AN UNSEEN LISTENER
Bert was lost. There was no use blinking the fact. For two hours past
this feeling had been growing stronger, and now it had deepened into a
conviction.
It was an unusual and disconcerting experience for him. His sense of
location was very keen and acute, and, even without a compass, he had
been able almost instinctively to distinguish the cardinal points. But
just now he was deprived of the help of that trusty counselor. He had
been compelled to dismount, a little while since, to make some trifling
adjustment. Some time later, when the sun had disappeared under a cloud,
he felt in the pocket where he usually carried his compass, and was
dismayed to find it empty. He must have lost it in bending over the
machine. He could replace it when he reached the next large town, but
just at present he missed it sorely. For an hour now, the sun had been
invisible, and although he felt confident he was traveling due West, he
would have given a good deal for absolute assurance of that fact.
If he had been following some broad highway, he would not so much have
cared, as he would have been sure before long to reach some settlement
where he could again get his bearings. But there had been a number of
trails, none of them well-defined, and he had chosen one that grew
fainter and fainter as he progressed until it had faded away into the
mass of the prairie. In bright sunlight, he might have still been able
to trace it, but, in the dun haze and gathering dusk, it was no longer
visible.
Although the country was mostly a level plain, it was interspersed here
and there with bits of woodland and rocky buttes, rising in places to a
height of two hundred feet. One of these Bert descried in the distance,
and, putting on more power, he neared it rapidly. If he had to spend the
night in the open, which seemed very probable now, he wanted to have the
cheer and comfort of a fire, and there was no material for that in
the treeless plain. At the edge of the wood he could get boughs and
branches. By the aid of the spirit lamp that he carried in his kit, he
could make a pot of coffee to supplement the sandwiches he had with him.
By the time he had reached the woods it had grown wholly dark. He jumped
from the saddle, leaned the "Blue Streak" against a tree, and commenced
to gather twigs and branches. He soon had enough for his purpose, and
was just about to apply a match, when he caught the twinkle of a light,
farther up the wooded slope. He looked closely and could see the
outlines of a cabin from which the light was streaming.
The discovery was both a surprise and a delight. Here was human
companionship, and an opportunity to know just where he was and how he
could best reach the nearest town. He thought it was probably the hut of
some sheepherder or cattleman, and he had no doubt of a warm welcome.
Apart from the hospitality that is proverbial on the Western plains, the
occupant of that lonely cabin would be just as glad as himself to have a
companion for the night. He thrust his matchbox back in its waterproof
pouch, and, taking his machine by the handlebars, began to trundle it up
the slope.
His first impulse was to blow the horn of his motorcycle, as a cheery
announcement that a stranger was coming. But as he reached out his hand,
some unseen power seemed to hold him back. There seemed to be no reason
for the caution, but that subtle "sixth sense," that experience had
taught Bert to rely upon, asserted itself. On such occasions he had
learned not to argue, but to obey. He did so now, and, instead of going
directly to the cabin as he had planned at first, made a wide circle and
came up behind. He left the motorcycle fifty feet away, and then with
infinite care drew near the cabin.
It was a rude structure of logs, and mud had been used to close up the
chinks. There was no window on that side, but in several places the
dried mud had fallen away, and the light shone through the crevices.
Bert glued his eye to the largest of these openings and looked in.
A smoky lamp stood on a rough pine table, before which a man was seated
on a nail keg. His face was partly turned away, and, at the moment Bert
saw him, he was applying his lips to a half-filled whiskey bottle. He
took an enormous dram and then slammed the bottle down on the table and
drew his sleeve across his mouth.
Around his waist was a cartridge belt, and two ugly-looking revolvers
peeped from his holsters. A bowie knife lay on the table beside the
lamp. The outlook was not reassuring, and Bert blessed the caution that
had impelled him to "hasten slowly" in approaching the cabin.
He blessed it again when the man with an oath and a snarl picked up a
handbill that had dropped on the floor. In doing so, he exposed his full
face to view, and Bert thought that he had seldom seen one so wholly
villainous.
The ferret-like eyes, set close together, as they looked out from
beneath bushy brows, glinted with ferocity. Although comparatively
young, dissipation and reckless living had stamped their impress on
every feature. His outthrust jaw bespoke a bulldog courage and
determination. Brute was written largely all over him. An ugly scar
across his temple told of the zip of a bullet or the crease of a knife.
It was the face of a desperado who would stop at nothing, however
murderous or cruel, to gain his ends.
