That winter Miss Post had been going out a great deal more than was
good for her, and when the spring came she broke down. The family doctor
recommended Aiken, but an aunt of Miss Post's, Mrs. Truesdall, had
been at Farmington with Mrs. “Colonel” Bolland, and urged visiting her
instead. The doctor agreed that the climatic conditions existing at Fort
Crockett were quite as health-giving as those at Aiken, and of the two
the invalid decided that the regimental post would be more of a novelty.
So she and her aunt and the maid changed cars twice after leaving St.
Louis and then staged it to Kiowa City, where, while waiting for “Pop”
Henderson's coach to Fort Crockett, they dined with him on bacon, fried
bread, and alkali water tinged with coffee.
It was at Kiowa City, a city of four hundred houses on blue-print paper
and six on earth, that Miss Post first felt certain that she was going
to enjoy her visit. It was there she first saw, at large and on his
native heath, a blanket Indian. He was a tall, beautiful youth, with
yellow ochre on his thin, brown arms and blue ochre on his cheekbones,
who sat on “Pop's” steps, gazing impassively at the stars. Miss Post
came out with her maid and fell over him. The maid screamed. Miss Post
said: “I beg your pardon”; and the brave expressed his contempt by
gutteral mutterings and by moving haughtily away. Miss Post was then
glad that she had not gone to Aiken. For the twelve-mile drive through
the moonlit buttes to Fort Crockett there was, besides the women, one
other passenger. He was a travelling salesman of the Hancock Uniform
Company, and was visiting Fort Crockett to measure the officers for
their summer tunics. At dinner he passed Miss Post the condensed
milk-can, and in other ways made himself agreeable. He informed her aunt
that he was in the Military Equipment Department of the Army, but, much
to that young woman's distress, addressed most of his remarks to the
maid, who, to his taste, was the most attractive of the three.
“I take it,” he said genially to Miss Post, “that you and the young lady
are sisters.”
“No,” said Miss Post, “we are not related.”
It was eight o'clock, and the moon was full in the heavens when “Pop”
Henderson hoisted them into the stage and burdened his driver, Hunk
Smith, with words of advice which were intended solely for the ears of
the passengers.
“You want to be careful of that near wheeler, Hunk,” he said, “or he'll
upset you into a gully. An' in crossing the second ford, bear to the
right; the water's running high, and it may carry youse all down stream.
I don't want that these ladies should be drowned in any stage of mine.
An' if the Red Rider jumps you don't put up no bluff, but sit still. The
paymaster's due in a night or two, an' I've no doubt at all but that the
Rider's laying for him. But if you tell him that there's no one inside
but womenfolk and a tailor, mebbe he won't hurt youse. Now, ladies,” he
added, putting his head under the leather flap, as though unconscious
that all he had said had already reached them, “without wishing to make
you uneasy, I would advise your having your cash and jewelry ready in
your hands. With road-agents it's mostly wisest to do what they say, an'
to do it quick. Ef you give 'em all you've got, they sometimes go away
without spilling blood, though, such being their habits, naturally
disappointed.” He turned his face toward the shrinking figure of the
military tailor. “You, being an army man,” he said, “will of course want
to protect the ladies, but you mustn't do it. You must keep cool. Ef you
pull your gun, like as not you'll all get killed. But I'm hoping for the
best. Good-night all, an' a pleasant journey.”
The stage moved off with many creaks and many cracks of the whip, which
in part smothered Hunk Smith's laughter. But after the first mile, he,
being a man with feelings and a family, pulled the mules to a halt.
The voice of the drummer could instantly be heard calling loudly from
the darkness of the stage: “Don't open those flaps. If they see us,
they'll fire!”
“I wanted you folks to know,” said Hunk Smith, leaning from the
box-seat, “that that talk of Pop's was all foolishness. You're as safe
on this trail as in a Pullman palace-car. That was just his way. Pop
will have his joke. You just go to sleep now, if you can, and trust to
me. I'll get you there by eleven o'clock or break a trace. Breakin' a
trace is all the danger there is, anyway,” he added, cheerfully, “so
don't fret.”
