Chapter XXXV

REVERSING THE TABLES
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Hamsa whirled toward the officers, a gun in his right hand. Before he could use it, there was another explosion and Hamsa reeled back against the wall, his right arm hanging limp and useless, the gun which it had held falling to the floor.

“Don’t move!” The command was low and husky, but there was authority in the words and Bob, out of the corner of one eye, saw his uncle step out of the small room to the rear. From this position of advantage he had disabled Rap, the machine gunner, and wounded Hamsa. Curt, the flyer, had his hands in the air.

“Pick up their guns, Bob,” commanded his uncle and Bob picked up the machine gun and the revolver Hamsa had dropped.

“Search them!”

This time the sheriff stepped forward and with hands long experienced in that kind of work, searched even the hats of the others. A gun was taken from the flyer and a stubby but deadly pistol from Rap. These were placed on the table beside the glittering pile of diamonds.

“Got any handcuffs, sheriff?” asked Bob’s uncle after the young federal agent introduced his ally.

Two small, compact pairs were produced from the capacious pockets of the peace officer. One pair was snapped on Hamsa and the other on Curt and Rap.

While Bob and his uncle went about the task of giving first aid to Rap and Hamsa, the sheriff went down to the old wharf to inspect the boats.

When he returned, the bandaging was done, for neither wound was serious.

“We can start any time you want to,” he informed the federal men.

“Take these fellows down. We’ll be along shortly,” replied Merritt Hughes, and when Hamsa and his allies had been led away by the sheriff, he sat down on one side of the table and motioned for Bob to take a seat opposite him.

“Let’s hear your side of the story, Bob,” said his uncle as he sat down, massaging the red marks which the tightly tied ropes had made on his hands.