BELL RICKARD.
NICK RIBSAM had no wish to figure as a rough border character, who
ordered his captive to “throw up his hands,” when able to secure “the
drop on him”; but the youth had the native shrewdness to suit himself
to the situation. He and Herbert had been in the Lone Star State long
enough to pick up a good deal of information.
When he discovered the stranger among the horses, there could be hardly
a doubt of his business, but he waited till he was in the act of riding
off with his own horse before he called out the startling words which
told the thief he was caught.
A man who is used to getting the drop on others is quite sure to know
when that little point is made on him. The intruder was on the point of
leaping upon the back of Nick’s pony, but checked himself and promptly
reached both hands upward.
“You’ve got the drop on me, pard, this time, but go easy,” said he in a
voice as cheery as if he were talking about the weather.
“Face toward the fire, walk straight forward and don’t stop, turn
round, or try anything till you get the word from me.”
All this time, the thief was striving to gain a sight of the individual
who held him at his mercy. It was evident he did not recognize the
voice, and there may have been something in Nick’s tones which led him
to think he was not a full grown man. He was standing erect, with his
Winchester levelled, and nothing in the world was easier than for him
to send a bullet through his body.
Border law never would have questioned the act: rather it would
have blamed him for showing mercy. But Nick Ribsam, like every
right-thinking person, looked upon the taking of human life in its true
light, and as never right unless to save his own. The man before him
was trying to steal his property, but nothing more. No doubt he would
have been quick to shoot Nick if their situations were reversed, but
this could not affect the views of the youth. As yet he had no right to
harm him.
Nick assumed a ferocity that he was far from feeling. He was playing a
part, and doing it well.
When the thief heard the command, he hesitated, as if unwilling to obey
it.
“I guess you hadn’t better insist on _that_,” he said, with a half
laugh, full of significance.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“If you start to foller me to the camp, my pard, just behind you, will
give it to you in the neck.”
This was alarming, and for a moment Nick was in doubt what to do. If he
should start to drive the horse thief before him, only to find that his
armed companion was doing the same with him, the tables would be turned
in the highest style of the art.
But the youth’s brightness came to his aid. He knew that if this man
had a comrade in his wrong doing, he would have put in an appearance
before matters had reached this interesting stage: he never would have
remained in the background, while Nick was securing the drop on the
other.
He had no one with him. He was alone, and was trying a trick on his
captor.
“Walk on,” said Nick; “when your partner shows up, we’ll attend to
_his_ case.”
The rogue saw there was no help for it, and, without another word of
protest, walked sullenly in the direction of the camp fire.
The prisoner seemed to have concluded that, inasmuch as he had to
submit, his true plan was to do so gracefully. He walked with a certain
dignity along the line pointed out, while Nick kept a few paces to the
rear, with his Winchester ready for instant call.
It was the first time he was ever placed in such a situation, and, as
may be supposed, his emotions were peculiar. As the figure in front
grew more distinct in the light of the camp fire, he saw that he was of
unusual size, being at at least six feet tall, long-limbed, and thin of
frame. There could be no doubt he was fully armed, with the exception
of a rifle, which, for some reason or other, was absent. He had
probably left it near by, in order that nothing might hinder the best
use of his arms while committing his crime.
Nick cleverly shortened the space separating them, for he was afraid
of some trick on the part of his captive. The scamp might open on the
sleeping cowboys and riddle them before he could prevent. But such
fears were causeless. A course of that kind, as he himself well knew,
would insure his instant death at the hands of his captor. It would
have been more reasonable had he turned like a flash, when in the
partial gloom, and let fly at Nick, instead of pointing both hands at
the stars with such readiness when ordered so to do.
Had the fellow known what he learned a few minutes later, he would have
done that very thing, and with almost certain success; for his revolver
could have been drawn and fired before the youth would have suspected
what was going on.
At the moment the stranger came into full view, near the fire and the
sleepers, his captor called:
“Halt! that will do!”
To Nick’s astonishment he saw two figures rise like shadows from
the ground. They were Strubell and Lattin, who, flinging off their
blankets, stood each with revolver in hand, ready for business. In
fact, the loud call of Nick was meant to awaken one or both of them,
for matters were assuming that shape that the young man felt he must
have their help at once.
His loud summons, however, was unnecessary, for the words which had
already passed between the captor and his prisoner had brought them to
their senses. Men like them are light sleepers, and they were quick to
discover what was going on. More than that, they recognized the voice
of the intruder as that of Bell Rickard, one of the most desperate
horse thieves in the Southwest.
Had the fellow tried the trick on Nick, the Texans held themselves
prepared to bound into the affray, and rush it to a conclusion like
a cyclone, but the words they overheard gave them a clue to what was
going on. They saw that the great connoisseur in horse flesh had put
his foot in it in the worst kind of a way. He was in the power of a
boy, who had actually made him a prisoner—a feat which the sheriffs of
half a dozen counties had been trying for months in vain to do.
They hardly expected Nick to bring him into camp without trouble; and
though Strubell and Lattin lay motionless on the ground, listening and
awaiting events, they had loosened their blankets, drawn their weapons,
and were on the alert.
But the great Rickard, at the moment of halting, found himself face to
face with the two cowboys, whom he had known well for several years,
and with whom he had exchanged more than one shot, each fired with the
intent to kill.
“Howdy, Bell?” said Strubell, with a smile on his handsome face which
had a world of meaning; “I hope you feel well, pard.”
“Tollyble, thank you,” replied the rogue, extending his hand to each of
the cowboys in turn; “how is it with you?”
Lattin answered for both that they were well, and then invited the new
arrival to a seat by the fire. Rickard returned thanks as courteously
as if he were receiving the greatest favor that could be granted him.
The next moment the three were lolling side by side, as smiling and
seemingly on as good terms as though they were brothers. Bell carried
his brierwood with him, and Strubell passed him his little sack of
tobacco, from which he helped himself, the party mingling their smoke,
smiling and even laughing at the jocose remarks that were passed.
Herbert Watrous slept on, undisturbed by the noise, while Nick Ribsam
stood in the background, viewing the scene, which impressed him as the
most extraordinary he had ever witnessed.
“Let me see,” said Lattin reflectively, “it’s several months since we
last met: do you remember where it was?”
“I think,” replied Rickard, looking thoughtfully at the stars, as if
busy with memory, “that it was in Laredo, at Brown’s place.”
“You’re right,” struck in the cowboy; “we had a shooting scrap, and I
came near passing in my checks.”
“Yes,” laughed Bell, “I thought I had you that time, but I fired too
quick; the lights went out, and then the room was full of smoke and
bullets. When things cleared up, you wasn’t there.”
“No,” said Lattin, “you folks were too thick for me, and I lit out; I
swum the Rio Grande, just as Ben Thompson did when he got catched in
the same place and in the same way. He got off without a scratch, as he
did hundreds of times before, only to catch it at Santone at last, as
he was bound to do sooner or later.”