Miss Post could not resist saying to Mrs. Truesdall: “I told you he was
joking.”
The stage had proceeded for two hours. Sometimes it dropped with
locked wheels down sheer walls of clay, again it was dragged, careening
drunkenly, out of fathomless pits. It pitched and tossed, slid and
galloped, danced grotesquely from one wheel to another, from one stone
to another, recoiled out of ruts, butted against rocks, and swept down
and out of swollen streams that gurgled between the spokes.
“If ever I leave Fort Crockett,” gasped Mrs. Truesdall between jolts, “I
shall either wait until they build a railroad or walk.”
They had all but left the hills, and were approaching the level prairie.
That they might see the better the flaps had been rolled up, and
the soft dry air came freely through the open sides. The mules were
straining over the last hill. On either side only a few of the buttes
were still visible. They stood out in the moonlight as cleanly cut
as the bows of great battleships. The trail at last was level. Mrs.
Truesdall's eyes closed. Her head fell forward. But Miss Post, weary
as she was in body, could not sleep. To her the night-ride was full of
strange and wonderful mysteries. Gratefully she drank in the dry scent
of the prairie-grass, and, holding by the frame of the window, leaned
far out over the wheel. As she did so, a man sprang into the trail from
behind a wall of rock, and shouted hoarsely. He was covered to his knees
with a black mantle. His face was hidden by a blood-red mask.
“Throw up your hands!” he commanded. There was a sharp creaking as the
brakes locked, and from the driver's seat an amazed oath. The stage
stopped with a violent jerk, and Mrs. Truesdall pitched gently forward
toward her niece.
“I really believe I was asleep, Helen,” she murmured. “What are we
waiting for?”
“I think we are held up,” said Miss Post.
The stage had halted beyond the wall of rock, and Miss Post looked
behind it, but no other men were visible, only a horse with his bridle
drawn around a stone. The man in the mask advanced upon the stage,
holding a weapon at arm's-length. In the moonlight it flashed and
glittered evilly. The man was but a few feet from Miss Post, and the
light fell full upon her. Of him she could see only two black eyes that
flashed as evilly as his weapon. For a period of suspense, which seemed
cruelly prolonged, the man stood motionless, then he lowered his weapon.
When he opened his lips the mask stuck to them, and his words came from
behind it, broken and smothered. “Sorry to trouble you, miss,” the mask
said, “but I want that man beside you to get out.”
Miss Post turned to the travelling salesman. “He wants you to get out,”
she said.
“Wants me!” exclaimed the drummer. “I'm not armed, you know.” In a
louder voice he protested, faintly: “I say, I'm not armed.”
“Come out!” demanded the mask.
The drummer precipitated himself violently over the knees of the ladies
into the road below, and held his hands high above him. “I'm not armed,”
he said; “indeed I'm not.”
“Stand over there, with your back to that rock,” the mask ordered. For
a moment the road agent regarded him darkly, pointing his weapon
meditatively at different parts of the salesman's person. He suggested
a butcher designating certain choice cuts. The drummer's muscles jerked
under the torture as though his anatomy were being prodded with an awl.
“I want your watch,” said the mask. The drummer reached eagerly for his
waistcoat.
“Hold up your hands!” roared the road agent. “By the eternal, if you
play any rough-house tricks on me I'll--” He flourished his weapon until
it flashed luminously.
An exclamation from Hunk Smith, opportunely uttered, saved the drummer
from what was apparently instant annihilation. “Say, Rider,” cried the
driver, “I can't hold my arms up no longer. I'm going to put 'em down.
But you leave me alone, an' I'll leave you alone. Is that a bargain?”
The shrouded figure whirled his weapon upon the speaker. “Have I ever
stopped you before, Hunk?” he demanded.
Hunk, at this recognition of himself as a public character, softened
instantly. “I dunno whether 'twas you or one of your gang, but--”
“Well, you've still got your health, haven't you?”
“Yes.”
