WORSTING THE RED THIEVES.
Bascomb and his Apaches were almost at the laboratory before the
mill-whistle sent out its warning peal. They saw the men rushing
from the bunk-house and the mill in answer to the signal, and they
realized at once that their attack was no surprise. For a second they
halted, on the verge of a panic.
Bascomb saw Buffalo Bill, whom he had put down in the old shaft
during the night, and whom he believed to be safely out of the
way. The sight of the scout naturally astounded the ruffian; then,
apparently realizing that his failure to take the camp by surprise
was due to Buffalo Bill, Bascomb’s rage rushed through him and found
vent in a wild oath.
“Come on!” he yelled to the redskins. “Kill the long-haired warrior!
A hundred _pesos_ ter the buck that does fer Buffler Bill!”
If Bascomb failed to get the gold, he was determined to play even
with the man who had caused the failure.
It had been the scout’s intention, as soon as he had given the signal
to the engineer, to join the men from the bunk-house and lead them in
the battle with the reds.
He now found this plan impracticable.
Acting under Bascomb’s instructions, the fleet-footed Apaches turned
the corner of the laboratory and rushed at the tanks.
Not all of them reached the tanks, for Bascomb was obliged to divide
his party so as to take care of the force coming from the mill. Much
as Bascomb himself desired to come into battle with the scout, he
found that he was barred from doing so by a flank movement of the
millmen.
He used his revolver, and one of the millmen dropped. Before he could
use the weapon a second time, a bullet through the arm caused his
revolver to fall from his hand.
Swearing luridly, Bascomb jerked at his second revolver with his left
hand. While he was about it, the remaining three millmen rushed him,
and he was compelled to retreat in the direction of the piles of
tailings clustered about the rear of the mill.
While this was going forward, Buffalo Bill, on the plank-walk at the
rim of the tanks, was having the fight of his life.
The Apaches had begun the battle with a rain of bullets. The scout,
anticipating the volley, had dropped flat on the planks, and the
bullets had passed over him.
But the redskins misinterpreted the scout’s move, and thought he had
been hit, and had fallen. Lusty yells of exultation broke from them,
and two of the nearest warriors raced up the plank incline to get the
coveted scalp.
They did not get the scalp, however. The scout had more use for it
than they had.
Regaining his feet like lightning, he pulled the trigger. A futile
_snap_ followed. Again and again the trigger fell, and the cylinder
revolved, but not a cartridge in the weapon responded to the scout’s
will.
Buffalo Bill was amazed. He had carefully examined the weapon when
McGowan gave it to him and the cartridges had appeared to be all
right.
With the two armed Indians rushing toward him, and others crawling up
the incline, the scout’s situation was a desperate one. But he was
equal to it.
Crouching forward, he met the first Apache with a jump and a
sledge-hammer blow. The redskin crumpled like a man of straw and
dropped face downward over the toe-path.
The second Indian the scout gathered up in his mighty arms as he
would have caught a venomous dog. The Indian was a powerful man, and
he succeeded in fighting loose, but only for a second. Again the
scout was upon him.
Grabbing the redskin, Buffalo Bill lifted his writhing form in both
hands and cast him into the tank near which the battle was taking
place.
Never was the scout’s strong arm more in evidence than it was then.
A third Indian was creeping toward him. He darted at the warrior like
a fury, they came to hand-grips, and in the resulting struggle both
tumbled from the toe-path between two of the tanks.
The Indian had a knife in his hand; but in the wrestling-match, the
point had been turned toward the Indian’s own breast. In the heavy
fall from the plank-walk, the knife was driven to the hilt, and the
redskin straightened out with the rattle in his throat.
The scout raced out from among the tanks, to find that the men from
the bunk-house and the mill had joined forces and were in hot pursuit
of Bascomb and the remnant of his red followers.
Buffalo Bill did not join in the pursuit, but made directly for the
laboratory.
There he found a broken window, an overturned assayer’s furnace, two
bags loaded with amalgam, and two wounded men.
One of the wounded men was the baron; the other was Jacobs.
McGowan, white and weak, sat in a chair by a table, taking a swig
from a flask. Old Nomad stood grimly over the bags of amalgam.
“Well!” exclaimed the scout; “it looks as though there had been
doings here, too.”
“Thar has, Buffler,” answered Nomad. “When ther baron an’ me blew in
hyar, McGowan lay in a corner, knocked as senseless as I was, back at
ther Phœnix hotel. Bernritter an’ Jacobs put up er fight, an’ ther
baron got tickled in ther ribs with er bullet, an’ Jacobs got tickled
in ther shoulder.”
“Where’s Bernritter?”
“He went out by way o’ ther window, and never stopped ter put et up.
I couldn’t chase arter him, kase I was ther on’y man left ter purtect
ther gold. I hopes some ’un lays ther pizen whelp by ther heels.”
“So do I!” came from McGowan. “The infernal scoundrel!”
