Things happened so swiftly after that that even the men standing around were quite unable to understand exactly what was doing, and which of the two was really the one who started the trouble. The instant Bob turned he saw that Joyce was either beside himself with rage, or giving a most astonishingly good imitation of that condition. His face was purple, with veins standing out on his forehead like cords. His eyes glared with that combination of rage and hate which a badly frightened man almost invariably feels for the cause of his mental disturbance. The automatic was leveled in his hand, and one finger trembled on the trigger. For a single instant Bainbridge stood rigid, every muscle suddenly tensing. Perhaps he read a hint of Joyce’s purpose in the fellow’s eye; perhaps it was simply intuition which made him guess what was coming. At all events, suddenly, and without warning, he launched his lithe body through the air exactly as in the manner of the old forbidden flying tackle. His shoulder struck Joyce’s knees, and the wicked, snapping shot of the revolver rang out at precisely the same moment. There was a yell of fury, followed by a crash. Then almost oppressive silence. Bob was on his feet like a cat, fingers gripping the automatic he had snatched from the owner’s nerveless hand. His jaw was hard, and there was a glint of more than anger in the eyes he bent upon Joyce’s supporters hurrying up to the aid of their chief. “Hands up!” he cried out harshly, “Quick!” He did not have to speak twice. There was something in his voice, coupled with an emphatic gesture with the automatic, which made those six men, big and powerful as they were, obey him with remarkable unanimity. “Take their guns, Jack,” continued Bainbridge, in that same commanding voice. Peters stepped forward to obey. The first man drew back instinctively, and started to pull down the hand which held a revolver. Without an instant’s hesitation Bob fired. The bullet struck the upraised weapon on its blued-steel barrel, wringing a cry of surprise and pain from the fellow’s lips as he dropped the gun. There was no more trouble after that, Peters collected four revolvers and two Remingtons. Then he glanced questioningly at Bainbridge. “Throw ’em in the river,” the latter commander curtly. “’Way out in the middle, where they can’t be recovered.” The riverman walked a few steps toward the bank; then, pausing, he glanced back at the straight young figure standing behind him. “They’re mighty good guns,” he said hesitatingly. “Seems a shame to throw ’em away like this.” Bainbridge returned briefly: “I’m simply pulling the stings of this gang.” He watched his man fling the weapons, one after another, into the stream, and then, sending the automatic splashing after the others, he turned suddenly back to the six humiliated individuals before him.