“Then keep quiet,” snarled the mask.
In retort Hunk Smith muttered audible threatenings, but sank obediently
into an inert heap. Only his eyes, under cover of his sombrero, roamed
restlessly. They noted the McClellan saddle on the Red Rider's horse,
the white patch on its near fore-foot, the empty stirrup-straps, and at
a great distance, so great that the eyes only of a plainsman could have
detected it, a cloud of dust, or smoke, or mist, that rode above the
trail and seemed to be moving swiftly down upon them.
At the sight, Hunk shifted the tobacco in his cheek and nervously
crossed his knees, while a grin of ineffable cunning passed across his
face.
With his sombrero in his hand, the Red Rider stepped to the wheel of
the stage. As he did so, Miss Post observed that above the line of his
kerchief his hair was evenly and carefully parted in the middle.
“I'm afraid, ladies,” said the road agent, “that I have delayed you
unnecessarily. It seems that I have called up the wrong number.” He
emitted a reassuring chuckle, and, fanning himself with his sombrero,
continued speaking in a tone of polite irony: “The Wells, Fargo
messenger is the party I am laying for. He's coming over this trail
with a package of diamonds. That's what I'm after. At first I thought
'Fighting Bob' over there by the rock might have it on him; but he
doesn't act like any Wells, Fargo Express agent I have ever tackled
before, and I guess the laugh's on me. I seem to have been weeping
over the wrong grave.” He replaced his sombrero on his head at a rakish
angle, and waved his hand. “Ladies, you are at liberty to proceed.”
But instantly he stepped forward again, and brought his face so close to
the window that they could see the whites of his eyes. “Before we part,”
he murmured, persuasively, “you wouldn't mind leaving me something as a
souvenir, would you?” He turned the skull-like openings of the mask full
upon Miss Post.
Mrs. Truesdall exclaimed, hysterically: “Why, certainly not!” she cried.
“Here's everything I have, except what's sewn inside my waist, where I
can't possibly get at it. I assure you I cannot. The proprietor of that
hotel told us we'd probably--meet you, and so I have everything ready.”
She thrust her two hands through the window. They held a roll of bills,
a watch, and her rings
Miss Post laughed in an ecstasy of merriment “Oh, no, aunt,” she
protested, “don't. No, not at all. The gentleman only wants a keepsake.
Something to remember us by. Isn't that it?” she asked. She regarded the
blood-red mask steadily with a brilliant smile.
The road agent did not at once answer. At her words he had started
back with such sharp suspicion that one might have thought he meditated
instant flight. Through the holes in his mask he now glared searchingly
at Miss Post, but still in silence.
“I think this will satisfy him,” said Miss Post.
Out of the collection in her aunt's hands she picked a silver coin
and held it forward. “Something to keep as a pocket-piece,” she said,
mockingly, “to remind you of your kindness to three lone females in
distress.”
Still silent, the road agent reached for the money, and then growled
at her in a tone which had suddenly become gruff and overbearing. It
suggested to Miss Post the voice of the head of the family playing Santa
Claus for the children. “And now you, miss,” he demanded.
Miss Post took another coin from the heap, studied its inscription, and
passed it through the window. “This one is from me,” she said. “Mine is
dated 1901. The moonlight,” she added, leaning far forward and smiling
out at him, “makes it quite easy to see the date; as easy,” she went
on, picking her words, “as it is to see your peculiar revolver and the
coat-of-arms on your ring.” She drew her head back. “Good-night,” she
cooed, sweetly.
The Red Rider jumped from the door. An exclamation which might have been
a laugh or an oath was smothered by his mask. He turned swiftly upon the
salesman. “Get back into the coach,” he commanded. “And you, Hunk,” he
called, “if you send a posse after me, next night I ketch you out here
alone you'll lose the top of your head.”
The salesman scrambled into the stage through the door opposite the one
at which the Red Rider was standing, and the road agent again raised
his sombrero with a sweeping gesture worthy of D'Artagnan. “Good-night,
ladies,” he said.
