A DESPERATE SITUATION.
Morning in the Enchanted Valley. Bart Hodge was standing in front of a
newly constructed cabin. His ear was turned to listen for sounds of
labor from the lower end of the valley, where a crew of men was supposed
to be at work building other cabins. The valley was strangely still.
"They're not working," muttered Hodge, a dark frown on his face. "They
have quit. What will this day bring? Oh, if Frank were only here!"
Finally, as he stood there, to his ears from far down the valley came a
faint sound of hoarse voices singing.
"I know the meaning of that!" he declared. "They're drinking. At last
Bland has given them the liquor. They're getting ready for their work."
He turned back into the cabin, the door of which stood open. From a peg
on the wall he took down a Winchester rifle and carefully examined it,
making sure the magazine was filled and the weapon in perfect working
order. He also looked over a brace of revolvers, which he carried ready
for use.
Tossing the rifle in the hollow of his left arm, he left the cabin and
turned toward the end of the valley where the men were engaged. He
observed some caution in approaching that portion of the valley. At last
he reached a point amid some bowlders from which he could look down into
a slight hollow, where stood some half-constructed cabins upon which the
men had been working.
Not one of them was at work now. They were lying around carelessly, or
sitting in such shade as they could find, smoking and drinking. Several
bottles were being passed from hand to hand. Already two or three of
them seemed much under the influence of liquor, and one bowlegged fellow
greatly amused the others by an irregular, unsteady dance, during which
he kicked out first with one foot and then with the other, like a skirt
dancer. At intervals some of them sang a melancholy sort of song.
"The miserable dogs!" grated Bart. "They're ready to defy me now and
carry out their treacherous plans."
A tall man, with a black mustache and imperial, stepped among the
others, saying a word now and then and seeming to be their leader.
"You're the one, Texas Bland!" whispered Hodge. "You have led them into
this!"
As he thought of this his fingers suddenly gripped the rifle, and he
longed to lean over the bowlder before him, steady his aim, and send a
bullet through Texas Bland. Bart was unaware that two men were
approaching until they were close upon him. This compelled him, if he
wished to escape observation, to draw back somewhat, and he did so. He
did not crouch or make any great effort at hiding, for such a thing he
disdained to do. He was not observed, however, although the men stopped
within a short distance.
"Well, what do yer think o' this game, Dug?" said one of them, who was
squat and sandy.
"I reckons the boss has it all his own way, Bight," retorted the other,
a leathery-faced chap with tobacco-stained beard.
"The boss!" exclaimed Bight. "Mebbe you tells me who is the boss?"
"Why, Bland, of course," said Dug. "He is the boss."
"Mebbe he is, and then--mebbe again," returned the sandy one.
"Well, we takes our orders from him."
"Sartin; but I reckons he takes his orders from some one else."
Bight pulled out a bottle.
"Now," he said, "he furnished plenty o' this. My neck is getting dry.
How is yourn, Dug?"
"Ready to squeak," returned Dug, grasping the bottle his comrade
extended.
When they had lowered its contents until very little was left, Bight
observed:
"I s'pose Bland he's going to chaw up this yere chap, Hodge?"
"Sure thing," nodded Dug. "Pretty soon he calls Hodge down yere on a
pretense o' business or something, and then he kicks up a fuss with him.
He has it all fixed for several of the boys to plug him as soon as the
fuss starts. That settles his hash."
The eyes of Bart Hodge gleamed savagely.
"I wonder how he gits onter it that anything's up?" questioned Dug.
"Mebbe that sneak, Colvin, tells him."
"Mebbe so," nodded Bight. "Anyhow, nobody trusts Colvin none, and I
opines he'd been polished off here ef he'd stayed."
"And he'll sartin never git very fur," declared Dug. "Them boys arter
him will sure run him down and make buzzard bait o' him."
Hearing this, Hodge knew for the first time that there were men in
pursuit of Colvin, his messenger, who had slipped out of the valley the
previous night. Colvin had sworn, if he lived, to carry the message for
Frank to the nearest telegraph station and send it. But he was pursued
by ruffians who meant to slay him. It was doubtful if he reached a
telegraph office. If he failed, of course Merriwell would remain
uninformed as to the situation in the Enchanted Valley and would not
hurry about returning there.
