[Footnote: From "Whirligigs," by O. Henry. Copyright, 1910, by
Doubleday, Page & Company. Reprinted by special permission of
Doubleday, Page & Company.]
It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were
down South, In Alabama--Bill Driscoll and myself--when this
kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it,
"during a moment of temporary mental apparition"; but we didn't
find that out till later.
There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called
Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants of as undeleterious an
self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around a
Maypole.
Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and
we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent
town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the
front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong
in semi-rural communities; therefore, and for other reasons, a
kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of
newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up
talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn't get after us
with anything stronger than constables and, maybe, some
lackadaisical blood-hounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly
Farmers' Budget. So, it looked good.
We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen
named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a
mortgage fancier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and
forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles,
and hair the color of the cover of the magazine you buy at the
news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured
that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars
to a cent. But wait till I tell you.
About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a
dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a
cave. There we stored provisions.
One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset's
house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on
the opposite fence.
"Hey, little boy!" says Bill, "would you like to have a bag of
candy and a nice ride?"
The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick.
"That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars," says
Bill, climbing over the wheel.
That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but,
at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove
away. We took him up to the cave, and I hitched the horse in the
cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village,
three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the
mountain.
Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on
his features. There was a fire burning behind the big rock at the
entrance of the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling
coffee, with two buzzard tail-feathers stuck in his red hair. He
points a stick at me when I come up, and says:
"Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief,
the terror of the plains?"
"He's all right now," says Bill, rolling up his trousers and
examining some bruises on his shins. "We're playing Indian. We're
making Buffalo Bill's show look like magic-lantern views of
Palestine in the town hall. I'm Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief's
captive, and I'm to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid
can kick hard."
Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The
fun of camping out in a cave had made him forget that he was a
captive himself. He immediately christened me Snake-eye, the Spy,
and announced that, when his braves returned from the warpath, I
was to be broiled at the stake at the rising of the sun.
Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and
bread and gravy, and began to talk. He made a during-dinner speech
something like this:
"I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a pet
'possum once, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to go to
school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot's aunt's speckled
hen's eggs. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some
more gravy. Does the trees moving make the wind blow? We had five
puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of
money. Are the stars hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I
don't like girls. You dassent catch toads unless with a string. Do
oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you got beds to
sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got six toes. A parrot can
talk, but a monkey or a fish can't. How many does it take to make
twelve?"
Every few minutes he would remember that he was a pesky redskin,
and pick up his stick rifle and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to
rubber for the scouts of the hated paleface. Now and then he would
let out a war-whoop that made Old Hank the Trapper, shiver. That
boy had Bill terrorized from the start.
"Red Chief," says I to the kid, "would you like to go home?"
"Aw, what for?" says he. "I don't have any fun at home. I hate to
go to school. I like to camp out. You won't take me back home
again, Snake-eye, will you?"
"Not right away," says I. "We'll stay here in the cave a while."
"All right!" says he. "That'll be fine. I never had such fun in
all my life."
We went to bed about eleven o'clock. We spread down some wide
blankets and quilts and put Red Chief between us. We weren't
afraid he'd run away. He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up
and reaching for his rifle and screeching: "Hist! pard," in mine
and Bill's ears, as the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle of
a leaf revealed to his young imagination the stealthy approach of
the outlaw band. At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and
dreamed that I had been kidnapped and chained to a tree by a
ferocious pirate with red hair.
Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams from
Bill. They weren't yells, or howls, or shouts, or whoops, or
yawps, such as you'd expect from a manly set of vocal organs--they
were simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as
women emit when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It's an awful
thing to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in
a cave at daybreak.
I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on
Bill's chest, with one hand twined in Bill's hair. In the other he
had the sharp case-knife we used for slicing bacon; and he was
industriously and realistically trying to take Bill's scalp,
according to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the
evening before.
I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie down again.
But, from that moment, Bill's spirit was broken. He laid down on
his side of the bed, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as
long as that boy was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along
toward sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was to be
burned at the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn't nervous or
afraid; but I sat up and lit my pipe and leaned against a rock.
"What you getting up so soon for, Sam?" asked Bill.
"Me?" says I. "Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I
thought sitting up would rest it."
"You're a liar!" says Bill. "You're afraid. You was to be burned
at sunrise, and you was afraid he'd do it. And he would, too, if
he could find a match. Ain't it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody
will pay out money to get a little imp like that back home?"
"Sure," said I. "A rowdy kid like that is just the kind that
parents dote on. Now, you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast,
while I go up on the top of this mountain and reconnoitre."
I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over
the contiguous vicinity. Over toward Summit I expected to see the
sturdy yeomanry of the village armed with scythes and pitchforks
beating the country-side for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I
saw was a peaceful landscape dotted with one man ploughing with a
dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither
and yon, bringing tidings of no news to the distracted parents.
There was a sylvan attitude of somnolent sleepiness pervading that
section of the external outward surface of Alabama that lay
exposed to my view. "Perhaps," says I to myself, "it has not yet
been discovered that the wolves have borne away the tender lambkin
from the fold. Heaven help the wolves!" says I, and I went down
the mountain to breakfast.