“Good-night, sir,” Mrs. Truesdall answered, grimly, but exuding a
relieved sigh. Then, her indignation giving her courage, she leaned from
the window and hurled a Parthian arrow. “I must say,” she protested, “I
think you might be in a better business.”
The road agent waved his hand to the young lady. “Good-by,” he said.
“Au revoir,” said Miss Post, pleasantly.
“Good-by, miss,” stammered the road agent,
“I said 'Au revoir,'” repeated Miss Post.
The road agent, apparently routed by these simple words, fled muttering
toward his horse.
Hunk Smith was having trouble with his brake. He kicked at it and,
stooping, pulled at it, but the wheels did not move.
Mrs. Truesdall fell into a fresh panic. “What is it now?” she called,
miserably.
Before he answered, Hunk Smith threw a quick glance toward the column of
moving dust. He was apparently reassured.
“The brake,” he grunted. “The darned thing's stuck!”
The road agent was tugging at the stone beneath which he had slipped
his bridle. “Can I help?” he asked, politely. But before he reached
the stage, he suddenly stopped with an imperative sweep of his arm
for silence. He stood motionless, his body bent to the ground, leaning
forward and staring down the trail. Then he sprang upright. “You old
fox!” he roared, “you're gaining time, are you?”
With a laugh he tore free his bridle and threw himself across his horse.
His legs locked under it, his hands clasped its mane, and with a cowboy
yell he dashed past the stage in the direction of Kiowa City, his voice
floating back in shouts of jeering laughter. From behind him he heard
Hunk Smith's voice answering his own in a cry for “Help!” and from a
rapidly decreasing distance the throb of many hoofs. For an instant he
drew upon his rein, and then, with a defiant chuckle, drove his spurs
deep into his horse's side.
Mrs. Truesdall also heard the pounding of many hoofs, as well as Hunk
Smith's howls for help, and feared a fresh attack. “Oh, what is it?” she
begged.
“Soldiers from the fort,” Hunk called, excitedly, and again raised his
voice in a long, dismal howl.
“Sounds cheery, doesn't it?” said the salesman; “referring to the
soldiers,” he explained. It was his first coherent remark since the Red
Rider had appeared and disappeared.
“Oh, I hope they won't--” began Miss Post, anxiously.
The hoof-beats changed to thunder, and with the pounding on the dry
trail came the jangle of stirrups and sling-belts. Then a voice, and
the coach was surrounded by dust-covered troopers and horses breathing
heavily. Lieutenant Crosby pulled up beside the window of the stage.
“Are you there, Colonel Patten?” he panted. He peered forward into the
stage, but no one answered him. “Is the paymaster in here?” he demanded.
The voice of Lieutenant Curtis shouted in turn at Hunk Smith. “Is the
paymaster in there, driver?”
“Paymaster? No!” Hunk roared. “A drummer and three ladies. We've been
held up. The Red Rider--” He rose and waved his whip over the top of the
coach. “He went that way. You can ketch him easy.”
Sergeant Clancey and half a dozen troopers jerked at their bridles. But
Crosby, at the window, shouted “Halt!”
“What's your name?” he demanded of the salesman.
“Myers,” stammered the drummer. “I'm from the Hancock Uniform--”
Curtis had spurred his horse beside that of his brother officer. “Is
Colonel Patten at Kiowa?” he interrupted.
“I can't give you any information as to that,” replied Mr. Myers,
importantly; “but these ladies and I have just been held up by the Red
Rider. If you'll hurry you'll--”
The two officers pulled back their horses from the stage and, leaning
from their saddles, consulted in eager whispers. Their men fidgeted with
their reins, and stared with amazed eyes at their officers. Lieutenant
Crosby was openly smiling, “He's got away with it,” he whispered.
“Patten missed the stage, thank God, and he's met nothing worse than
these women.”
“We MUST make a bluff at following him,” whispered Curtis.
“Certainly not! Our orders are to report to Colonel Patten, and act as
his escort.”
“But he's not at Kiowa; that fellow says so.”
