THE ESCAPE
Naturally, Bob’s first thought was of escape, of some way in which to
get out of the four walls which kept him from carrying the warning to
Mr. Whitney that might mean the saving of the dam. If he could only
get out, he did not fear Harper’s being on guard. The last speech that
had come to him through the door had been so contradictory and had
emphasized so strongly the fact that Harper _would_ be outside, that
Bob was quite sure he wouldn’t. At any rate he was willing to take the
chance if only he could get out.
The first thing was to examine his prison. There might be an opening
that had been overlooked. Bob started from the door and felt every inch
of the wall within his reach. His fingers had to do duty for his eyes,
as by this time night had fallen and the interior of the hut was pitch
dark. Not even a ray of moonlight came through the cracks in the door.
In this slow fashion he made the circuit of the room without finding
even a crack in the dried clay.
He was trapped!
But Bob refused to give up hope. Too much depended on his getting free
and being at the dam in time to prevent anything serious happening.
Back at the door, he threw his whole weight time and time again on the
boards but they held firm. This way, too, was closed to him.
What next? Feverishly he started to go through his pockets, hoping
that in their hurried search the cowmen had overlooked his jackknife.
If they had he could try to dig through the walls! Hope flared up for
a moment but soon died, as all he could find was a loose button and a
broken match that had lodged in the lining of his khaki jacket.
“Much good they’ll do me,” he muttered to himself and sat down with his
back to the door to plan some new attempt.
But at first all he could think of was what would happen if he did not
get out. Probably it meant the blowing up of the dam and machinery and
a serious uprising of the Mexicans--one that would mean bloodshed. It
was terrible to think of, yet he was convinced that that was the least
that could be expected. The cattlemen could not hold the Mexicans in
check once they had been started on the rampage.
Mr. Whitney knew that something was wrong, but he did not know what.
Bob’s confidence in his Chief was great but he feared that no matter
how strong and capable Mr. Whitney might be, he would be powerless to
avert the calamity that seemed on the way, unless he had some definite
notice that it was approaching.
Who else could help?
Feather-in-the-Wind! Perhaps the Indian would miss him and sound the
alarm? Besides, Bob had asked him to look out for trouble with the
Mexicans and perhaps, just perhaps, he might tell Mr. Whitney.
Then, as suddenly as the hope had come, it fled. Possibly Mr. Whitney
had not come back! Feather-in-the-Wind alone would be no use! He _must_
get out himself!
As he pondered his problem, his fingers had been playing with the loose
button that had been in his pocket, and now it slipped from his hand
and rolled off on the dirt floor toward the center of the room. Rather
aimlessly, he reached out and groped for it. As his hand swept the
floor it came in contact with a fine, floury substance. “Ashes,” was
his thought. An inch or so farther and he gripped an object that he
felt to be a half burned stick of wood.
Immediately the button was forgotten, for an idea had come to him. He
would burn down the door!
He had a match and if there was enough wood there was a chance. The
planking of the door was dry and there was no reason why it would not
catch.
The possibility of getting free intoxicated him and on hands and knees
he searched the floor. There were other sticks. Evidently the horse
thief had been given a fire and it had only been put out when he was
taken away for the last time--probably to the nearest tree high enough
to swing a man clear of the ground. Besides this, to Bob’s great
delight, a little pile of unburnt wood was stacked in one corner.
He wondered why he had not stumbled over them when he first made the
circuit of the hut.
Only when he had carried all his treasure to the door, did he realize
that in all probability his work had been in vain.
There was nothing to use as kindling! He had only one match and a
broken one at that. To make sure of his fire catching he ought to have
paper or some substance equally easy to light. The wood was dry but it
was too big to catch from one match.
Bob almost sobbed with his great disappointment. It seemed to be the
end; there was nothing more to be done. He had explored the room--every
nook and cranny of it--and he had come across nothing that could be
used.
But he made one more try. Possibly a picture or newspaper had been
tacked on the wall and had escaped his fingers when he had first gone
round the room.
There was no better luck this time and when he came again to the door
he was ready to admit defeat.
