THE MASTER
Westy knew that he was in great peril. He knew that these two men were
desperadoes, probably train robbers, and that they would not suffer any
one to know of their mountain refuge and go free. He believed that the
odds and ends of conversation he had overheard related to one of those
bizarre exploits of the Far West, a two-man train robbery; or rather a
one-man train robbery, for it seemed likely that one of the men had not
been an expert or even a professional.
For the leader of this desperate pair Westy could not repress a certain
measure of respect; respect at least for his courage and skill. The
other one seemed utterly contemptible. There is always a glamour about
the romantic bad man of the West, dead shot and master of every
situation, which has an abiding appeal to every lover of adventure.
Here was a man, long, lanky, and of a drawling speech, whose eye, Westy
could believe, was piercing and inscrutable like the renowned Two Pistol
Bill of the movies. This man had said that no one could trail him and
that no trail was so difficult that he could not follow it. Truly a most
undesirable pursuer. One of those invincible outlaws whose skill and
resource and scouting lore seems almost to redeem his villainy.
Westy knew that he was at the mercy of this man, this lawless pair. He
knew that his safety and that of his friends hung on a thread. One
forlorn hope he had and that was that darkness would come before the
boys started their fire. Then these ruffians might not see the smoke.
And perhaps they would fall asleep before Warde or Ed shouted. Then he
could take his chance of descending and rejoining them. All this seemed
too good to be possible and Westy had one of those rash impulses that
seize us all at times, to put an end to his horrible suspense by making
his presence known. One shout and—and what?
He did not shout. And he prayed that his friends would not shout. If he
could only free himself and let them know! But even then there was the
chance of this baffler of dogs trailing him and his companions and
shooting them down in these lonely mountains. And who would ever know?
And just then he learned the name of this human terror who was smoking
as he lolled in the dusk on the rock below. He was evidently a
celebrity.
“That’s why they call me Bloodhound Pete,” drawled the man. “Nobody can
corral me up here; thar ain’t no trail ter this place ’n nobody never
knowed it. But I knowed of it. I ain’t never come to it from the road,
allus through the gulch ’n roun’ by Cheyenne Pass, like we done jes’
now. _But if you wus here I could trail yer_, even if I never sot eyes
on the place afore. I could trail yer if yer dealed me the wrong trick,
no matter whar yer wuz.”
“I ain’t dealin’ yer no wrong trick,” said the other.
“That’s why I ony has one pard in a big job,” said Bloodhound Pete
grimly. “’Cause in a way of speakin’ I ain’t fer bloodshed. I’d ruther
drop one pardner than two or three. I don’t kill ’less thar’s need to,
’count o’ my own safety.”
Westy shuddered.
“Me ’n you ain’t goin’ ter have no scrap over the swag,” said the other
man.
“N’ ye’ll find me fair as summer,” said the bloodhound. “Fair and
square, not even sayin’ how I give the benefit to a pardner on uneven
numbers.”
“Me ’n you ain’t a-goin’ ter have no quarrel,” said the other. “Yer wuz
goner drop that there little gent, though, I’m thinkin’,” he added,
“when he tried ter hold yer agin’ the car door. He wuz game, he wuz.”
“That’s why I didn’ drop ’im,” said the bloodhound. “Yer mean him with
the cigar? Yere, he was game—him an’ the conductor. They was the ony
ones. Them an’ the woman—she was game. Yer seed her, with the fire ax. I
reckon she’d a used it if I didn’t take it from ’er. That thar little
man had a permit or a license or sumthin’ to ketch animals down over ter
the Park. Here ’tis in his ole knapsack an’ money enough ter buy a
couple o’ ranches.”
“How much?” asked the other.
“I ain’t usin’ no light,” said the bloodhound, “’count er caution. We’ll
sleep an’ divvy up fair an’ square in the mornin’.”
“Suits me,” said the other.
“And jes’ bear in mind,” drawled Bloodhound Pete, “that I allus sleep
with one eye open an’ I can track anything ’cept a airplane.”
Westy shuddered again. He fancied the lesser of those two desperadoes
shuddering. Bloodhound Pete seemed quite master of the situation.