WHITE-HORSE FRED.
JULIAN, who had been congratulating himself upon the ease with which
he was about to extricate himself from his perilous situation, was
dismayed at this turn of events. He comprehended the matter perfectly.
White-horse Fred, so called probably from the color of the animals he
rode, was a member of a band of horse thieves and robbers, and it was
his business to assist in moving the plunder from one point to another.
The man Smirker belonged to the same organization, and it was his duty
to receive and care for the booty until such time as the authorized
agents of the band called for it. He had probably been on the lookout
for his confederate when Julian arrived.
“But why didn’t he know that I wasn’t White-horse Fred as soon as he
looked into my face?” thought the boy, so nearly overcome with terror
that he did not hear the words that had been addressed to him. “And how
does it happen that I was riding Fred’s horse? How did my uncle come by
him? I can’t understand it?”
“Speak quick!” repeated Smirker, savagely, “and don’t try to draw no
weapons. Who are you?”
He pulled back the hammer of his pistol with the thumb of his right
hand as he spoke, and shifting his left from Julian’s collar to the
butt of the revolver which the boy was on the point of pulling from his
belt.
“Who should I be?” returned Julian boldly. “If I’ve no business here
how came I by that horse I brought you? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“And if that fellow out there ain’t White-horse Fred how did he give
Fred’s whistle so exact, and how did he come by Fred’s clothes? That’s
what _I’d_ like to know.”
It was plain, both from Smirker’s tone and manner, that he began to
believe that he had been a little too hasty. He let go Julian’s pistol,
lowered the hammer of his own weapon, and stood gazing at our hero with
an expression of great bewilderment on his face.
“Wouldn’t it be a good plan to ask him?” suggested Julian.
Smirker thought it would. He jerked open the door of the stable, and
Julian, who was on the point of dashing his spurs into his horse and
riding over the robber and making good his escape, found his way
blocked up by a dashing young fellow, who rode gayly into the stable,
but stopped short on discovering Julian, and checked the words of
greeting that arose to his lips. For fully a minute no one spoke. The
two boys sat on their horses staring at one another, and Smirker, after
closing and locking the door, took his stand between them, looking
first at the new-comer and then at Julian, apparently unable to come to
any decision concerning them.
The strange equestrian was a youth about Julian’s age and size, only
a little more robust, and had the two been dressed alike it would
have been a matter of some difficulty for any one to tell them apart.
Julian looked as if he had just come out of a lady’s bandbox, while the
new-comer seemed to have bestowed but little care upon his toilet that
morning. His dress consisted of a red flannel shirt, open at the throat
and worn without a coat, coarse trowsers, which were thrust into a pair
of high-top boots, and a broad-brimmed hat. A belt encircled his waist,
supporting a knife on one side and a revolver on the other. He rode a
small Indian pony, which, judging by its appearance, had been driven
long and rapidly.
“Now, then,” said Smirker, who was the first to recover the use of his
tongue, “one of you two fellows has got himself in the worst kind of a
scrape—one that he will never get out of alive. Which is White-horse
Fred?”
Julian had shown a tolerably bold front as long as a hope of escape
remained, but now that he found the door of the stable locked upon him,
and himself completely at the mercy of the two robbers, his courage
gave way utterly, and he could not have made an intelligent reply to
Smirker’s question even if he had had anything to say.
The new-comer was the genuine White-horse Fred—there could be no doubt
about that, for he had given the signal when he approached the cabin,
and more than that, Smirker had recognized him by the clothes he wore.
Giving himself up for lost, Julian waited almost impatiently for the
strange horseman to speak, believing that the opening of his lips would
be the signal for his own death. What, then, was his amazement when he
heard the boy exclaim:
“White-horse Fred! If there is any one here that goes by that name, it
must be you or that young gentleman over there.”
“Then you ain’t him!” said Smirker, growing more and more perplexed.
“No. Do I look like him!”
“You sartinly do, and act like him. What were you whistling out there
for?”
“Oh, just to hear the echo.”
“And what made you come in here?”
“Because you opened the door.”
“You talk like White-horse Fred, too. But if you hain’t him you’re
where you’ve got no business to be, and you’ll never get away, nuther.”
Smirker raised his revolver and pointed it at the boy’s breast.
Julian, faint with terror, turned away his head and held his breath in
suspense; but the stranger never flinched so much as a hair’s breadth.
“Don’t do anything rash,” said he calmly. “I have told you who I am
_not_, and now you had better ask me who I _am_.”