Even if Colvin succeeded, it might be too late. Bart believed it
probable that Merry was in San Diego or that vicinity, and therefore it
would take him some time to reach Prescott and travel by horse from
Prescott to the valley. Long before he could make such a journey the
mutineers would be able to accomplish their evil design.
"Who do you s'pose is back of this yere business, Dug?" said Bight. "You
thinks Bland is not behind it, does yer?"
"Dead sartin. Bland he never does this fer hisself. He wouldn't dare. It
wouldn't do him no good."
"Why not?"
"Because he can't hold this yere mine and work it. Somebody locates him,
and he has to evaporate, for his record counts agin' him. Howsomever, he
can jump the mine for some other gent and git paid fer doing the trick,
arter which he ambles into the distance and gently disappears. This is
his little game, and I will bet on it."
"I wonders some who the gent is behind it."
"That's nothing much ter us as long as we gits our coin."
"Does we git it sure?"
"You bet I gits mine. Ef I don't, there'll be blazes a-roaring around
yere."
"Why, you don't buck up agin' Bland none?" half laughed the other. "You
knows better than ter do that."
"I don't do it by my lonesome; but if I raises a holler there is others
does the same thing. But I will git my dust, all right. Don't you worry
about that."
At this point several of the men in the vicinity of the unfinished
cabins set up a wild yell of laughter. One of their number had attempted
to imitate the awkward motions of the former dancer and had fallen
sprawling on his stomach. Immediately after this burst of laughter the
men began to sing again.
"That oughter bring this yere Hodge over this way," said Dug, with a
hoarse laugh. "Ordinarily he comes a-whooping to see what is up, and he
raises thunder. He sets himself up as a boss what is to be obeyed, and I
reckons so far he has had the boys jumping when he gives orders."
"If he comes over now," observed Bight, "he gits his medicine in a
hurry. I don't care any about shooting him up, so I am for staying away
from the rest of the bunch."
"Oh! what ails yer?" growled Dug.
"It's murder!" said Bight.
"Well, I opines you has cooked yer man afore this?"
"Ef I ever has," retorted Bight, "it certain was in self-defense."
"I reckon you're something of a squealer, pard," sneered Dug. "You wants
to git your share o' the dust without taking no part in the danger. You
tells how you raises a roar if you don't git your coin, but what does
yer do to earn it?"
"Well, I fights some when I has to," returned Bight, rather savagely.
"Mebbe you talks too much to me, Dug, and you gits yourself into some
trouble."
Bight was ugly now, and his companion involuntarily retreated a step,
for the squat chap had a reputation as a fighter.
"Go slow, pard!" exclaimed Dug. "I am not a-picking trouble with you."
"All right, all right," nodded Bight, "Only just be a little keerful--a
little keerful. Don't think just because a gent don't keer about
shooting another gent down promiscuous-like that he is soft and easy.
There's Texas Bland out yander. He has a reputation as a bad man. Well,
partner, I picks no quarrels with him, but if he stomps on my tail he
gets my claws."
"What's that?" exclaimed Dug, in astonishment. "You ain't a-giving it
ter me that you bucks up agin' Bland, are yer?"
"I am a-giving it ter yer that I does in case I has to. I don't propose
any ter have ter do it. I jines in with this yer move because it seems
popular with the gang, and I am none anxious ter work myself. This yere
is a nice bunch o' miners, now, ain't it? Why, the gent what hires this
outfit and brings it yere had a whole lot better stick to his sailoring
business! He may know how to pick out seamen, but it's right certain he
makes a mess of it when it comes to engaging miners."
"That's right," agreed Dug. "And he certain is the biggest liar it ever
were my pleasure to harken unto. The way he can tell things to make a
galoot's eyes bug out is a whole lot remarkable. Whither he gits his
lively imagination I cannot surmise. Let's see, whatever was his name?"
"Wiley--Cap'n Wiley he calls himself."
"Well, however does he happen to be hiring men for this yere mine? I
don't judge any that he is interested in it."
"Not a whole lot. The mine is owned by a gent named Merriwell, and by
this yere Hodge. Them two locates it."
"Relocates it, you mean. I onderstand it were located original by
another gent what is dead now. And I reckons some that it is through
this other gent's action that the man that is back o' this yere jumping
movement is going to stake his claim to the mine. I hears one o' the
boys say that if Bland ain't back o' the game, it sartin is a gent with
heaps o' money--one o' them yere money kings we hears about."