“He telegraphed the Colonel from Kiowa,” returned Crosby. “How could he
do that if he wasn't there?” He turned upon Hunk Smith. “When did you
leave Henderson's?” he demanded.
“Seven o'clock,” answered Hunk Smith, sulkily. “Say, if you young
fellows want to catch--”
“And Patten telegraphed at eight,” cried Crosby. “That's it. He reached
Kiowa after the stage had gone. Sergeant Clancey!” he called.
The Sergeant pushed out from the mass of wondering troopers.
“When did the paymaster say he was leaving Kiowa?”
“Leaving at once, the telegram said,” answered Clancey.
“'Meet me with escort before I reach the buttes.' That's the message I
was told to give the lieutenant.”
Hunk Smith leaned from the box-seat. “Mebbe Pop's driving him over
himself in the buckboard,” he volunteered. “Pop often takes 'em over
that way if they miss the stage.”
“That's how it is, of course,” cried Crosby. “He's on his way now in the
buckboard.”
Hunk Smith surveyed the troopers dismally and shook his head. “If he
runs up against the Red Rider, it's 'good-by' your pay, boys,” he cried.
“Fall in there!” shouted Crosby. “Corporal Tynan, fall out with two men
and escort these ladies to the fort.” He touched his hat to Miss Post,
and, with Curtis at his side, sprang into the trail. “Gallop! March!” he
commanded.
“Do you think he'll tackle the buckboard, too?” whispered Curtis.
Crosby laughed joyously and drew a long breath of relief.
“No, he's all right now,” he answered. “Don't you see, he doesn't know
about Patten or the buckboard. He's probably well on his way to the post
now. I delayed the game at the stage there on purpose to give him a good
start. He's safe by now.”
“It was a close call,” laughed the other. “He's got to give us a dinner
for helping him out of this.”
“We'd have caught him red-handed,” said Crosby, “if we'd been five
minutes sooner. Lord!” he gasped. “It makes me cold to think of it. The
men would have shot him off his horse. But what a story for those women!
I hope I'll be there when they tell it. If Ranson can keep his face
straight, he's a wonder.” For some moments they raced silently neck
by neck, and then Curtis again leaned from his saddle. “I hope he HAS
turned back to the post,” he said. “Look at the men how they're keeping
watch for him. They're scouts, all of them.”
“What if they are?” returned Crosby, easily. “Ranson's in uniform--out
for a moonlight canter. You can bet a million dollars he didn't wear his
red mask long after he heard us coming.”
“I suppose he'll think we've followed to spoil his fun. You know you
said we would.”
“Yes, he was going to shoot us,” laughed Crosby. “I wonder why he packs
a gun. It's a silly thing to do.”
The officers fell apart again, and there was silence over the prairie,
save for the creaking of leather and the beat of the hoofs. And then,
faint and far away, there came the quick crack of a revolver, another,
and then a fusillade. “My God!” gasped Crosby. He threw himself forwards
digging his spurs into his horse, and rode as though he were trying to
escape from his own men.
No one issued an order, no one looked a question; each, officer and
enlisted man, bowed his head and raced to be the first.
The trail was barricaded by two struggling horses and an overturned
buckboard. The rigid figure of a man lay flat upon his back staring at
the moon, another white-haired figure staggered forward from a rock.
“Who goes there?” it demanded.
“United States troops. Is that you, Colonel Patten?”
“Yes.”
Colonel Patten's right arm was swinging limply at his side. With
his left hand he clasped his right shoulder. The blood, black in the
moonlight, was oozing between his fingers.
“We were held up,” he said. “He shot the driver and the horses. I fired
at him, but he broke my arm. He shot the gun out of my hand. When he
reached for the satchel I tried to beat him off with my left arm, but he
threw me into the road. He went that way--toward Kiowa.”
Sergeant Clancey, who was kneeling by the figure in the trail, raised
his hand in salute. “Pop Henderson, lieutenant,” he said. “He's shot
through the heart. He's dead.”
