ESCAPE
It was not fright that held Roy motionless, but a realization of the
hopelessness of resistance. A slight tightening of the crooked
finger that touched the trigger would send a ball of lead tearing
through his body, and at the short range there could be but one
result. It seemed best to Roy that he bide his time.
“Nice of you to call on me like this,” Gilly Froud went on, in that
sinister, mocking tone. “An’ I begs you’ll excuse the looks of the
place. We ain’t quite ready to receive visitors, yet.”
“What did you do with our horses and with Bug Eye’s flivver?” Roy
asked, looking straight at the man.
This Froud was no weakling. He sat hunched over in his saddle, huge
shoulders bent forward. The arm which supported the gun wavered not
an inch, but held firm as a rock.
“Don’t start askin’ questions,” Froud growled. “It won’t do you no
good, ’cause I don’t know nothin’ about yore hosses. I heard you had
’em stolen from the hitchin’ rail at Eagles. Well, any one who’s
fool enough to leave a hoss unguarded in that town, should have him
stolen!”
“That’s a lie, Froud, and you know it!” Roy said hotly. “They’d
never have been touched if it hadn’t been for you--and that pal of
yours in the checkered shirt.”
“Hey? What’s that?” Froud exclaimed in a startled voice. The muzzle
of the gun pointed downward for a moment, but Froud quickly brought
it to bear again upon the boy. “What do you know about a man in a
checkered shirt? Speak up!”
“Enough,” Roy ventured grimly. He was watching the rustler closely,
ready to take advantage of any chance offered. But Froud did not
relax his vigilance.
“What’s his name, this bird in the--er--striped shirt?” the former
cowboy from the X Bar X demanded.
“I don’t know his name, but I know him!” the boy exclaimed. “And I
know he’s one of your gang, too!”
“So you don’t know his name, hey?” Froud appeared relieved. “Well,
he’s no friend o’ mine. He travels with a different outfit than what
I do. Here--”
Froud suddenly peered out from the trees. The next moment he jammed
the gun into Roy’s ribs.
“You make a sound an’ I’ll drill you sure!” he whispered fiercely.
Cautiously, Roy turned his head. Not fifty feet away was his brother
Teddy, riding slowly along past the grove.
“Quiet!” Froud ordered softly between set teeth. “If you want to see
how two ounces of lead feels between yore ribs, just yell! By golly,
I’ll blow yore liver right out o’ you!”
Roy recognized the desperate ring in the rustler’s voice and knew
that the least move on his part would result in his death. Froud was
seized with a sort of panic, and at the slightest sign from Teddy
that the latter knew of his brother’s plight, the rascal would start
shooting.
As Roy saw his brother pass out of sight, he felt the pressure of
the gun at his side relax, and Froud unconsciously sighed with
relief.
“I’m takin’ no chances,” he whispered in Roy’s ear. “Don’t you talk
till I say so! Do you hear?”
A moment more, and the sound of Teddy’s horse died away in the
distance.
“Guess he’s gone,” Froud declared. “But I don’t want no funny work,
savvy? Don’t think that because I haven’t got this gun stuck in yore
ribs that I ain’t got you covered. You keep both yore hands on the
pommel of yore saddle--no lower.”
“If you didn’t steal our broncs, what’s the idea of being so
touchy?” Roy asked in as innocent a voice as he could summon. “Why
not let me ride on and try to find the thieves who took Bug Eye’s
flivver?”
“That’s my business!” Froud retorted savagely. “When I wants advice
from you, I’ll ask for it, see? I ain’t forgot how your old man
kicked me off the X Bar X!”
“He had a right to!” Roy cried angrily. “You were mistreating Flash,
and you know it! Dad didn’t want a man of your type about the
place.”
“Oh, he didn’t, hey?” Froud growled. An ugly frown came to his face.
“He’s pretty pertic’lar, ain’t he? That bronc of yore brother’s
needed a good lickin’, and I was givin’ it to him. I was
interrupted. But since then I--” he stopped suddenly.
“You finished it, you mean!” Roy exclaimed, his fists clenched.
“Froud, if you’ll drop that gun I’ll have it out with you right
here!”
“Nice little hero!” Froud sneered. “College boy wants to fight bold
bad man, does he? G’wan, you little rat! I could break you in two!
Now shut up! I don’t know where your broncs are, an’ that’s the end
of that! You can see I ain’t ridin’ Flash, or either of the other
two. This is my own hoss. Satisfied?”
“I’ll have to be, I guess,” the boy said in a low voice.
“Now yore talkin’ sense! Say, how many of yore crowd is ridin’
tonight?”
“Seven.”
“Seven, hey! I reckon you’d better come with me. It’ll be morning
soon; then you can ride back. If I turn you loose now, yore liable
to get to the rest. Not that I’ve got anything to be afraid of!” the
man added quickly. “But that brother of yours is hot-headed, and I
wouldn’t put it past him to take a pot shot at me fer what I done to
Flash. So come along.”
