Winiata's Six-Shooter.

Barlow looked at his wife. “Now is the time,” her eyes said. He shifted cautiously to Winiata's side and searched him for a weapon. As he expected he found a revolver, fully loaded, inside the Maori's shirt breast. It lay in a home-made holster of soft leather, suspended by a narrow strap round the neck. He gave it to his wife, who slipped it into a pocket of the man's coat she wore.

“Open the door, quietly,” he whispered to his wife. Very cautiously she pushed back the low sliding door. Turning she asked: “The rum?”

“Leave the bottle—they'll finish it when they wake.”

The big man gathered up the unconscious Maori in his arms. Silently he carried him out. The woman carefully and silently closed the door. The cold night breeze might presently revive the sleepers if it were left open.

Swiftly the half-caste carried his captive round to the rear of the whare and along the river bank well away from the huts to a dark clump of trees where three saddled horses were tethered. The pair quickly lifted Winiata on to one and with flax ropes tied his ankles together under the horse's belly. His feet were in the stirrup irons; he would ride easily enough. Barlow handcuffed him; he could rest his fettered hands on the pommel of the saddle mechanically. Finally he strapped him firmly to the saddle.