This conversation was of no simple interest to Hodge, for, although it
did not reveal the instigator of the movement, it satisfied him that the
plot did not originate among the men themselves. Some enemy of Frank
Merriwell must be behind it all. As Sukes was dead, it was not easy for
Bart to conjecture who this new enemy was.
After a few moments more the two ruffians finished the contents of the
bottle and moved slowly away. This gave Hodge an opportunity to turn
back toward his cabin, and he hastened to get away from that dangerous
locality.
"It's well for me that I suspected what was up," he muttered, as he
hurried along. "Under ordinary circumstances, failing to hear the men at
work and hearing their singing and shouts, I should have hastened over
and demanded to know the meaning of it. As a result they would have
finished me in short order. Now I am prepared for them. But what can I
do? What can I do alone?"
The situation seemed desperate and hopeless.
Another fellow in Bart's position, and realizing his desperate peril,
might have lost no time in getting out of the valley. Even though he
happened to be a courageous person, his judgment might have led him to
pursue such a course, for certainly it seemed a wild and hopeless plan
to think of remaining there alone and contending against those ruffians.
Bart, however, was an obstinate chap and one in whom fear was an emotion
seldom experienced. Not that he had always been fearless, for as a boy
he had sometimes felt the thrill of terror; but his iron will had
conquered, and time after time he had refused to submit to the approach
of the slightest timidity, until at last fear seemed banished from his
heart. Now, as he hastened back to the cabin, he revolved in his mind
certain thoughts in regard to the situation; but not once did he
entertain the idea of leaving the valley and abandoning it to those
desperadoes.
"I will stay," he muttered. "I will stay as long as I am able to shoot.
While I live they will never gain full possession of the valley. Merry
left me here to guard this property, and I will do it with my life. But
for Wiley's carelessness----"
He stopped, suddenly struck by a startling suspicion.
"Was it carelessness?" he asked himself.
An instant later he was ashamed of the suspicion, for he remembered how
on other occasions he had suspected Wiley, and each time had found
himself wrong.
"No, no," murmured Hodge; "it was simply a blunder, on Wiley's part. He
remembered Merriwell's thirty, and thought he was doing the right thing
in engaging men of similar calibre. The cap'n is on the level."
Still troubled and perplexed by his thoughts, he grew, if possible, more
fixed in his determination to defend the mines single-handed. He
approached the cabin, the door of which was still standing open as he
left it. Hurrying in, he stopped, suddenly turned to stone as he saw
sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall, a human being, who
was calmly smoking a long pipe.
A moment later the muzzle of Bart's revolver covered this figure, which,
however, did not stir or lift a hand. Coming, as he did, from the bright
light outside into the shadows within the cabin, Hodge failed at first
to note more than that the smoker who sat thus was wrapped in an old
blanket. After a moment or two, however, he finally saw that he was face
to face with an aged, wrinkled, leathery-skinned Indian. The little
sharp eyes of the old savage were fixed steadily on Bart's face, and he
betrayed not a symptom of alarm as Hodge brought the rifle to bear upon
him. With stoical calmness he deliberately pulled at his pipe.
"What in thunder are you doing here?" demanded Hodge, in astonishment.
"Ugh!" was the only reply vouchsafed.
Somehow that grunt seemed familiar. Bart had heard it before, but it
simply increased his amazement. Lowering the rifle, he stared
wonderingly.
"Great Scott!" he breathed. "Is it possible? Are you old Joe?"
"Heap same," was the curt answer.
In a twinkling Bart dropped the rifle on the table and strode forward to
shake the hand of an old friend.
"Old Joe Crowfoot!" he shouted. "Where under the stars did you drop
from?"
"Joe he come visit. How, how!"
"Why, you amazing old Nomad!" cried Bart, in delight. "You're always
turning up just when you're wanted the most, and if ever you were wanted
it is now."
"Frank him not here?"
"No."
"Joe he want see Frank."
"If that's the case, you will have to wait a while."
"Strong Heart he better be here," declared the aged redskin. "Heap lot
o' trouble pretty soon."
"That's right, Joe. But how do you know anything about it?"
"Joe he know. Him no fool. Him find out."
Bart had extended his hand, and now he assisted the old man to his feet.
Although old Joe tried to conceal the fact, he seemed rather stiff in
his joints just then.
"What's the matter, Crowfoot?" questioned Bart. "Rheumatism troubles you
again?"
