The two men looked at each other in silence, that silence which is
more terrible than any sound can be, even the cry of anguish.
Varley’s face was livid, and big drops of sweat stood upon his
forehead.
“Gone!” said Norman at last, and in a whisper. “What do you mean?”
“She has gone!” said Varley. “They have kidnapped her!”
“Do you mean to say that they have taken Esmeralda away?” said
Norman, in utter amazement.
Varley assented with a gesture and a groan.
“Why did you leave her unprotected?” asked Norman.
But he was sorry, a moment afterward, that he had allowed the
question to escape him, for Varley looked as if he had been struck.
“She was not alone,” he said. “Mother Melinda was with her. They
can both use a revolver as well as you or I. Esmeralda is a dead
shot.” He glanced at the weapons on the wall of the hut. “She must
have been lured outside, and they must have taken her suddenly
by some trick, and before she could utter a cry; for, if she had
shouted, some one would have heard her.”
“Why should they take her--Esmeralda?” asked Norman, still in the
same awe-struck whisper.
Varley’s head drooped.
“Because it’s the deadliest blow Dog’s Ear could strike at us all,”
he said. “We prevented them robbing the coach the other day, and
this is their revenge.”
“The curs!” ground out Norman.
Varley started suddenly, as if awakening from the paralysis of
anguish.
“What are we standing here for?” he said, almost fiercely. “Give me
your horse. Follow me down to the camp!”
He sprung into the saddle and rode down to the camp, Norman
following him as fast as he could run. The men were coming out of
the saloon, and Varley rode into their midst, pulling up his horse
on its haunches. He had regained something of his presence of mind
by this time, and his voice was almost as clear and cool as usual
as he said:
“Boys, I’ve bad news. They’ve taken Esmeralda.”
After a moment, they grasped his meaning. There was no need to ask
who had taken her; they all understood. A roar like the growl of
an infuriated wild beast rose, and every man’s hand went to his
weapon, while they thronged round Varley, instinctively waiting for
his word of command. He drew his head up with the air of the born
leader, and kept them cool by his own coolness.
“Let every man mount and meet me on the road,” he said. “Let there
be no noise, no shouting.”
“Ay, ay!” came the instant response. They rushed off. Taffy brought
Varley’s horse, and Norman sprung on to his own.
“What do you mean to do?” he asked.
“Bring her back, if I have to kill every man in Dog’s Ear!” said
Varley between his clinched teeth.
In a few minutes they heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs, but
not a word, so implicitly was Varley obeyed. He and Norman rode
toward the road. Neither of them at that moment thought of Norman’s
mission, or, indeed, cared anything about it. Esmeralda was in
danger, and everything else was of secondary importance.
By the time they had reached the bend of the road they found the
men awaiting them. They looked a formidable band, and their silence
was more ominous than any shouting or fierce oaths could have been.
Some of the men’s faces were as white as Varley’s own, and there
was a look on Taffy’s so full of blood-thirstiness that for a
moment or two Norman could not take his eyes from him.
“Boys,” said Varley in a low voice, “we shall go to Dog’s Ear and
demand Esmeralda. Let no man speak but me; let no man fire a shot
or strike a blow unless I give the word.”
The men gave a hoarse assent, and the band went forward, Varley and
Norman leading the way.
“They will not harm her?” said Norman, almost inaudibly.
“They dare not,” said Varley, hoarsely--“they dare not!”
“You mean that they will hold her to ransom?” asked Norman,
feverishly.
Varley nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “or they would have killed her at the hut.”
Norman drew a long breath of relief. They rode on in silence, the
dull thud of the horses’ hoofs breaking the deep silence of the
night. As they approached Dog’s Ear they heard the baying of dogs,
then saw lights moving to and fro. It was evident that the camp had
been made aware of their approach.
Dog’s Ear lay in a little hollow, and as Varley and Norman rode
down the winding pathway, almost at full gallop, they heard men
shouting, and presently saw forms looming in the semi-darkness.
They rode straight into the camp, and were instantly surrounded by
a crowd of men and women, the former with their revolvers in their
hands.
One man, a burly fellow as large as Taffy, and evidently one of the
leaders, pushed forward and looked up at Varley with a scowl of
surprise and resentment.
“What’s this ’ere,” he growled--“a picnic?”
A hoarse kind of roar, low and threatening, arose from the Three
Star men. Varley held up his hand to command silence.
“You can call it a picnic if you like,” he said, and his voice was
almost as soft and languid as when he was calling the game. “You
know what we have come for.”
The man glared at him.
“You’re wrong!” he said, with an oath.
“That’s a lie!” said Varley. “My daughter has been stolen from our
camp. She is here!”
The man began a grin, but it died away at a look that suddenly came
into Varley’s face.
