STACY SEEKS A CHANGE
When Stacy Brown awakened from the sleep into which his captors had
put him, he was lying across the back of a horse.
At first the fat boy didn’t know what had occurred; then he recalled
that there had been a struggle in his tent and that a hand on his
throat had nearly choked him to death. A few seconds after that he
lost consciousness. And now he was being carried away on horseback.
“Let me up! Let me up!” he shouted.
A prod from a heavy boot caused him to utter a loud howl.
“Shut up!” commanded the man behind him in the saddle on the same
horse.
“Le—let me up and I will. I’ll yell all the way if you don’t,”
persisted Stacy.
The boy’s hands were bound to his sides, and his ankles were tied
together.
For reasons of his own, the rider halted the horse and dismounted.
He then released the boy’s ankles, and slightly loosened the leather
thongs that hound his arms, but there he stopped.
“Aren’t you going to untie me?” demanded Stacy.
“Hold your tongue. You’ll be lucky if I don’t clout you over the
head. You hang onto me now. If you try any tricks I’ll finish you
with a bullet between the eyes.”
“Oh, wow!” wailed the fat boy. “Where you going to take me?”
“None of your business! Is it any of your business?” The fellow
thrust the muzzle of a revolver into Stacy’s face.
“N—n—n—no! It isn’t any of my business,” chattered the boy. He was
thrown astride the horse; then his captor mounted in front of him,
and Stacy clung to the fellow’s shirt with the tips of his fingers.
It was an awful ride, Stacy slipping from side to side with each
gallop of the mount, the perspiration streaming down his face from
his efforts and the nervous strain.
The ride continued for what seemed hours; then the horseman having
halted uttered a sharp, short whistle, which, being answered, he
rode ahead. Two men with rifles loomed out of the darkness and
peered up at the riders.
“Got him?”
“Yes. Where’s the other one?”
“In the shack. We don’t want to put this one there. They mustn’t get
close enough together to talk. We’ll put him in the trough.”
_The trough!_ Stacy began having visions of a ducking in cold
mountain water, which thought made him shiver. He was forcibly
removed from the horse and made to walk, with a cold hand at the
back of his neck. He was taken but a short distance from the horse,
then, after his feet had been tied and the arm bonds tightened,
Chunky was rolled into what, at home, would have been called a
ditch. Here, it was a narrow channel that had been cut through the
rocks by water. This was the “trough,” and Stacy was left alone
there, while his captors walked away.
It was not long after their departure that he heard excited voices.
They were hurrying towards him.
“Hey, you feller there!”
“Well, what do you want?” growled the boy in the “trough.”
“He’s all right. I hope the boys kotch the rest of ’em. Don’t make
no difference whether it’s dead or alive so long as we’ve got two of
’em.”
Stacy pricked up his ears at this. He wondered to whom they
referred.
“Come out of that!” ordered one of the men.
“I can’t fall up. Take me out if you want me.”
Stacy was yanked from the “trough” with far from gentle hands, his
bonds were removed, and he was permitted to walk, guarded by the
men. Some little distance from the “trough” they rounded a rock and
came upon a small campfire, near which sat two other men, and rough,
hard-faced men they were. They eyed him with menacing eyes. Stacy
did not like the looks of them.
“Who be ye?” demanded one of the two by the fire.
“Name’s Brown. Who are you?”
“What you doing up in these woods?”
“Riding for my health, but it’s the most unhealthy place I ever got
into.”
“Know anything ’bout a diary that a fellow named Petersen—a hoss
thief—got robbed of by one of your party?”
“My party never robbed anybody,” objected Stacy indignantly.
“Shut up! Answer me.”
“How can I answer you and shut up at the same time?”
The man addressed sprang up and struck the fat boy with the flat of
his hand and Stacy toppled over.
“You’re a coward! A miserable sneak—”
_Whack!_ A second slap laid the boy flat on the ground again. He got
up, red of face and raging within.
“If I had a gun you wouldn’t dare do that, you ruffian!”
“Here’s a gun,” answered the bandit, thrusting a revolver towards
the Overland boy.
Stacy shrugged his shoulders, but did not take the weapon.
“I—I don’t like to hurt anyone. I—I—I have an aversion to taking
human life, and if I were to take that weapon I’m afraid I might
forget myself and shoot someone,” stammered the fat boy.
The bandits laughed.
“Called your bluff, didn’t I?” sneered the fellow.
“No. I said if I had a gun you wouldn’t dare do that. Not having a
gun I suppose you can do as you like—this time.”
“Sit down thar. I want you to write a letter to your folks back
there and tell them that they got to leave the book that one of ’em
stole from Petersen, and the bag of gold, too, under a stone on top
of the rock behind the camp, and then git out.”
“You mean that I can go then—after I have written the note?”
questioned the boy with a hopeful note in his voice.
“I didn’t say nothing of the kind.”
“Then I won’t write it!” declared Stacy with emphasis.
Another whack from the bandit’s ham-like paw sent the boy
staggering.
“Listen, young feller. This ain’t no joke. Whether or not you go
back at all ain’t worrying me, but I’ll tell you this much. You
write that letter and say in it that if your folks don’t do as you
tell them to, we’re going to shoot you to-morrow. Mebby we’ll do it
anyway, and that’s what’s coming to you if you don’t write. Will you
write the letter?”
“I’ll write it,” agreed the fat boy. “Give me something to write
with.” Stacy labored over that letter, and his forehead and face
were wet with perspiration while he was doing it. If he failed to
convey the message, he believed the bandits really would make way
with him, and if the Overlanders did not obey the order of the
bandits, he was positive the bandits would carry out their threat.
For these reasons Stacy Brown took more care in composing that
letter than he had ever done before in writing a letter.
It was this message that, some time later, landed in the camp of the
Overlanders on the flaming arrow, shot to them by a half-breed
Indian.
“Read it,” commanded the bandit.
Stacy did, whereupon the bandits with heads close together read it
over laboriously, one holding the message close to the fire for
better light. The one who appeared to be the leader handed it to a
companion.
“See that the ‘squaw-man’ pushes that through by the air road,” he
ordered. “It’s got to go through in a hurry or somebody’ll suffer.
Git!”
“Cap’n!” cried a voice, and a man dashed around the corner of the
rock that protected the bandits. “He’s gone! He’s vamoosed. Don’t
know how, but some varmint cut the ropes and let him out.”
“Gone! Go after him, men! What are you standing ’round here for? Get
him, dead or alive! Nail that boy first! Never mind, I’ll do it.
I’ll—!” The bandit paused suddenly and a blank look appeared on his
face. “Whe—whe—where is he?”
Stacy Brown was not there. He had taken advantage of the
interruption, and bounded away.
“You need a change, Stacy Brown, and you’re going to have it, if
your legs hold out,” growled the boy as he bounded away into the
forest.