“I don’t care who you are. You’re a dead man.”
“And you will be another in less than an hour,” replied the boy,
without the least sign of alarm. “My Uncle Reginald Mortimer’s servant
is close behind me. He will know that I came in here, and if I don’t go
out again he will also know what has become of me.”
Smirker lowered his revolver, and falling back a step or two, stared
blankly at the speaker, and then at our hero. The astonishment his face
exhibited was fully reflected in Julian’s. The latter’s terror had all
given way to surprise. He forgot Smirker and his revolver, the danger
of his situation, and every thing else except the last few words the
stranger had uttered: “My Uncle Reginald Mortimer.” Who was this fellow
who was going about claiming Julian’s relative as his own?
“You have concluded not to shoot me, haven’t you?” asked the boy, whose
coolness and courage were wonderful to behold.
“Who are you?” demanded Smirker.
“My name is Julian Mortimer. I am a stranger here, having but just
arrived from the States. I came out this morning to take a ride, and it
seems I have got into a place where I am not wanted. I beg pardon for
my intrusion, and will thank you to open that door and let me out.”
“Julian Mortimer!” exclaimed Smirker.
“_Julian Mortimer!_” echoed the owner of that name, in a scarcely
audible voice.
If our hero had been surprised before, he was doubly so now. He could
scarcely believe that he had heard aright. If this stranger was Julian
Mortimer, who in the world was _he_, Julian asked himself. Were there
two boys of that name in existence, and was Uncle Reginald the guardian
of both, and holding in his hands a valuable property to be surrendered
to them when they reached their majority?
He rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming, and looked hard at
the stranger, who seemed not a little astonished at the sensation he
had created.
As for Smirker, he was as nearly beside himself as a sane man could
well be; and, what was very singular, he seemed all of a sudden to have
discovered some reason for wishing to keep as far away from Julian as
possible, for he backed into one of the stables and stood eying him
like a caged hyena.
“Well, what of it?” said the stranger. “Perhaps you don’t believe what
I told you. If it is necessary that I should furnish proof, I can do
so. Open the door and let me out.”
“You spoke that name just in time,” said Smirker fiercely, “for in
a minute more you would have been done for. If you are really the
captain’s cub, you are worth too much to us to be put out of the way
yet awhile. But not much I won’t let you out-doors. Your story may be
true, and it may not. I am going to keep you here till I can send to
headquarters and find out.”
“All right,” replied the boy, swinging himself from his saddle and
gazing about the stable as if everything he saw in it was full of
interest to him. “I am easily suited. I’d as soon stay here an hour or
two as not. I never was in a house like this before. What makes you
call ’em all _ranchos_?”
“Look a here,” added Smirker, turning to our hero. “If this fellow is
Julian Mortimer, who are you?”
“Are you not yet satisfied that I am White-horse Fred?” asked Julian in
reply. “Perhaps you want me to prove it.”
Julian’s terror had all passed away now, and he was in his right mind
again. There was still a chance of escape. Although he had not the
remotest idea who the new-comer was, he had heard and seen enough
to satisfy him that he was a stranger in that wilderness as well as
himself, and that he was not White-horse Fred, consequently he ran no
risk in continuing to personate the character he had been compelled to
assume. Indeed, it was the only thing he could do. He was impatient to
be off, too, for the real White-horse Fred might arrive at any moment,
and then something would certainly happen.
“There’s a mystery at the bottom of this, and I’ll bet a horse on it,”
said Smirker, shaking his fists in the air, and striding up and down
the stable. “I know you are White-horse Fred,” he added, addressing
himself to our hero, “but—but—what’s the rest of your name? Fred
what?”
“Fred nothing. That’s all the name I’ve got. I never had any other.”
“Well, you have got another, and if it is the one I think it is, I
don’t see how in the world you come to be riding about here. You had
ought to be at the bottom of the lake. I’ll see the fellows below this
very night, and have a new runner put on this route, or I’ll give up
the station. I ain’t a going to have no such fellow as you coming about
me. You can’t get out of here any too sudden.”
This speech was all Greek to Julian, except the last sentence. That he
understood perfectly, and was quite ready to act upon the suggestion
it contained. The moment Smirker opened the door of the stable he
dashed the spurs into his horse, which sprung forward like an arrow
from a bow, and tore down the path with the speed of the wind, the bay
following. In a few seconds he was out of sight.
