A “FLASH IN THE PAN.”
Wild Bill Hickok was due for a “flash in the pan”--something very
unusual with him.
As he followed Red Steve down the hill, the Laramie man was
congratulating himself on the fact that he was to meet the other
White Caps in the same grove where his horse had been secured and the
riding gear left. He was casting about in his mind for some excuse
that would enable him to get the trappings on Beeswax and fare away,
all without exciting the suspicions of Red Steve and the other four
men in his detachment.
Wild Bill was also thinking that he would like to learn more of the
plot against Buffalo Bill and Perry, but he did not want to delay his
departure too long and so run the risk of not being able to get away
at all.
“That thar Jerry feller is as savage as a Feejee,” said Wild Bill to
Red Steve, when they were close to the grove.
“He’s ther brains o’ this hyer ranch when thar’s any schemin’ goin’
on,” returned Red Steve. “It was him as hatched up this hyer plot
about the stakes an’ the stampede. That’s purty vi’lent, but when
ye’re dealin’ with fellers like Buffler Bill an’ Perry, no halfway
measures ain’t a-goin’ ter pass muster.”
“I reckon that’s so! Whar is this hyer Crowder’s corral?”
“Between this ranch an’ the Star-A. Thar’s them boys o’ mine,” Red
Steve added, pointing. “They’re sizin’ up that ’ar hoss o’ yourn.”
The two men entered the grove and came front to front with four
men whose faces were as villainous as that of Red Steve. They were
looking Beeswax over with critical eyes.
The horse was picketed, and the saddle, bridle and blanket were
hanging from the limb of a nearby tree.
“Purty good hoss, that,” remarked Wild Bill.
Four pairs of eyes turned on him suspiciously.
“Who the blazes aire you?” asked one of the quartette.
“He’s got a clean bill, pards,” spoke up Red Steve. “I know his looks
is ag’in him, but he’s all right in spite o’ his looks. He suits
Jerry an’ Lige, so he’s got ter suit us. He’s ter be one o’ the White
Caps. Gringo Pete, that feller’s Shorty Dobbs; the one behind him is
Ace Hawkins; the one back o’ Ace is Splinters Gibson; an’ t’other
’un is Weasel Skinner. We all got ter be friends, fellers. Don’t act
measly to’rds yer new pard.”
The four ruffians tried hard to show their friendship.
“Ye got er blame’ good hoss,” remarked Shorty Dobbs, with an
up-and-down look over Wild Bill and a more or less admiring glance in
the direction of Beeswax.
“He’s second ter but one hoss on the Brazos,” declared Wild Bill
proudly, “an’ that one hoss is Buffler Bill’s Bear Paw.”
“I know this hoss,” said Weasel Skinner. “The last time I seed this
hoss, Wild Bill Hickok was a-ridin’ him.”
The Laramie man chuckled.
“The hoss belonged ter Wild Bill afore I took him,” said he. “That
ole Laramie fossil won’t never see Beeswax no more. The animile is
mine, now.”
“Hickok’ll git his hoss back if he has ter take yer h’ar ter do it,”
asserted Splinters Gibson.
“No feller o’ Hickok’s size’ll ever git my skelp,” bragged Wild
Bill, taking a tremendous pleasure in this turn of the talk. “I kin
show Hickok the way I wear my back h’ar any day ye kin find in the
almanac.”
“Ye got gas enough fer a b’loon ascension,” grunted Ace Hawkins, “an’
mebby that’s all thar is to ye.”
“Mebby,” agreed Wild Bill, “an’ mebby ye ain’t got as much sense as
what the law allows.”
“I got sand if I ain’t got sense,” flared Ace Hawkins, “an’ if ye say
the word, I’ll knock yer spine up through the top o’ yer head till it
sticks out like a flagpole. I----”
“Hush!” cried Red Steve. “Consarn it, kain’t ye ack like gents an’
pards? Don’t ye try h’istin’ any flagpoles like that, Ace, er ye’ll
hear from me right quick. This here’s our new pard, an’ here ye
go treatin’ him like a hired man. Us fellers has got ter all hang
tergether.”
“Er we’ll hang another way if we don’t,” spoke up Shorty Dobbs with a
shake of his bullet-like head.
Out of the tails of his eyes, Wild Bill had caught a look at the top
of the hill through the trees. He saw Lige Benner running through the
door of the adobe house, and Jerry Benner standing in the doorway and
watching him.
Something was wrong. Wild Bill didn’t know what it was but thought
he’d take time by the forelock and get clear.
“That Beeswax hoss is shore the slickest animile fer tricks ye ever
seen,” said Wild Bill.