When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of
it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to smash him with a
rock half as big as a cocoanut.
"He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back," explained Bill,
"and then mashed it with his foot; and I boxed his ears. Have you
got a gun about you, Sam?"
I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched up the
argument. "I'll fix you," says the kid to Bill. "No man ever yet
struck the Red Chief but what he got paid for it. You better
beware!"
After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings
wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes outside the cave
unwinding it.
"What's he up to now?" says Bill, anxiously. "You don't think
he'll run away, do you, Sam?"
"No fear of it," says I. "He don't seem to be much of a home body.
But we've got to fix up some plan about the ransom. There don't
seem to be much excitement around Summit on account of his
disappearance; but maybe they haven't realized yet that he's gone.
His folks may think he's spending the night with Aunt Jane or one
of the neighbors. Anyhow, he'll be missed to-day. To-night we must
get a message to his father demanding the two thousand dollars for
his return."
Just then we heard a kind of war-whoop, such as David might have
emitted when he knocked out the champion Goliath. It was a sling
that Red Chief had pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling
it around his head.
I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a sigh from Bill,
like a horse gives out when you take his saddle off. A niggerhead
rock the size of an egg had caught Bill just behind his left ear.
He loosened himself all over and fell in the fire across the
frying pan of hot water for washing the dishes. I dragged him out
and poured cold water on his head for half an hour.
By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says: "Sam,
do you know who my favorite Biblical character is?"
"Take it easy," says I. "You'll come to your senses presently."
"King Herod," says he. "You won't go away and leave me here alone,
will you, Sam?"
I went out and caught that boy and shook him until his freckles
rattled.
"If you don't behave," says I, "I'll take you straight home. Now,
are you going to be good, or not?"
"I was only funning," says he sullenly. "I didn't mean to hurt Old
Hank. But what did he hit me for? I'll behave, Snake-eye, if you
won't send me home, and if you'll let me play the Black Scout to-
day."
"I don't know the game," says I. "That's for you and Mr. Bill to
decide. He's your playmate for the day. I'm going away for a
while, on business. Now, you come in and make friends with him and
say you are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at once."
I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill aside and
told him I was going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles
from the cave, and find out what I could about how the kidnapping
had been regarded in Summit. Also, I thought it best to send a
peremptory letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom
and dictating how it should be paid.
"You know, Sam," says Bill, "I've stood by you without batting an
eye in earthquakes, fire, and flood--in poker games, dynamite
outrages, police raids, train robberies, and cyclones. I never
lost my nerve yet till we kidnapped that two-legged skyrocket of a
kid. He's got me going. You won't leave me long with him, will
you, Sam?"
"I'll be back some time this afternoon," says I. "You must keep
the boy amused and quiet till I return. And now we'll write the
letter to old Dorset."
Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the letter while Red
Chief, with a blanket wrapped around him, strutted up and down,
guarding the mouth of the cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make
the ransom fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand. "I
ain't attempting," says he, "to decry the celebrated moral aspect
of parental affection, but we're dealing with humans, and it ain't
human for anybody to give up two thousand dollars for that forty-
pound chunk of freckled wildcat. I'm willing to take a chance at
fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the difference up to me."
So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a letter that
ran this way:
"Ebenezer Dorset, Esq.:
"We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. It is
useless for you or the most skilful detectives to attempt to find
him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can have him restored
to you are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in large bills
for his return; the money to be left at midnight to-night at the
same spot and in the same box as your reply--as hereinafter
described. If you agree to these terms, send your answer in
writing by a solitary messenger to-night at half-past eight
o'clock. After crossing Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove,
there are three large trees about a hundred yards apart, close to
the fence of the wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom
of the fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small
paste-board box.
"The messenger will place the answer in this box and return
immediately to Summit.
"If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand as
stated, you will never see your boy again.
"If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you safe
and well within three hours. These terms are final, and if you do
not accede to them no further communication will be attempted.
"TWO DESPERATE MEN"
I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my pocket. As I
was about to start, the kid comes up to me and says:
"Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black Scout while you
was gone."
"Play it, of course," says I. "Mr. Bill will play with you. What
kind of a game is it?"
"I'm the Black Scout," says Red Chief, "and I have to ride to the
stockade to warn the settlers that the Indians are coming. I'm
tired of playing Indian myself. I want to be the Black Scout."
"All right," says I. "It sounds harmless to me. I guess Mr. Bill
will help you foil the pesky savages."
"What am I to do?" asks Bill, looking at the kid suspiciously.
"You are the hoss," says Black Scout. "Get down on your hands and
knees. How can I ride to the stockade without a hoss?"
"You'd better keep him interested," said I, "till we get the
scheme going. Loosen up."
Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in his eye like
a rabbit's when you catch it in a trap.
"How far is it to the stockade, kid?" he asks, in a husky manner
of voice.
"Ninety miles," says the Black Scout. "And you have to hump
yourself to get there on time. Whoa, now!"
The Black Scout jumps on Bill's back and digs his heels in his
side.