“Oh, the gal’s been stolen?” said the man. “Well, that’s no
business of ours. You ought to be able to take care of your own
gals.”
Varley’s revolver--and not only Varley’s--covered him. He drew back
slightly.
“We know nothing about it,” he said, sullenly. “We didn’t take her,
and she ain’t here. We’ve plenty of gals of our own; in fact, too
many, and you’re welcome to some of ’em as I could name.”
Varley turned his head over his shoulder.
“Search the camp, boys,” he said, briefly.
The Dog’s Ear men were not all cowards, and they snarled and showed
their teeth, and the big man was unwise enough to seize Varley’s
bridle. The next instant his arm fell useless to his side; Varley
had struck it with the butt end of his revolver.
“See here,” he said, “there’s no need for fighting unless you’re
spoiling for it. We mean to search the camp, every inch of it;
we’ll do it quietly, if you like, but we shall do it. The first
man who hinders us will pay the penalty. You know me!”
The big man cursed him fluently and with an astonishing wealth of
detail; but none of his men ventured to raise a weapon, for the
Three Star men had gradually surrounded him and pressed them into a
little group. Varley addressed a dozen men by name.
“Keep guard,” he said, “and if any man offers to move, shoot him;
otherwise don’t fire a shot.” Then he and Norman dismounted, and,
followed by Taffy and several others, commenced their search. With
candles and torches of pine wood in their hands they went the round
from tent to tent, hut to hut; every tool-shed, every inch of
cover was closely examined. As they proceeded, Varley’s heart grew
heavier. Esmeralda was not there.
“What is to be done?” asked Norman.
Varley wiped the sweat from his brow and looked straight before him
without answering. At that moment, the vivid imaginations of both
men were busy picturing the girl they loved so dearly helpless in
the hands of an implacable and unscrupulous foe. Varley went back
to the crowd of prisoners and confronted the big man, whose arm was
now bandaged to his side.
“She is not here,” he said, sternly.
The man swore.
“I told you so,” he said. “You call yourself a clever man, Mr.
Varley Howard; I call yer a fool to think that we should bring the
gal here where yer could foller her. I tell ye we know nothin’
about ’er. Most like she’s gone back to England, where she come
from.”
Varley retained his calm by a supreme effort. His eye wandered over
the sullen group.
“There is one of you I miss,” he said. “Where is Simon?”
“He ain’t here,” said the man; then he leered malignantly. “Ah,
Simon!” he said, “now yer mention it, I shouldn’t be surprised if
he had ’ad a hand in this game.”
The Three Star men emitted a growl, and one or two fingered their
revolvers longingly.
“Shouldn’t be at all surprised,” continued the man, with a sardonic
satisfaction and stroking his wounded arm. “Yer see, you spoilt his
game with the coach the other night, and this may be his way of
payin’ you off. Yes, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Simon’s got
the gal; and if so you’ll have to pay pretty dear to git her back.
Simon ain’t a man to be trifled with, is he, boys?”
The Dog’s Ear men grinned discreetly, and with sidelong glances at
the shining revolvers of their captors.
“Where is he?” demanded Varley; and the man shrugged his uninjured
shoulder and spat on the ground with exaggerated indifference.
“Can’t say, guv’nor,” he said; “I’m not Simon’s nuss. He left
this ’ere camp jest after the coach bus’ness, and when the police
came poking their noses. We ain’t answerable for Simon and his
goings-on, and if yer want ’im yer’d better go and find ’im. An’
if yer arst me, I think you Three Star chaps are playin’ it pretty
low down on a neighborin’ camp. Dog’s Ear ain’t ’ad much reason for
regardin’ Three Star with brotherly love up ter now, an’ this ’ere
foolishness is a-goin’ to be chalked up agin you.”
The threat broke down Taffy’s self-restraint.
“Let him or any one of ’em come out ’ere, the best man among ’em,
and let me have it out with him, Varley!” he implored, pressing
forward; but Varley put him back with a hand upon his breast.
“No,” he said. “I’ve given my word. The camp has been searched.
Esmeralda is not here. Back to Three Star, boys.”
The men got on their horses and rode away; but they looked back at
the sullen crowd they had left behind, reluctantly, and muttered
amongst themselves. They returned to the Eldorado in a fever of
fury and anxiety which no amount of MacGrath’s “infamous” could
assuage.
Varley waited until they had drunk, and then stopped in his pacing
up and down outside and issued a fresh order.
“Break up into threes,” he said, “and search the hill. It will be
light presently, and you’ll be able to see any tracks. Let there
be no violence if it puts Esmeralda in danger. The man who has
kidnapped her is Simon, and he may want money. If so--”
A shout interrupted him.
“All we’ve got, Varley!” exclaimed Taffy, hoarsely.
