"Skuse me, lootenant, but it seems a useless thing our goin' up to the
oak. I know the Cap' sayed we were to wait for them under it. Why cant
we just as well stay heer? 'Taint like they'll be long now. They wont
dally a minute, I know, after they've clutched the shiners, an' I guess
they got 'em most as soon as we'd secured these pair o' petticoats.
Besides they'll come quicker than we've done, seeing as they're more
like to be pursooed. It's a ugly bit o' track 'tween here an' the big
tree, both sides thorny bramble that'll tear the duds off our backs, to
say nothin' o' the skin from our faces. In my opinion we oughter stay
where we air till the rest jeins us."
"No," responds the lieutenant, in tone more authoritative, "We mustn't
remain here. Besides, we cant tell what may have happened to them.
Suppose they have to fight for it, and get forced to take the upper
crossing. In that case--"
The speaker makes pause, as if perceiving a dilemma.
"In that case," interpolates the unwilling Bill, "we'd best not stop
heer at all, but put straight for head-quarters on the creek. How d'ye
incline to that way of it?"
"Something in what you say," answers the lieutenant. Then adding, after
a pause, "It isn't likely they'll meet any obstruction. The half-breed
Indian said he had arranged everything clear as clock-work. They're
safe sure to come this way, and 'twont do for us to go on without them.
Besides, there's a reason you appear not to think of. Neither you nor I
know the trail across the upper plain. We might get strayed there, and
if so, we'd better be in hell?"
After the profane utterance succeeds a short interval of silence, both
men apparently cogitating. The lieutenant is the first to resume.
"Bosley," he says, speaking in a sage tone, and for the first time
addressing the subordinate by his family name. "On the prairies, as
elsewhere, one should always be true to a trust, and keep it when one
can. If there were time, I could tell you a curious story of one who
tried but couldn't. It's generally the wisest way, and I think it's
that for us now. We might make a mess of it by changing from the
programme understood--which was for us to wait under the oak. Besides
I've got a reason of my own for being there a bit--something you can't
understand, and don't need telling about. And time's precious too; so
spin ahead, and find the path."
"All right," rejoins the other, in a tone of assumed resignation.
"Stayin' or goin's jest the same to me. For that matter I might like
the first way best. I kin tell ye I'm precious tired toatin this burden
at my back, beauty though she be; an' by remainin' heer I'll get the
sooner relieved. When Cap' comes he'll be wantin' to take her off my
hands; to the which I'll make him welcome as the flowers o' May."
With his poetical wind-up, the reluctant robber sets his horse in
motion, and leads on. Not far along the main road. When a few yards
from the ford, he faces towards a trail on his left, which under the
shadow is with difficulty discernible. For all this, he strikes into it
with the confidence of one well acquainted with the way.
Along it they advance between thick standing trees, the path arcaded
over by leafy branches appearing as dark as a tunnel. As the horses
move on, the boughs, bent forward by their breasts, swish back in
rebound, striking against the legs of their riders; while higher up the
hanging _llianas_, many of them beset with spines, threaten to tear the
skin from their faces.
Fortunately for the captives, theirs are protected by the close-woven
serapes. Though little care they now: thorns lacerating their cheeks
were but trivial pain, compared to the torture in their souls. They
utter no complaint, neither speaking a word. Despair has stricken them
dumb; for, moving along that darksome path, they feel as martyrs being
conducted to stake or scaffold.