At a considerable distance behind the automobile came another rescue
party. This was made up of about two score of Arizona horsemen. Many of
these men were armed. At the saddle bows of some of the hung raw-hide
lariats that the owners unwound as they sped forward.
Tom Reade, with the pursuer slowly, but steadily gaining upon him, had
discovered the identity of the man who seemed bent on his destruction.
As Hazelton drew nearer Tom waved his left hand frantically at his chum.
“Turn about, Harry! Ride back like the wind!” shouted Tom. “It's Ashby,
and he's shooting to kill. About face--you young idiot!”
Harry took no notice of the warning, reining in only slightly, then
wheeling and riding in a line with Reade, though about forty feet to one
side of him.
Ashby, a wild light in his eyes, heavily armed, and riding madly, kept
up a continuous fire in his effort to destroy the young chief engineer.
Honk! Honk! honk! came the warning from the automobile horn. The car
dashed at full speed toward the vengeful rider, as though about to run
him down.
George Ashby, however, was not easily intimidated. One swift glance had
assured him that the automobile bore no armed men. He therefore merely
swung his horse out of the path of the on-coming car and continued to
aim at Reade, though he now took more time between shots. On Hazelton he
did not waste a shot.
Helplessly and vainly the automobile whizzed by pursuer and pursued.
“Ashby, stop this madness!” cried Mr. Ellsworth hoarsely.
The pursuing rider never faltered. Now the party of Arizona horsemen
were riding nearer. Two or three of the leaders drew revolvers, opening
fire on the mad hotel man, though the range was as yet too great for
effective work.
In another thirty seconds George Ashby would doubtless have dropped to
the dust of the dessert, riddled with lead. Suddenly, however, he gave
his horse's head a sharp turn to the right. In an instant he was riding
back, shooting no more, and Tom Reade had passed safely out of range.
With wild whoops the Paloma horsemen dashed on. Their mounts were not
spent as was that of the hotel man.
“Don't shoot the fellow, if you can help it!” Tom Reade had called, as
the horsemen swept by him. “Rope Ashby if you can.”
Suddenly the hotel man's mount was seen to stagger slightly. It was
sufficient to pitch Ashby, who was not on his guard.
With wilder whoops the Arizona men spurred their ponies on. There was
a whirring of lariats and no less than three nooses had fallen over the
hotel man's head.
There came a brief interval in which the men, swooping down on the
captive, concealed him from the view of others.
Out of this crush soon came order. Then it was seen that Ashby had been
roped securely and was being led back to the railroad camp.
“We've got the scoundrel, with four ropes hitched to him,” called one of
the captors.
“One rope will be enough as soon as we can find a tree.”
The party was riding into the railroad camp now, and a dense crowd
pressed forward to see the face of the keeper of the Mansion House.
Ashby was chuckling gleefully. If any fear of the consequences of his
lawless behavior oppressed him, he was far from betraying the fact.
“Be gentle with him, friends,” Tom urged, riding forward.
“Yes; we ought to be gentle with every rattlesnake,” came an answer from
the crowd.
Ashby laughed harshly.
“You can't hurt me, neighbors,” declared the hotel man. “I'm bullet
proof. Any man who fires at me will find that the bullet will rebound
and bit him. Tie me up to a tree, if you like. You'll find that I won't
choke. I'll just slide back to earth as often as you tie me up.”
“Just what I thought,” murmured Tom.
“What do you think?” demanded Mr. Ellsworth from the car.
“The man's as mad as a March hare,” replied Reade.
“Humph! He's merely shamming,” retorted the general manager.
“Stow the funny business, Ashby!” came the advice from the crowd. “You
can't fool us into believing that you're crazy.”
“Crazy?” repeated the hotel man, a look of amazement creeping into his
face. “Of course I'm not crazy. I'm the only sane man in this crowd.”
Men began to look wonderingly at the hotel man, though many still
believed that Ashby was cleverly shamming insanity in order to save his
neck from being stretched.
“Doe Furniss! Come over here!” called Reade. “Gentlemen, this is a
question for Doe Furniss. Don't think of doing anything to the fellow
until you've heard from Doc. Make way for the doctor, gentlemen.”
At a sign from Dr. Furniss the captors led Ashby's horse onward until
the office shack was reached. Here two men freed the captive from his
horse and led him inside. Dr. Furniss followed them and the door was
closed.
“Let's get away from here,” urged Tom Reade. “A big crowd hanging about
is sure to excite the poor fellow.”
“Reade, you're too soft and easy,” grunted a Paloma man in the crowd.
“The only thing that makes Ashby crazy is that he didn't get you.”
“He did 'get' me, however,” laughed Tom, displaying four bullet holes
through his shirtsleeves, and two more that pierced his hat. “Ashby got
as much of me as I'd want any marksman to get.”
Having withdrawn to a distance, the crowd waited.
It was nearly half an hour before Dr. Furniss stepped outside. Now he
walked swiftly over to the edge of the crowd.
“Gentlemen,” remarked the physician, “you are justified in feeling very
well pleased that you didn't lynch Ashby. The poor fellow is as insane
as a man could well be. He imagines Mr. Reade has hurt his business and
is determined to kill him. I'll send for a straightjacket and then we'll
hustle him away to the asylum.”
At this moment a wild yell sounded from the shack, to be echoed from the
crowd. George Ashby, seemingly possessed of the strength of half a
dozen men, had wrenched himself free of his captors, felling both like
a flash. Then the hotel man leaped to his horse, freeing it and starting
off at a mad gallop.
Instantly a score of men set off after the fugitive, swinging their
lariats as they rode.
Crack! Crack! Bang!
Snatching still another automatic revolver from one of his saddle bags,
Ashby was now firing at those riding behind him.
The line of horsemen wavered somewhat. They might have fired in return,
and have brought down their quarry, but no brave man likes to think of
shooting a lunatic.
So, still firing as he went, Ashby once more reached the edge of the
quicksand.
Now, riding as fast as he could urge his pony, the hotel man dashed out
on the Man-killer.
Nor was he riding over the part that had been rendered safe by the young
engineers.
Instead, he was riding to the southward of the railroad
property--straight out where he was likely to find a speedy death in the
engulfing sands.
“Stop, Ashby! Come back!” shouted a dozen voices. “You'll be swallowed
up in the quick-sands.”
Brave as they were, the pursuers now rein up sharply. It seemed to them
sheer madness to ride out thus to their certain deaths.
“Ashby is crazy, all right,” remarked bronzed man. “None but an insane
man would ride out there.”
Somewhat tardily automobile parties started in pursuit. These vehicles
were halted at the edge of the quicksand. Tom and Harry had also come
this far.
In the background the halted crowd watched in suspense as George Ashby
galloped over the treacherous sand.
Several times the pony's hoofs were seen to sink, yet each time the
animal seemed able to draw his feet out of the sand and go on again.
“It's a crazy man's luck,” cried an Arizona man thickly. “Of course,
here and there on the Man-killer there are safe, sound spots, and Ashby
is having the luck of his life in hitting all the sound spots in getting
across. But I wouldn't follow him for a thousand dollars a minute!”
The mad hotel man was soon lost to view on the other side of one of the
little hills of sand.
There would have been little sense in trying to follow him or to head
him off, even by more roundabout courses. Ashby was now far enough away
to elude any pursuit that might start.
“I wonder if Reade has any idea of what he's up against now?” murmured
the mayor of Paloma. “That crazy man is loose, and sooner or later he'll
be heard from again.”