“Where?”
“See that clump of quakermasts over yonder? Head fer them.”
Against his will, Roy was forced to ride forward, while Froud
trailed him closely, gun still in readiness. A faint glimmer of gray
appeared in the east, betokening the coming dawn.
Froud knew he must put much territory between him and his pursuers
before daylight, so he urged the horses on to a faster gait. Roy
rode silently, hoping that his chance might come before he got too
far away from the others to give the alarm. But as the two rode
along, this hope dwindled, and the boy knew that, even if he did
escape, he would not be able to reach the others in time to give
chase to Froud.
Angry thoughts were milling in the boy’s mind as they neared the
group of quakermasts. Turning his head slightly, Roy saw that they
had reached a section of the country known as Harver’s Gully. The
light in the east was stronger now, and Roy could make out the Rocky
Run River a few miles to the north. Further up the stream was the X
Bar X, but if one followed the course of Rocky Run, winding as it
did, it would require a ride of some three or four hours to reach
the Manley ranch.
Roy knew that a steep hill arose beyond these trees. He wondered if
Froud would make for this, but the next moment his captor ordered
him to pull his horse up.
“We’re stayin’ here a spell,” Froud said shortly. He rode closer to
Roy. “So you think I travel with a man who wears a checkered shirt,
hey?”
Startled by this question, apparently coming from a clear sky, Roy
did not reply for a moment.
“Answer me!” growled Froud. He thrust his left hand out and seized
the boy by the throat.
Like a flash, Roy realized his intention. For reasons of his own,
Froud wanted Roy out of the way. If he could get him to draw, he
could kill him in cold blood, and then say that he shot in
self-defense. The fact that Roy had his gun in his hand would
corroborate his story.
With anger surging within him at the cowardly trick, Roy sat
perfectly still. Froud wound his fingers about the boy’s throat and,
with a sneering laugh, made as if to choke him. Then with a grunt as
if of contempt he took his hand away.
“You’re not worth it,” he snarled. “You an’ that sissy brother of
yores ought to be travelin’ with a nurse!”
He looked keenly at Roy, but the young rancher did not reply. He
stared long and steadily back at Froud.
“So you know Checkered Shirt, hey?” the rustler mused. “Well, I
don’t! I never saw him in my life! Get that? I don’t know who he
is!” Realizing that, by this very denial, forcible as it was, he
admitted the thing he was repudiating, Froud stopped.
“You think yore pretty clever, don’t you?” he demanded.
Roy made no answer. He kept staring at Froud.
“Answer me, you rat! Thought you’d corner me an’ make me confess to
a thing I never did, hey?”
“You’re the best judge of that,” Roy replied coldly.
For a moment Froud glared at the boy. Then, with a snarl of rage, he
leaped his horse forward.
This was the chance Roy had been playing for. Digging his heels into
his pony’s side, he met Froud head on. There was a wild yell. The
boy threw himself on one side of his saddle at the very moment that
Froud fired. Roy felt his horse twitch beneath him, and knew the
pony had been hit. But the horse remained on its feet. Now the boy
had his own gun out, and, taking as careful aim as he could in that
poor light, he fired. The cattle rustler’s face went white, and his
right arm dangled helplessly.
But the rustler was not beaten yet, and, in a moment, had
transferred his gun from his right to his left hand. He fired again,
and Roy felt a sudden sting on his left ear. The boy took aim once
more, and again pulled the trigger.
This time he missed completely, but Froud had had enough. Wheeling
his horse about, he made off at a gallop.
Roy watched him go. He could not bring himself to shoot a man in the
back, and Froud probably counted on this. He also knew that Roy
would not follow, for, with a wounded horse, he had small chance of
catching the rustler.
Roy put his hand to his ear.
“Got it,” the boy said as he saw a dark stain of blood. “Go on, run,
you horse thief! I’ll get you later!”
Roy then remembered that he had felt his pony wince, and the boy
dismounted to learn the extent of the bronco’s hurt. It was merely
superficial, Roy noted with relief, and while the horse would have
to travel slowly, there was no danger from the wound. He had been
hit in the right flank.
The sun was high above the horizon when Roy rode into the yard of
the X Bar X. He was tired and thirsty. His face was bloody from the
wound in his ear. His horse was limping painfully.
As Roy looked up, he saw his father running toward him.
“All right, Dad,” the boy called cheerfully. “I’ve quite a story to
tell! No, I’m not hurt. Just got a nick in the ear. Did you find the
flivver?”
“Roy!” Mr. Manley exclaimed. “Son, I’m glad you’re back! Your
mother’s been awful worried--an’ so have I! What happened?”
“Well, I found Froud, for one thing. But wait till I get a drink and
some food in me, and I’ll tell you all about it.”