“That’s so,” said Varley. Then, as the men divided themselves and
sprung into their saddles, he beckoned to Norman and rode up the
hill toward the hut. “They may have left some trace behind them,”
he said, as the horses cantered up the hill. “I made so sure of
finding her in that accursed camp!”
When they reached the hut they found Mother Melinda sobbing and
wringing her hands. Varley comforted her as well as he could.
“All right; it’s no fault of yours,” he said in response to her
reiterated and wailing assertions that she had only left the hut
for a few minutes, and that Esmeralda had always been able to take
care of herself.
“You’ll get her back for me, Varley?” she cried, with clasped hands
and tears streaming from her eyes. “It was bad enough when she went
to England, but this is wuss!” Then suddenly, as she saw Varley’s
face, her tone changed, woman-like: “Don’t take on about it so,
Varley; don’t give up hope. Yer heart’s breakin’, I can see.”
Varley smiled.
“It’s broken!” he said, simply.
While he had been talking he had been examining the room for some
traces of the kidnappers, and now he went outside with the lantern
and examined the ground beyond the threshold.
Norman had been hunting round also, and suddenly he uttered a cry
and held something white aloft.
Varley ran up to him where he stood, about a hundred yards from the
hut.
“I’ve found this!” said Norman, eagerly. “It’s a sheet of paper
with a piece of stick stuck through it.”
The two men held the candle above the paper and read it together.
It was a badly spelled scrawl, written on the back of an old
play-bill, and ran thus:
“We’ve got the gal. You can hev her by payin’ two hundred pounds,
which we should hev got out of the coach. Let one man bring the
muny ter the old hut in the Raven Claim on fridy evenin’, an’ the
gal shall be given up. We wait til then, an’ no longer.”
There was no signature.
The two men’s hands trembled as they held the paper.
“Thank God!” said Norman.
Varley drew a long breath.
“To-day is-- What is it?”
He passed his hand across his brow.
“Thursday,” said Norman. “It is not many hours to wait. I suppose
we must wait?”
Varley bowed his head.
“Yes!” he said through his clinched teeth. “She is in their hands,
and we are powerless. Any attempt on our part to recapture her
might lead to--”
Norman shuddered.
“If we’d only found this thing before. Some of the search-parties
may discover them and bring about a catastrophe.”
Varley nodded.
“Come with me,” he said.
They climbed the hill behind the hut, Varley gathering some pine
branches as he went along. When they had gained the summit, he
piled the branches in a heap and set fire to them.
“What are you doing?” asked Norman.
“Calling the men back,” he said. “Fire your revolver.”
Both men fired as the flames shot up in the darkness. Presently
they heard a muffled shout; it was followed by several others from
various directions, and a little later they could hear the men
galloping toward the signal-fire, and were presently surrounded by
the excited search-parties.
“Esmeralda! Have you found her? Is she here?” came the sharp
questions, as the men flung themselves from their horses.
“No; but we have heard of her,” said Varley, standing beside the
fire, and he read Simon’s note. The men stood silent for a minute
in that intense reaction from a terrible suspense.
“Two ’undred pounds,” said Taffy. “The darned fool; he should ’ave
said two thousand!”
Varley looked round.
“Is there two hundred in the camp?” he asked, quietly.
The men exchanged glances and their faces fell. It was all very
well to value their Esmeralda at two thousand or two million, but
it suddenly broke in upon them that they might not have even the
paltry two hundred.
Norman stepped forward to offer the money; then he remembered that
his worldly wealth consisted of about ten pounds, and his face
fell; but he took out his leather purse from its hiding-place and
put it into Varley’s hand. The other men followed suit with an
almost fierce eagerness. Varley knelt beside the fire and counted
the contributions; there was about forty pounds.
“You can make up the rest, eh, Varley?” said Taffy. “We sent ours
by the bank agent yesterday; you wasn’t in the saloon when he came,
and you’ve got enough at the hut, haven’t you?”
Varley looked up with a white face.
“I met him at the bend and gave him every penny I had, excepting
what you won last night.”
The men uttered not a word, but looked at each other and then at
Varley. He rose and looked at his watch.
“To-morrow night!” he said, grimly. “I must ride to Wally-Wally.”
Taffy swore.
“You can’t do it in the time,” he said.
Varley smiled faintly.
“We shall see,” he said. “Lead the mare down, Taffy, give her a rub
over and a feed of oats, plain.” Then, without another word, he
walked down to the hut.
Norman almost forced him to eat and drink.
“You will never do it!” he said.
Varley smiled again. Taffy brought up the mare presently, and
Varley mounted, surrounded by the whole camp. He looked round,
with a touch of his old _insouciance_ breaking through the stern
determination written in every line of his face, flashing in the
dark, somber eyes.
“Don’t be afraid, boys,” he said. “We shall do it.” The next
instant, amidst a ringing cheer, the mare had sprung toward the
road.