“You think he’s a scoundrel now, do you, McGowan?” queried the scout,
turning on the mine-owner.
McGowan brought his fist down on the table with all the strength he
could muster.
“I know it!” he declared.
“What happened to you in here?”
“Why, I came with Bernritter to superintend the retorting, and the
running of the gold into bars. I was ahead of Bernritter when we
came into the room, and I had barely got inside the door when he
jumped me from behind.
“The impetus of his body carried me down. I gave out a yell--just
one--and then the scoundrel hit me with the butt of his revolver.
That’s all, so far as I’m concerned. When I came to, matters were
just as you see them now! And to think,” cried McGowan, “that that
was the man I have trusted for all these years! The man who is
engaged to marry my girl, Annie! I wish we could hang him!”
From this it will appear that the mine-owner’s eyes had been
thoroughly opened.
“What was the matter with that revolver you gave me, McGowan?” went
on the scout.
“Matter with it?” demanded McGowan. “Why, nothing. It was one of my
own weapons--an arm that I have depended on a dozen times, and it has
never failed me. That was the reason I gave it to you.”
“Well, it failed _me_. Look at it.”
The mine-owner took the revolver from the scout, “broke” it, and
looked at the cartridges.
There were six of them, all apparently ready for use.
“Fire it,” said the scout.
McGowan pointed it at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. Only the
_click_ of the hammer sounded. He tried five times more; then,
with an imprecation, “broke” the piece again, took out one of the
cartridges, and twisted out its lead cap.
There was no powder in the shell!
“Tampered with!” growled McGowan.
“That’s the size of it,” returned the scout.
McGowan drew the mate to the firearm from his pocket and tried
to fire that. The result was the same as in the case of the other
revolver.
“Bernritter must have done this!” declared McGowan.
“Did you leave the weapons where he could get at them?”
“They usually hung from a belt on a nail in my room. As my room is
off the office, it was easy for Bernritter to get at the guns and
fix ’em. Oh, the depth of that villain’s trickery! He laid his wires
well, and he would have won out against me, Buffalo Bill, if it
hadn’t been for you and your pards.”
“Such a man,” commented the scout, “deserves the worst that can
happen to him.”
Nomad was kneeling beside the baron, binding up his injury with a
piece of sacking.
“Is it a bad wound, Nick?” the scout asked solicitously.
“Scratch, thet’s all,” said Nomad.
“How’s Jacobs’ wound?”
“That’s worse, but not so bad thet et’ll keep him from goin’ ter ther
penitentiary.”
McGowan got up and walked over to the baron.
“How do you feel, Schnitzenhauser?” he asked.
“Pedder as I mighdt oof id vas a whole lot vorse,” said the baron,
sitting up.
“Are you able to walk?”
“I don’d t’ink I vas.”
“If you were able to walk,” went on McGowan, “I would have you go to
the chuck-shanty and tell Frieda I wanted her to take care of you.
But, as you can’t navigate----”
The baron was on his feet in a flash.
“Oh, vell, meppy I could walk so far as der chuck-shandy,” said he
eagerly.
“Go on, then,” said McGowan, with a wink at Buffalo Bill.
The baron went, and he was quite brisk about it, too.
“Let’s go out, Buffalo Bill,” suggested McGowan, “and see what our
casualties are. I hope none of my boys have been badly injured.”
Together the scout and the mine-owner left the laboratory, Nomad
staying behind to look after Jacobs and the amalgam.
The first man the scout and the mine-owner saw as they emerged from
the office was Andy O’Connell.
“Are yez all roight, McGowan?” asked O’Connell.
“Barring a blow on the head that still makes me feel a little dizzy,”
answered McGowan. “Were you one of those who chased after the
thieves?”
“I was that, but sorry a wan av th’ blackguards did we catch. They
had horses waitin’ beyant th’ hill, an’ they was on thim an’ away
befure we could git to our own mounts. Th’ white scoundrel that led
th’ attack was hurted--annyway, his arm was tied up in a bit av
cloth. He lit out jist a-smokin’. Bernritter was close behind him.
Whyever did Bern break through th’ window an’ chase aff wid th’
villains?”
“Because he was mixed up with them, Andy.”
“What! Bern wan av th’ thaves?”
“He was--and the worst one. Jacobs was also implicated, but he’s
wounded and back there in the office.”
“Well, glory be! Av that ain’t news I niver heard any!”
“How many of our men were hurt, Andy? Do you know?”
“Chislett, the mill-engineer, got a bullet through th’ thigh av him,
and Harkness, av th’ night-shift, got a bit av a scratch in th’
shoulder. Besides them, we’ve picked up three dead Injuns.”
“Where are Chislett and Harkness?”
“In th’ mill.”
The scout and the mine-owner pushed on to the mill and found the
wounded men in the engine-room, sitting up in a couple of chairs and
being attended to by the amalgamators.