As the light fell upon the paper, Bert saw that it was headed by the
word "REWARD" in staring capitals. Then came a picture that corresponded
closely to the face of the man who was reading. Large print followed, of
which Bert could see enough to grasp the meaning. It was an offer of
five thousand dollars reward for the capture, alive or dead, of "Billy
the Kid," who had held up a stage at Valley Gulch two weeks before, and,
after killing the driver and one of the passengers who had resisted, had
made his escape with the contents of the express company's pouch.
Billy the Kid! The newspapers had been full of the robbery at the time
it was committed, and columns had been published narrating his exploits.
He was wanted for thefts and murders covering a series of years. Posses
were out for him in all directions, but he seemed to bear a charmed life
and had successfully evaded capture. An almost superstitious fear
attached to his name, and he was cited as an illustrious example of the
"Devil taking care of his own."
"Dead or alive," muttered the outlaw with an ugly sneer. "It will have
to be dead, then. They'll never get me alive."
Bert was in a ticklish situation. The slightest move on his part might
betray his presence to this sullen bandit, to whom human life was
nothing. He slipped his hand behind him and was comforted by the feel of
his revolver. It was a Colt .45, fully loaded, and he knew how to use
it. In that fight with the pirates off the Chinese coast it had done
good service. He knew that, at need, he could rely upon it now. He took
it from his hip pocket and put it in his breast, with the handle
protruding so that he could grasp it instantly.
Just then the gallop of horses smote upon his ears. The outlaw heard it,
too, and jumped to his feet. He blew out the light and snatched up his
weapons. The hoof beats drew nearer and a halloo rang out that was
evidently a preconcerted signal. With an oath of relief the desperado
relighted the lamp and went to the door.
"It's time you came," he ripped out savagely. "What kept you so long?"
"Couldn't help it, Cap," protested a man who entered the cabin, closely
followed by four others. "Manuel had to hang around the telegraph office
till the message came from Red Pete. The minute it came, we beat it
lickety split and almost killed our hosses getting here."
The leader snatched the held out telegram and read it eagerly while the
five men, of the same desperate type as their captain, stood around
ready to jump at his bidding. It was clear that they feared and cringed
to him. His brute force and superior cunning combined with his evil
reputation held them in complete subjection.
The telegram was brief and seemingly innocent:
"Mary leaves at ten. Meet her with carriage. Pleasant visit."
He drew from his pocket a scrap of paper, evidently containing a key to
the message. He compared it with the telegram, and a light of unholy
glee came into his eyes.
"It's all right, boys," he said, his fierce demeanor softening somewhat.
"The Overland Limited will be at the water tank near Dorsey at three
o'clock. There'll be forty thousand in the express messenger's safe.
It's up to us to make a rich haul and a quick getaway. Now listen to
me," and with the swift decision that marks the born leader and that
went far to explain his ascendancy over his men, he sketched out the
plan of the coming robbery.
"You, Mike and Manuel, will attend to the engineer and fireman. First
get their hands up over their heads. Then keep them covered and make
them uncouple the engine and express car from the rest of the train and
run up the track a half a mile or so. I'll see to the express messenger
myself. He'll open that safe or I'll blow his head off and then break
open the safe with dynamite. Joe and Bob and Ed will stay by the train
and keep shooting off their guns, to cow the passengers and trainmen
while we get in our work. We won't have time to go through the cars, as
it will be too near daylight, and we'll have to do some hard riding
while it's dark. I hate to let the passengers' coin and jewelry go, but
we'll get enough from the express car to make up for that. Let your
horses rest till twelve and then we'll saddle up and get to the water
tank by two. Now you fellows know what you've got to do, and God help
the man who makes a bad break. He'll have to reckon with me," and he
laid his hand significantly on the handle of his knife.
There was an uneasy grin on the part of the men, and then they fell to
discussing the details of the plan, while the bottle passed freely from
hand to hand.
Bert, who had listened breathlessly to the daring plot, was doing some
rapid thinking. He had not the slightest idea where the water tank was
located. It might be east, west, north or south, as far as he knew.
But what he did know was that it behooved him to get away from that
dangerous locality at the earliest possible moment. His life would not
have been worth much if he had been discovered before they had discussed
the robbery. Now that he was in possession of the details, it would be
worth absolutely nothing. A killing more or less made no difference to
these abandoned outlaws, and they would have shot him with as little
concern as they would a prairie dog.
Then, too, the alarm ought to be given at once. By riding into the
night, he would have a chance of reaching some town and getting into
touch with the railroad authorities, by wire or phone. Or he might run
across some one familiar with the country who could guide him. Anything
was better than inaction. Theft and murder were in the air, and every
passing moment made them more probable. He might break his neck, collide
with a rock or a tree, ride over a precipice in the dark. But he had to
take a chance. Danger had never yet turned him from the path of duty. It
should not daunt him now.