Scarcely waiting for Julian to get fairly out of the stable, Smirker
slammed the door and locked it, and turning fiercely upon his new
prisoner disarmed him by jerking off the belt which contained his
knife and revolver. Having thus put it out of the boy’s power to do
any mischief, Smirker suddenly seemed to become unconscious of his
presence. He had much to think about, and for the next quarter of an
hour he gave himself up entirely to his reflections, never once casting
a single glance toward his companion. He paced up and down the stable
with long strides, shaking his head and muttering, and trying in vain
to find some explanation for the strange, and to him bewildering,
incidents that had just occurred. They were more than bewildering—they
were absolutely terrifying, as the expression on his face and his whole
bearing and manner abundantly proved. He walked with a very unsteady
step, his burly frame trembled like an oak in a storm, and now and
then he raised his hand to dash away the perspiration which stood on
his forehead like drops of rain.
The prisoner was as cool and collected as ever. Being left to himself,
he strolled carelessly about the stable, examining every object in it,
and occasionally directing his gaze toward the open door leading from
the stable into the living-room of the cabin. Finally he leaned against
one of the stalls, and when Smirker’s back was turned hastily pulled
something from his pocket and tossed it into the manger—something that
gave out a ringing, metallic sound as it fell. The noise, slight as it
was, caught the man’s ear and aroused him from his reverie. He turned
and confronted his prisoner at once.
“What you doing there?” he demanded.
“Nothing at all,” was the reply. “I am waiting as patiently as I
can for you to explain why you have robbed me of my weapons, and
are keeping me here. I assure you that my Uncle Reginald will have
something to say to you about this before you are many hours older.”
“What you doing there?” repeated Smirker fiercely; “I heard something
chink.”
“Perhaps it was my persuaders,” said the boy, lifting his boot and
exhibiting a huge Mexican spur, ornamented with little silver bells,
which tinkled musically as he moved his feet about.
“P’raps it was, and p’raps most likely it wasn’t. Haven’t I lived long
enough to tell the difference between the rattling of spurs and the
jingling of money? I have, I bet you. I’ll soon find out what you’ve
been up to.”
Smirker walked into the stall in front of which the boy was standing,
and then for the first time the prisoner began to show signs of
anxiety. He closely watched the man’s movements, and cast frequent and
impatient glances toward the door of the living-room, as if he were
expecting and earnestly desiring the arrival of some one.
Smirker was in the stall but a few moments, and when he came out he
carried in his hand a small canvas bag, at the sight of which the
prisoner turned white with terror. Taking his stand under the lantern,
Smirker untied the string with which the bag was fastened; but no
sooner did his eyes fall upon its contents than he dropped it as if it
had been a coal of fire, and his face grew livid with rage and alarm.
“Betrayed!” he roared, stamping his feet furiously upon the ground, and
flourishing his fists in the air. “And, fool that I was, I might have
known it! I suspected it from the beginning.”
“What’s the matter?” asked the boy, and his voice was as firm and
steady as ever.
“What’s the matter?” shrieked Smirker, driven almost insane by his
intense passion. “Do you stand there and ask me what’s the matter? It’s
the last question you will ever ask me, for you are as good as a dead
man already. Didn’t I say that there was something at the bottom of
all this? _You_ are White-horse Fred—that bag proves it. It contains
nuggets, and gold-dust, and money—my share of the swag which I have
received and sent to the fellows below. I expected to get it from that
other boy, and asked him for it; but of course he couldn’t give it to
me, being an imposter. And I allowed him to go off scot free, and even
told him some secrets that nobody outside the band ought to know. How
long will it take him to ride to the fort and tell what he has seen and
heard, and lead a squad of soldiers back here? And you helped him out
in it—you, a sworn member of the band! Now, you shall tell me what you
mean by acting as you have done. Speak in a hurry, or I’ll choke it out
of you!”
Smirker, howling out these words with a fierceness and energy which
showed that he was terribly in earnest, advanced toward his prisoner
in a low, crouching attitude, something like that a wild beast would
assume when about to spring upon its prey.
The boy’s face was very pale, but he bravely stood his ground. Knowing
that escape was impossible, he was prepared to fight desperately for
his life.
“Will you tell me?” asked the robber, creeping forward with a slow,
cat-like motion.
“I have nothing to tell,” replied the boy, “except this: I have friends
close at hand, and they ought to be here now.”
“Then I will have this business over before they arrive.”
“Come on, and I will show you what a Mortimer is made of.”
Before the words of defiance had fairly left the boy’s lips, Smirker
bounded forward, and the two closed in a death struggle.