Alex raised the revolver, faltered, and lowered it. "No. I can't," he
said.
"I can!" The oiler darted back and wrested it from Alex's hand. As he
whirled about to fire, Alex grasped his arm. "No! Wait! Look!" he
exclaimed. "The Indian is after him!"
Turning, the oiler saw the Indian, with his own and one of the other
ponies, storming across the ground in pursuit of the runner. Silently
they watched.
As he heard the pounding hoofs behind him, the fleeing cowboy glanced
about, and set on at greater speed than ever. Quickly, however, the
horses cut down the distance between them.
The Indian leaned toward the second pony, took something from the
saddle-horn, and began to adjust it on his arm.
"He's going to lassoo him!" said Alex breathlessly.
Nearer drew the Indian to the fleeing man, and hand and lassoo went into
the air and began to weave circles. Tensely the two on the embankment
watched.
Closer the horses drew. Wider the circle of the lassoo extended.
Suddenly it leaped through the air like a great snake. The runner saw the
shadow of it, and with a cry that they heard, half turned and threw out
his arms to ward it off. The loop was too large, the cowman missed it,
and as the Indian pulled up in a cloud of dust, he whipped in the slack,
and the noose tightened fairly about the renegade's waist. An instant
after, however, the second pony, plunging ahead of the Indian's, threw
the rider forward, slackening the lariat. In a twinkle the cowman had
loosened the noose, and was wriggling out of it. He had freed one foot
before the Indian had recovered himself. Then with a terrific yank the
horseman snapped in the slack, the cowman's feet flew from under him, and
with one foot taut in the air, caught at the ankle, he lay cursing and
shaking an impotent fist.
As Alex and the oiler ran forward the Indian sat on his horse like a
statue, holding the lariat taut.
The oiler reached the prisoner first, revolver in hand.
"Get up, you!" he ordered. Sullenly the man obeyed. Removing a
handkerchief from about his neck, the oiler gave it to Alex, who securely
bound the man's hands behind him. Throwing off the lassoo, they turned
toward the Indian. With some wonder, they saw he was carefully examining
the hoofs of the pony he was leading. Concluding the inspection with a
grunt, he came forward, winding up the rope, and halted before them.
"You hoss?" he asked of the prisoner, pointing over his shoulder.
The cowboy looked at him contemptuously, and responded, "Well, what if it
is, Old Ugly-Mug?"
The oiler brought up the pistol. "I don't know why he wants to know, but
you go ahead and tell him!" he ordered threateningly. "He's twice the man
you are. Is it your horse?"
"Yes."
Little Hawk turned away with a grunt of satisfaction, and mounting his
pony, rode off towards the junction.
What the Indian meant Alex learned when, with their prisoner between
them, he and the oiler approached the boarding-train, and met Little Hawk
returning with Superintendent Finnan.
"That him!" said the Indian briefly as they drew near. "Him burn cars!"
From the prisoner came a hissing gasp. As Alex turned upon him with a
sharp ejaculation of understanding, however, the man assumed an
indifferent air, and strode on nonchalantly.
"What do you want?" he demanded insolently of the superintendent. "Can't
a man pull off a--a little joke without these idiots of yours going out
of their heads? It was nothing more than a bit of fun me and my mate was
having," he affirmed boldly.
Superintendent Finnan smiled sardonically. "That is what the K. & Z. call
it, eh?"
Alex, still with a hand on the prisoner's arm, felt him start. But
brazenly the man replied, "K. & Z.? What's the K. & Z.? A ranch brand? I
never heard of it."
On a thought Alex stepped forward and whispered a word in the official's
ear.
"Go ahead," said the superintendent.
"I'm going to search your pockets," Alex announced, stepping back to the
side of the renegade cowman. "No objection, I suppose, since you don't
know what K. & Z. means?"
"Search ahead," agreed the prisoner, half smiling. "And good luck to you
if you find anything to connect me--if you find anything," he corrected
quickly.
From a trouser pocket Alex drew out a large jack-knife. With a suspicion
of trembling he opened one of the blades and examined it, while the owner
regarded him curiously. With a shake of the head the young operator
opened the second blade. A quick smile of triumph lit up his face, and
delving into a vest pocket, he brought forth a scrap of paper, unfolded
it, and took out a fragment of charred pine shaving.
Turning his back on the now anxiously watching, though still puzzled,
owner of the knife, he held the shaving against the edge of the blade.
The superintendent bent over it, and uttered a delighted "Exactly!"
Triumphantly Alex turned toward the prisoner, and held the hand with the
knife and shaving before him. "Does this help you to recall what K. & Z.
means?" he asked.
"Recall? I don't--"
"See these two little ridges on the shaving? See these two little nicks
in the blade?"
With a hoarse cry the man flung himself backward, and bound as he was,
began struggling like a madman. Alex, the superintendent and the
Indian were to the oiler's assistance in a twinkle, however, and a
few minutes later saw the renegade in their midst on the way to the
boarding train--and, as it finally proved, to the jail at Exeter.
"I don't know who to thank most," said Superintendent Finnan later--"you,
Ward, or the oiler, or Little Hawk. Nor what appreciation to suggest
higher up."
"You might make it a blanket and Winchester for the Indian, and a purse
for the oiler, for the knocks he got and the bribe he refused," Alex
suggested.
"And yourself?"
"Oh, just let me keep the rascal's knife, as a memento," responded Alex
modestly.
"Very well; we'll agree on that--for the present," said the superintendent.