TO-MORROW NIGHT
Back of Delton Bud saw another man--and after a moment he recognized
him as the cowboy with the saw-off shot-gun who had warned them away
from the Shooting Star.
"Up out of that!" Delton commanded. "Keep your hands high. Don't try
no funny work or you'll be eatin' breakfast with St. Peter."
Discretion was easily the better part of valor, and, realizing this,
Bud made no hostile motion. He climbed meekly out of the pit.
"What do you think of our little hide-an'-seek hole, Merkel? Or
perhaps you had some experience with it before. Hey?"
"So you're the one who shot at us!" Bud cried hotly. "Well, let me
tell you that it was a coward's trick. If you----"
"Say, buddy, I want to tell _you_ something. The less you talk the
better it will be for you." Delton's eyes held a dangerous glint. "I
don't know what you're talking about. No--never mind! Don't answer
me. Sam--" this to the puncher who stood behind Delton--"if this bird
says another word shut him up--quick!" Sam nodded and stepped a little
forward.
"Turn around," Delton ordered shortly. As Bud turned he felt his arms
grabbed and forced back until his wrists were held firmly together. A
neckerchief was wound around his wrists and tied tightly. Then Delton
"frisked" him, or searched him, for weapons. Finding none he forced
Bud at the point of his gun to walk ahead some fifteen yards, where the
ponies stood--Bud's and the two others.
"Upstairs, Merkel." Delton motioned toward Bud's pony. "You're goin'
for a little ride with us. Step on it, now."
With some difficulty Bud succeeded in mounting his bronco. The little
pony was trembling, as though it realized something of what was going
on.
"Well, sonny, how does it feel to be talked to and not be able to talk
back? Something like that Mexican cook of yours, hey?"
"The Mexican cook!" Bud turned swiftly in his saddle.
"So he's one of your men too! I thought--" he began hotly.
"You thought nothin'!" the one called Sam interrupted in a rough voice.
"You heard what the boss said. If you want to enjoy good health a
while longer, keep your mouth shut!"
There was nothing for it but to obey. It would do no good to persist
in questioning his captors, and not only would he learn nothing, but
the questions would only serve to antagonize them more.
The three rode along silently. Now and then Bud would shift in the
saddle, for it is no easy thing to ride a long ways on a nervous pony
with one's hands tied behind. Finally they seemed to reach their
destination--the house Bud had seen in the distance. It was a
ramshackle affair, with the roof partly torn away and no vestige of
paint. Evidently it had once been used for a farm house, for about it
were several other shacks, probably to store grain in.
Delton dismounted and held the bridle of Bud's pony.
"Your new home," he said, with a grin. "Come right in. Sorry we can't
fix you up better, but you see all the servants are away."
The lad hesitated a moment.
"Off you come!" Delton seized Bud by the belt and pulled. The boy
tumbled off his pony and hit the ground.
"That wasn't--necessary!" the boy panted, as he lay there with most of
the breath knocked out of him. Luckily he had fallen on his side, and
not on his face, which would have meant a real injury, his hands tied
as they were.
"Maybe not, but I figger it'll do you good. Give you an appetite for
dinner," and Delton laughed harshly. "Where I come from we treat 'em
worse than that."
"Aw, let him alone," Sam growled. "No use hurtin' the kid! That won't
help us any. If we get caught it won't be so good havin' a lot of
enemies."
"Who said we were goin' to get caught?" Delton walked over to where Sam
sat on his pony. "Sam, I haven't liked your actions lately. Now you
yell about getting caught. You know what happened to that last bird
who arranged for me to meet up with the cops?"
"Yea, I know." Sam moved uneasily in his saddle. He did not meet
Delton's eyes. "You don't think I'd tell on you, do ya--an' get twenty
years myself? Ain't likely. Anyway----"
"All right! Pipe down. Get this kid inside. I want to see if Slim
got back yet."
"Come on, kid. Here, I'll help you up. Hurt yourself?" Sam had
dismounted and assisted Bud to his feet.
"No, I didn't. Thanks. What was his idea in pulling me off like that?
If ever I get him I'll remember it."
"Oh, he always pulls stunts like that. Wants everybody to know he's a
hard guy. Comes from New York, and thinks he can put it all over the
West. One thing I will say for him, he sure can shoot. That's enough,
now."
Sam's tone changed, and a warning light came into his eyes.
"I ain't paid to talk to you. Let's go," he growled.
He led Bud up the steps and into the house. The shades were pulled
down tight, and the gloom made it very difficult for Bud to see much.
He noticed some sort of a hat-tree in the hall, and as they walked
toward the back he saw the doors of several rooms which opened off the
lower hall. Into one of these Sam led his captive.
"Here's where you stay," he said. "No use tryin' to get out, for the
windows are barred. And that door is oak. Here--" and Sam struggled
with the knot which bound Bud's wrists behind his back. "Make you feel
a little comfortable, anyhow. You can't do much without a gun.
There's water in that pitcher. I'll try to sneak you in some bread
about noon."