He was in a hurry, but it would never have done to let Red Steve and
his men see it.
“What tricks kin he do?” asked Splinters Gibson.
“Waal, he kin lay down an’ roll over with me on his back,” averred
the Laramie man gravely, “an’ without never hurtin’ me none.”
“I got money as says he kain’t,” growled Ace Hawkins.
“I don’t want yer money,” said Wild Bill, “but I’ll show ye.”
He pulled up the picket pin--there was no time to get saddle and
bridle on Beeswax--and made a hackamore of the picket rope.
“Stop that man!” came a voice from near the foot of the hill.
Wild Bill understood the words, and they certified to Lige Benner’s
hostile intentions toward him. But the shouted order was not so
clearly understood by Red Steve and his men.
“Who was that a-yellin’?” demanded Red Steve.
“Sounded like Lige’s voice,” answered Shorty Dobbs.
“Now, ye watch!” bellowed Wild Bill, at the top of his voice, hoping
to drown out any more noise Lige Benner might make.
As he spoke, he jumped to the back of the horse. If he could get away
with the hackamore, and minus his riding gear, Wild Bill was going
to be entirely satisfied. Kicking his heels into Beeswax’s ribs,
he started through the timber in the direction of the trail to the
Star-A.
“Hyer!” roared the voice of Shorty Dobbs; “make ’im lay down an’ roll
over!”
“Got ter git ter clear ground afore I kin do that,” shouted Wild
Bill, turning in his saddle. “Trail erlong, amigos!”
Red Steve and his four White Caps might have started after Wild Bill,
still in the hope that he would make Beeswax “lie down and roll over”
had not Lige Benner, at that moment, come tearing in among them.
“He’s a spy!” bawled Benner; “Gringo Pete is a spy! He’s trying to
get away!”
The last word died in a fusillade of revolvers. Red Steve, his four
men and Lige Benner had each drawn a six-shooter and sent their
leaden respects after Wild Bill.
The Laramie man felt that he was safe. What horse was there at the
Circle-B that could overhaul old Beeswax?
In that supreme moment, gloating over what he had accomplished, the
Laramie man must needs turn, shake his fist and taunt those behind on
their poor marksmanship.
“Yah! You men couldn’t hit the side of a barn! By-by!”
While Wild Bill was looking behind, something mighty important was
happening in front. As he turned around to keep Beeswax in the right
course, the Laramie man was made unpleasantly aware of the change in
the situation.
Four of the Circle-B cowboys were riding in from the range. These
four were directly in front of Wild Bill, and not more than twenty
feet distant. They had heard Wild Bill’s shout, and their attention
had already been attracted by the discharge of revolvers. When the
whoops and yells of Lige Benner, Red Steve and the rest reached
their ears, they spread out and prepared to blockade the racing
fugitive.
“Keep clear!” shouted Wild Bill.
He made a fierce attempt to get at his revolvers. They were under his
ragged disguise, and he had been under the impression that they were
placed where they could be conveniently drawn.
But in this he was mistaken. Some part of his costume got between his
itching fingers and the hand grips of his guns.
In a flash he realized that his weapons were not to serve him. He had
the coil of rope and the picket pin in front of him, and he grabbed
up the pin and hurled it with all his force.
One of the blockading cowboys was ready to fire his revolver. Before
the trigger could be pulled, the sharp point of the pin had struck
his arm. He gave a yell of rage and pain, and his weapon dropped from
his nerveless fingers.
“Stop!” cried another of the cowpunchers; “stop or I’ll bore ye!”
Wild Bill leaned far from his horse’s back and struck out with his
fist.
The cowboy who had voiced the threat, slewed backward in his saddle,
so wrapped up in his own pressing complaints that he had no time to
give further attention to the Laramie man.
Once more Wild Bill was beginning to congratulate himself. Two of the
four cowboys were out of the running; if he could dodge the other
two, the trail to the Star-A would be clear before him.
But right here the picket rope and pin, which had served Wild Bill so
well, now proved his undoing.
The rope, weighted by the pin, was cutting all sorts of capers around
Beeswax’s flying heels. As hard luck would have it, chance threw the
rope into a loop, and the loop caught the horse’s front feet.
Down went Beeswax--and he really did roll over. But Wild Bill was not
on the horse’s back. The Laramie man had been hurled a dozen feet
onward.
When he dropped, he came down all of a heap; and before he could
collect his scattered wits, two cowboys were on him, and Lige Benner,
Red Steve, and many more were rushing at top speed for the scene to
lend their assistance.
Wild Bill was caught!