“He took the money, ten thousand dollars,” cried Colonel Patten. “He
wore a red mask and a rubber poncho. And I saw that he had no stirrups
in his stirrup-straps.”
Crosby dodged, as though someone had thrown a knife, and then raised his
hand stiffly and heavily.
“Lieutenant Curtis, you will remain here with Colonel Patten,” he
ordered. His voice was without emotion. It fell flat and dead. “Deploy
as skirmishers,” he commanded. “G Troop to the fight of the trail, H
Troop to the left. Stop anyone you see--anyone. If he tries to escape,
cry 'Halt!' twice and then fire--to kill. Forward! Gallop! March! Toward
the post.”
“No!” shouted Colonel Patten. “He went toward Kiowa.”
Crosby replied in the same dead voice: “He doubled after he left you,
colonel. He has gone to the post.”
Colonel Patten struggled from the supporting arms that held him and
leaned eagerly forward. “You know him, then?” he demanded.
“Yes,” cried Crosby, “God help him! Spread out there, you, in open
order--and ride like hell!”
Just before the officers' club closed for the night Lieutenant Ranson
came in and, seating himself at the piano, picked out “The Queen of the
Philippine Islands” with one finger. Major Stickney and others who were
playing bridge were considerably annoyed. Ranson then demanded that
everyone present should drink his health in champagne for the reason
that it was his birthday and that he was glad he was alive, and wished
everyone else to feel the same way about it. “Or, for any other reason
why,” he added generously. This frontal attack upon the whist-players
upset the game entirely, and Ranson, enthroned upon the piano-stool,
addressed the room. He held up a buckskin tobacco-bag decorated with
beads.
“I got this down at the Indian village to-night,” he said. “That old
squaw, Red Wing, makes 'em for two dollars. Crosby paid five dollars for
his in New Mexico, and it isn't half as good. What do you think? I got
lost coming back, and went all the way round by the buttes before I
found the trail, and I've only been here six months. They certainly
ought to make me chief of scouts.”
There was the polite laugh which is granted to any remark made by the
one who is paying for the champagne.
“Oh, that's where you were, was it?” said the post-adjutant, genially.
“The colonel sent Clancey after you and Crosby. Clancey reported that
he couldn't find you. So we sent Curtis. They went to act as escort
for Colonel Patten and the pay. He's coming up to-night in the stage.”
Ranson was gazing down into his glass. Before he raised his head he
picked several pieces of ice out of it and then drained it.
“The paymaster, hey?” he said. “He's in the stage to-night, is he?”
“Yes,” said the adjutant; and then as the bugle and stamp of hoofs
sounded from the parade outside, “and that's him now, I guess,” he
added.
Ranson refilled his glass with infinite care, and then, in spite of a
smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth, emptied it slowly.
There was the jingle of spurs and a measured tramp on the veranda of
the club-house, and for the first time in its history four enlisted men,
carrying their Krags, invaded its portals. They were led by Lieutenant
Crosby; his face was white under the tan, and full of suffering. The
officers in the room received the intrusion in amazed silence. Crosby
strode among them, looking neither to the left nor right, and touched
Lieutenant Ranson upon the shoulder.
“The colonel's orders, Lieutenant Ranson,” he said. “You are under
arrest.”
Ranson leaned back against the music-rack and placed his glass upon the
keyboard. One leg was crossed over the other, and he did not remove it.
“Then you can't take a joke,” he said in a low tone. “You had to run
and tell.” He laughed and raised his voice so that all in the club might
hear, “What am I arrested for, Crosby?” he asked.
The lines in Crosby's face deepened, and only those who sat near could
hear him. “You are under arrest for attempting to kill a superior
officer, for the robbery of the government pay-train--and for murder.”
Ranson jumped to his feet. “My God, Crosby!” he cried.
“Silence! Don't talk!” ordered Crosby. “Come along with me.”
The four troopers fell in in rear of Lieutenant Crosby and their
prisoner. He drew a quick, frightened breath, and then, throwing back
his shoulders, fell into step, and the six men tramped from the club and
out into the night.