"Debble got old Joe in his bones," indignantly returned the savage. "Old
Joe him no good any more. Make old Joe mad when him think he no good."
Under other circumstances the indignation of the redskin over his
infirmities might have been somewhat amusing.
"But tell me--tell me how you came to be here at this time," questioned
Hodge. "We last saw you away up in Wyoming. You said then that you'd
never travel south again."
"Heap think so then. When winter he come Joe have debble ache in his
bones plenty bad. Sabe?"
"And so the rheumatism and cold weather drove you south, eh?"
"One time," said the redskin, drawing his blanket about his shoulders
with an air of dignity, "Joe him face cold and never feel um. One time
him no care how cold. One time he laugh at snow and ice. Then all him
bones be good. Then old Joe a heap strong to hunt. Now it ain't the
same. Once Joe him hunt the grizzly bear for game; now he hunt poker."
In spite of himself, Bart was forced to smile. He knew something of the
skill of old Joe at the white man's game of poker, and the thought of
the old Indian who had once tracked the grizzly now turned to gambling
was both amusing and remarkable.
"So that is what brought you south. You turned this way to escape the
cold and to find at the same time the kind of game you were after?"
"Heap so," nodded Crowfoot, as he produced from beneath his blanket a
greasy pack of cards. "I came to play some. Mebbe I find um good players
here."
"I don't know where, Joe," said Hodge.
"Mebbe over yon," suggested the Indian, waving his hand toward the
southern end of the valley.
"See here, Joe," said Bart, "those men down there are my enemies. They
have betrayed me. There are valuable mines in this valley, and they
belong to Frank Merriwell and myself. These ruffians mean to seize them.
Even now they are ready to shoot me on sight, and intend to drop Frank
when he appears."
"Heap bad," observed Joe, without betraying the slightest emotion.
"Bad!" cried Hodge. "I should say so!"
"Too many for you, Black Eyes," asserted the redskin. "Mebbe you pull up
stake and lope?"
"Not by a blamed sight!" grated Hodge. "I will stay here and defend
these mines as long as I am able to lift a weapon."
The Indian shook his head.
"Heap young, heap young," he declared, as if speaking to himself. "Blood
hot. Joe him know. Once him blood hot."
"Well, you don't suppose I'd let them drive me out, do you?" indignantly
demanded Hodge. "You don't think I'd betray Frank like that! He left me
here in charge of the property, and here I will remain. I want you to
stick by me, Joe."
"Ugh!" grunted the old fellow noncommittally. "Mebbe not much difference
to old Joe. I may croak pretty soon now. Mebbe only make it some
quicker."
"Perhaps that's right," said Hodge slowly. "I have no right to ask you
to lose your life in helping me fight against overwhelming odds. It's
not your quarrel, Joe. You can do as you please."
"Joe him think it over," said the Indian. "No like to see Frank lose um
mines, but him have plenty more."
Bart turned away, not without a feeling of disappointment. As he did so,
through the still open door he caught a glimpse of a man who was
advancing toward the cabin. Instantly he strode toward the door, and his
eyes rested on Texas Bland, who was several rods away.
"Oh, Mr. Hodge!" Bland called at once. "I want yer ter come over yon.
The men has quit work, and they refuse to strike another stroke."
Trying to repress and conceal his indignation, Bart asked, as if wholly
unsuspicious of the real situation:
"What's the matter, Bland?"
"I dunno," lied the scoundrel. "I can't make 'em work; perhaps you can,
sir."
Suddenly, almost without being aware of what was happening, Bart
permitted his hot indignation to get the best of his judgment.
Instantly, as he stepped out of the cabin, he blazed:
"You're lying, Bland, and I know it! I am on to the whole dastardly
game! You're at the bottom of it, too! You have incited the men to
mutiny. I know your plot, you treacherous whelp! I know you meant to get
me over there for the purpose of assassinating me. The end of this
business will be a rope for you, Bland. Go back and tell your dogs I am
onto their game. Go back and bring them here. They will meet a hot
reception!"
Texas Bland had been astonished, but now, quick as a flash, he whipped
out a revolver for the purpose of taking a shot at Hodge, whose hands
were empty. Rapid though he was in his movements, he was not quick
enough, for within the cabin sounded the loud report of a rifle, and the
bullet knocked Bland's pistol from his hand, smashing two of his
fingers.