Without another word Sam stepped out of the room and closed the door.
Bud heard a key grate in the lock, and then a bolt shot home.
"Taking no chances," he thought. "My, it feels good to get my arms
free!" He stretched lustily. "Wonder where on earth I am? Let's take
a look at those windows. Bars, hey?" He pulled the shade aside.
Surely enough on the outside were several iron bars, making the room a
veritable jail. "They sure got me penned up here proper! Now why did
they go to all this trouble? Just because I found that pit by the
water hole?
"That doesn't seem reasonable. Must want me for something besides
that. Guess I'll know soon enough. In the meantime I'll take a look
around. Water! That's right--I am thirsty. Funny how you forget that
when you're excited." Bud was talking to himself now. There are
people who seem to be able to puzzle things out better if the problem
is put into words than if they just revolve it over in their minds.
Bud was one of these, and as he investigated his prison he kept talking
in a low tone to himself.
With the shades up he was able to get a better view of the room. It
was small, and had only that one window in it. The furniture consisted
of a chair and a table. The floor was bare. The walls were painted a
dull gray. Bud pushed experimentally against one of the sides, but to
no purpose. It was as solid as iron.
There was one more thing to be tried, that was the door. Bud was
reconciled to spending at least the morning within the room, and it
made very little difference to him whether the door was of oak, as
"Sam" had said, or some softer wood. However, he thought, he might as
well take a crack at it. Try anything once, he reasoned.
He walked over and turned the knob softly. It refused to budge an
inch. Then Bud applied more pressure. This time it turned slowly.
Hope rang in Bud's heart as he felt the latch click back, then as he
remembered hearing the door bolted his heart sank again. Still he
turned the knob as far as it would go, and pushed. The door opened
about half an inch.
Then it stuck. Bud's hand dropped from the knob, and he ran his
fingers along the crack. Half way up they encountered cold metal--a
chain which allowed the door to open only a little, then held. Bud
seemed as securely fastened as though he had been unable to budge the
door at all. Then he thought it was possible the bolt worked on a
slide, and if he could reach through the crack and ease it out of the
slide, he would be free.
"A knife would do the trick," he thought. "Nothing like that around
here. I wonder if my belt buckle would do?" He tried forcing it
through the crack. "Nope. Not long enough. Isn't there something
about the room I could use? Chair--that's no good. Neither is the
table. Water pitcher--can't see what good that is. Porcelain, I
guess." He ran his hand over the pitcher.
"Yep. Well, that doesn't seem to help. Unless--" he hesitated. A
thought struck him. "If I could break it and use a piece of it like a
knife I'll bet I could scrape that bolt over! But how can I break it
without making a racket and bringing Delton and his gang rushing in?"
Bud thought a moment. Then he snapped his fingers softly, and his eyes
lit up. "I've got it!" he whispered.
Taking off his vest and shirt he wrapped the pitcher well in them,
after pouring out the water. Then he tapped it gently against the
window-sill. It made almost no noise, so he hit it harder. After a
few tries he felt it break. As he unwrapped his bundle of shattered
porcelain he saw he had, luckily, broken a piece just the size he
wanted. He replaced his shirt and vest and with the piece of pitcher
in his hand he made once more for the door, this time with a real hope
of escaping.
"Just the right length!" Bud exalted as he slid the narrow knife-like
porcelain through the crack in the door and against the bolt. Then he
started to coax the bolt from its slide. Softly, softly he scraped
against the iron, and to his delight felt it move ever so little. He
could not open the door to its full extent in his endeavor to slip the
bolt, for this would tighten the chain and hold the metal piece more
firmly in its slide. He had to work with his left hand holding the
door at the proper angle and his right hand using the piece of the
water pitcher.
It was tiresome work. Several times Bud halted as he heard footsteps
in the hall outside, but they went on their way without stopping. The
porcelain was rapidly wearing down. Its edge had already become
dulled, and no longer offered the purchase on the iron that it did at
first. But finally Bud succeeded--the bolt slid back.
Cautiously he tried the door. It opened! In obedience to Bud's push,
the door swung wide. For a moment the lad stood still, listening
intently. The low murmur of voices came to his ears.
"Down the hall," he thought. "Must be in that large room I passed
coming in."
He stepped gently forward. A board creaked under his foot, and froze
him into instant stillness. The murmur of voices droned on, and once
more Bud moved forward. Down the hall he tip-toed. Nearer and nearer
to the room wherein the men were talking he came. Now he was directly
opposite. The door was tightly closed, but he could make out the
conversation distinctly.
"A cinch!" he heard someone say. "There's nothing to it! Even if Jake
doesn't know about the Shooting Star, he can run the bunch through all
right. And the sooner the better."
"You know when the run is planned for?" someone asked.
"Sure! And I think we'll be lucky on the weather. Looks like rain to
me."
"Well, I hope so. It's all set for to-morrow night, then?"
"Check! All set. To-morrow night it is."
Outside Bud was listening intently, his heart thumping in his breast.