Then, in a flash, he knew he wasn’t beaten! Far from it. As he yanked
off his coat he muttered savagely to himself.
“You poor nut! You haven’t any sense anyway!”
After his coat, Bob ripped off his flannel shirt and tore it down a
seam. Then, with the greatest care, he began to unravel the threads
that made up the fabric. The loose threads would burn when the cloth
itself would only go out. Before he had a pile of threads that he felt
would be sufficient for his purpose, his fingers ached and his nails
were bleeding.
At last, however, he decided to take the chance of having enough. Going
over the stack of sticks, he selected the smallest and those that had
already been somewhat burned, as they would be the easiest to catch
fire again. Then he separated his flannel ravelings into three piles
and put them against the door.
Now came the crucial moment. He felt in the pocket where he thought he
had put the single match that might possibly be the key to his prison,
and for a second was sick with fear that he had lost it. But his
fingers closed on the precious object and he breathed again.
Holding it as if it were glass, Bob scratched it on the hard floor. It
did not light. Again he pulled it across the hard surface and a little
flare spurted from the head and then died out.
Bob gasped. He was sure that the match’s usefulness was over, but
feverishly, throwing caution to the winds, he rasped the head against
the planking of the door.
It lit, flashing a glare into his eyes so accustomed to the utter
darkness. But his gesture had been so violent that the stick broke and
the flaming head flew off and fell on the floor.
Bob grabbed it and, before it could go out, nursed the flicker in his
cupped hands, not realizing that it was burning his fingers cruelly.
Carefully, yet swiftly, he carried the flame to the little pile of
threads. As these caught, his heart grew light with thankfulness.
Little by little the boy fed the smoldering ravelings of his shirt with
the other piles, holding in the center of the glowing coal the smallest
of the sticks.
Hardly daring to breathe, he watched and hoped for a flame to spring
from the wood. If it came, he had won; if not, his losing was the end
of the fight. There would be no other way out.
Just as Bob was about to give up hope, for his fingers told him that
the last pile of threads was about all gone, a sliver of flame ran up
the stick he held in his left hand. It went out but a second later
another one came and stayed!
With the utmost caution, the boy laid the burning stick down on the
faintly red ashes of the threads and arranged other sticks on it. Then,
gently, he breathed over it and the little flame grew and multiplied.
Soon it was going briskly, but it was not till then that the load of
fear dropped from Bob’s shoulders.
When the fire was burning strongly, he moved it as close to the door as
possible so that the flames could lick the planking. His whole scheme
depended on the door burning sufficiently to let him either crawl
through or to weaken it to the point where his strength could break it
down. Therefore, once the fire was in place he must not be stingy with
his wood; the hotter the blaze, the more chance he had.
He piled on all the sticks he had and watched the flames mount higher
and higher until the whole doorway was a sheet of roaring fire.
He thought the door had caught but he could not be sure. But soon he
lost interest, for a new danger threatened him. It was one which he had
failed to foresee when he had planned this means of escape.
There was no outlet for the smoke! The little room was practically
air-tight except for the cracks around the door and these now were
bringing in only the oxygen that allowed the fire to burn.
Choked, stifling with the intense heat, Bob fell on his face,
remembering that smoke always rises.
For a moment or two this helped, for he was able to breathe, but soon
the smoke was everywhere and Bob knew that he would have to move.
Was he to die, trapped like a rat? Was this the end of his adventure?
It looked very much like it. But something would not let him give up.
He would make one more attempt for his life and liberty.
Struggling to his feet, his eyes almost blinded, smarting with the
sting of the smoke, he dashed headlong into the flaming door.
He bounced back, not knowing that his clothes were afire in several
places. Instinctively he charged again.
This time a crash, a splintering of the wood was the result. Once more
he dived into it and the next moment he was in the gray air of the
early dawn.
Stumbling, panting, he ran around the corner of the hut, urged by the
knowledge that he was afire. Luckily the river nearly touched the back
wall of the hut that had been his prison. A few steps and he fell face
downward in the shallows.