marched silently off into the forest. CHAPTER V