"For Heaven's sake," says Bill, "hurry back, Sam, as soon as you
can. I wish we hadn't made the ransom more than a thousand. Say,
you quit kicking me or I'll get up and warm you good."
I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the post-office and
store, talking with the chawbacons that came in to trade. One
whiskerando says that he hears Summit is all upset on account of
Elder Ebenezer Dorset's boy having been lost or stolen. That was
all I wanted to know. I bought some smoking tobacco, referred
casually to the price of black-eyed peas, posted my letter
surreptitiously, and came away. The postmaster said the mail-
carrier would come by in an hour to take the mail on to Summit.
When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were not to be found.
I explored the vicinity of the cave, and risked a yodel or two,
but there was no response.
So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank to await
developments.
In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and Bill wabbled
out into the little glade in front of the cave. Behind him was the
kid, stepping softly like a scout, with a broad grin on his face.
Bill stopped, took off his hat, and wiped his face with a red
handkerchief. The kid stopped about eight feet behind him.
"Sam," says Bill, "I suppose you'll think I'm a renegade, but I
couldn't help it. I'm a grown person with masculine proclivities
and habits of self-defence, but there is a time when all systems
of egotism and predominance fail. The boy is gone. I have sent him
home. All is off. There was martyrs in old times," goes on Bill,
"that suffered death rather than give up the particular graft they
enjoyed. None of 'em ever was subjugated to such supernatural
tortures as I have been. I tried to be faithful to our articles of
depredation; but there came a limit."
"What's the trouble, Bill?" I asks him.
"I was rode," says Bill, "the ninety miles to the stockade, not
barring an inch. Then, when the settlers was rescued, I was given
oats. Sand ain't a palatable substitute. And then, for an hour I
had to try to explain to him why there was nothin' in holes, how a
road can run both ways, and what makes the grass green. I tell
you, Sam, a human can only stand so much. I takes him by the neck
of his clothes and drags him down the mountain. On the way he
kicks my legs black-and-blue from the knees down; and I've got to
have two or three bites on my thumb and hand cauterized.
"But he's gone"--continues Bill--"gone home. I showed him the road
to Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick.
I'm sorry we lose the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll
to the madhouse."
Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of ineffable
peace and growing content on his rose-pink features.
"Bill," says I, "there isn't any heart disease in your family, is
there?"
"No," says Bill, "nothing chronic except malaria and accidents.
Why?"
"Then you might turn around," says I, "and have a look behind
you."
Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits
down plump on the ground and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass
and little sticks. For an hour I was afraid for his mind. And then
I told him that my scheme was to put the whole job through
immediately and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by
midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. So Bill
braced up enough to give the kid a weak sort of a smile and a
promise to play the Russian in a Japanese war with him as soon as
he felt a little better.
I had a scheme for collecting that ransom without danger of being
caught by counterplots that ought to commend itself to
professional kidnappers. The tree under which the answer was to be
left--and the money later on--was close to the road fence with
big, bare fields on all sides. If a gang of constables should be
watching for any one to come for the note, they could see him a
long way off crossing the fields or in the road. But no, sirree!
At half-past eight I was up in that tree as well hidden as a tree
toad, waiting for the messenger to arrive.
Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road on a bicycle,
locates the pasteboard box at the foot of the fence-post, slips a
folded piece of paper into it, and pedals away again back toward
Summit.
I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was square. I slid
down the tree, got the note, slipped along the fence till I struck
the woods, and was back at the cave in another half an hour. I
opened the note, got near the lantern, and read it to Bill. It was
written with a pen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of
it was this:
"Two Desperate Men.
"Gentlemen: I received your letter to-day by post, in regard to
the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a
little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-
proposition, which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You
bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars in
cash, and I agree to take him off your hands. You had better come
at night, for the neighbors believe he is lost, and I couldn't be
responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing
him back.
Very respectfully,
"EBENEZER DORSET."
"Great pirates of Penzance!" says I; "of all the impudent----"
But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most appealing
look in his eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or a talking
brute.
"Sam," says he, "what's two hundred and fifty dollars, after all?
We've got the money. One more night of this kid will send me to a
bed in Bedlam. Besides being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr.
Dorset is a spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You
ain't going to let the chance go, are you?"
"Tell you the truth, Bill," says I, "this little he ewe lamb has
somewhat got on my nerves too. We'll take him home, pay the
ransom, and make our get-away."
We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that
his father had bought a silver-mounted rifle and a pair of
moccasins for him, and we were going to hunt bears the next day.
It was just twelve o 'clock when we knocked at Ebenezer's front
door. Just at the moment when I should have been abstracting the
fifteen hundred dollars from the box under the tree, according to
the original proposition, Bill was counting out two hundred and
fifty dollars into Dorset's hand.
When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he
started up a howl like a calliope and fastened himself as tight as
a leech to Bill's leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like
a porous plaster.
"How long can you hold him?" asks Bill.
"I'm not as strong as I used to be," says old Dorset, "but I think
I can promise you ten minutes."
"Enough," says Bill. "In ten minutes I shall cross the Central,
Southern, and Middle Western States, and be legging it trippingly
for the Canadian border."
And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a
runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half out of Summit before
I could catch up with him.