"No," responded Lieutenant Prescott with equal coolness. "I think we have the rascal now." Jack Blick came back to consciousness to see his weapons go spinning across the floor in different directions. "Now, if he makes any further efforts at trouble, Terry, just pull the trigger," directed Lieutenant Prescott. "Blick, put your hands in front of you, over your stomach." Sullenly the fellow obeyed. Lieutenant Prescott snapped a pair of handcuffs over the fellow's wrists. "Now, you'll keep without spoiling," predicted the young Army officer, leaping to his feet. "Pull him up, men." Though his right wrist was swelling, Prescott employed that hand to thrust his revolver back into the holster over his hip. Hal and Noll dragged Blick to his feet. Like a flash the scoundrel darted away from them. No one had told the Army people that Jack Blick was an expert at throwing off shackles. But now Blick squeezed his wrists and hands through the steel bracelets before his would-be captors could realize it. As part of the same movement he raced to where one of his revolvers lay. Stooping and picking it up, Blick wheeled like a streak of light on his knees. But Soldier Hal had his own weapon up. He fired, coolly--for life. The bullet drilled through Blick's wrist, forcing him to drop the revolver like hot iron. The fellow's left hand, however, picked up the weapon. Bang! Once more Blick dropped his weapon, for Noll Terry had fired, shattering the fellow's left fore-arm. Now, apparently, Jack Blick was out of the fighting game. But Lieutenant Prescott, who had just snatched his pistol from its holster, dashed forward, holding the muzzle of his weapon almost in the fellow's face. "Stop all nonsense, now, my man, or we'll kill you without a word of parley," warned the young officer in an even but deadly and convincing tone of voice. Hal slipped a cord from his pocket, knotted a noose, and dropped it over the fellow's head, drawing the noose tight. "I think we can hold him this way, sir," Hal suggested to the lieutenant. "Yes; get behind him, Overton. Let him walk slowly, but don't stand for any bolt. You get behind Blick, too, Terry, and hold your revolver on his back. If he tries to bolt, or makes a single hostile sign, shoot to kill. We're through with anything like nonsense." With his uninjured left hand Lieutenant Prescott helped the prisoner to the floor. "Now march, my man," ordered the officer. "Out into the street. Don't try to hurry, either." Thus they proceeded to the street, Lieutenant Prescott with drawn revolver in his left hand keeping just behind the soldier boys, and with ever an eye of watchfulness on the prisoner's steps. Only six doors below stood the police station. Thither they conducted Blick, and the solitary day policeman of the little town, seeing the crowd that had formed and followed, came rushing to the scene.