They were not seriously hurt.
“Lucky for us, Mr. McGowan,” said Chislett, “that we had warning of
the attack. But for that there’d been a lot of us caught napping, and
the reds wouldn’t been the only ones to cash in.”
“You lads stood by me finely,” said McGowan, “and I’ll not forget it.
Harry,” he added to one of the amalgamators, “get on the best horse
in the corral and ride to Phœnix. Tell Rising to come out here, and
have him bring a doctor.”
The amalgamater started forthwith for the corral. The men of the
day-shift in the mine had got wind of the fighting and had flocked up
into the shaft-house. McGowan met them, told them the trouble was all
over, and sent them back to work.
The men from the bunk-house, who had gone in pursuit of Bascomb,
Bernritter, and the redskins, had all straggled back, and were
talking over the exciting events in front of the blacksmith-shop.
Buffalo Bill and McGowan went back to the laboratory. There they
found that Nomad had made Jacobs comfortable in his bed, in a small
room off the workroom. Jacobs was pale and there was an apprehensive
look in his eyes when he saw McGowan.
The mine-owner drew up a chair by the head of the bed.
“Did you or Bernritter put that bar of bullion in the Dutchman’s
saddle-bag, Jacobs?” he asked.
“I put it in,” said Jacobs. “Bernritter told me to.”
“Why was that done?”
“Bernritter was afraid Buffalo Bill would come out here with you and
look into the gold-robberies. He wanted to shift suspicion onto some
one else until this job of to-day was pulled off.”
“I see. Bernritter didn’t want Buffalo Bill to help probe the
Three-ply robberies, eh?”
“No. He knew the king of scouts wouldn’t be long in finding just how
things stood.”
“Well, you and Bernritter took just the right course to get Buffalo
Bill interested out here.”
“I can see that, now. But when we put the bar in the Dutchman’s
saddle-bag we didn’t know he was a pard of Buffalo Bill’s.”
“That’s the way things go wrong for men like you and
Bernritter--sometimes,” put in the scout.
“This stealing has been going on for the past two weeks, has it?”
pursued McGowan, anxious to take full advantage of Jacobs’ talkative
mood.
“Yes.”
“You and Bernritter were tapping the battery-boxes right along, eh?”
Jacobs looked surprised.
“How did you find that out?” he asked.
“Buffalo Bill found it out. Bascomb put the scout and his Dutch pard
into an abandoned shaft, last night, and they found a pile of amalgam
in it.”
“Bascomb made a fool of himself!” muttered Jacobs. “He knew the
amalgam was there, but I guess he thought we had hidden it.”
“Who put the wires in the battery-boxes?”
“Bernritter did that--while you and he were watching the mill for
thieves.” Jacobs laughed cynically. “Oh, Bern’s a rum one, I’m
telling you. He never intended to marry your daughter, Mr. McGowan.
He’s a married man already--he told me so. All he wanted to do was to
get himself solid with you so he could make a big clean-up and get
away.”
McGowan clenched his hands fiercely and a blaze of savage anger
crossed his face.
“I’d like to see the scoundrel hung!” he muttered. “What’s more, I’d
like to spring the trap myself, or pull at the rope that lynches him.
He’s not fit to live!”
“Who’s this man Bascomb, Jacobs?” asked the scout.
“I don’t know much about Bascomb,” replied Jacobs, “except that he
and Bern are pals. Bascomb has a hold on a bunch of renegade Apaches,
and he rounded them up to put through this deal here to-day. I won’t
be sure, but I _think_ that Bascomb suggested all this gold-robbery
business to Bernritter, and has been telling him how to pull it off.”
“Bernritter was a willing tool--there’s not a particle of doubt about
that,” interjected McGowan.
“Does Bascomb stay in Phœnix?” asked the scout.
“He doesn’t make it a rule to stay anywhere for very long. I have my
suspicions that he’s a badly wanted man.”
“He’ll be badly wanted now, if he wasn’t before,” scowled McGowan.
“Bernritter told you to meet Bascomb in Phœnix, did he?” went on the
scout.
Jacobs opened his eyes pretty wide at this.
“How did you know that?” he asked.
“My old pard, Nomad, found it out. When you and Bernritter left the
sheriff’s office I had you followed.”
“Does your pard know what sort of a talk I had with Bascomb?” asked
Jacobs, alarmed.
“Yes.”
“He found out enough to put us next to the work you contemplated, out
here. That is how we were able to back-cap you like we did.”
“You and your pards must be regular fiends!” murmured Jacobs.
“Rather a left-handed compliment, I call that,” said the scout.
“Didn’t you know my pard, Nomad, was trailing you, Jacobs?”
“I should say not!”
“How did it happen that some one got the best of him in our room at
the Phœnix hotel, bound and gagged him with towels, and left him a
prisoner in a closet?”
“I didn’t know anything about that. Bascomb, before he rode out into
the hills, was to have a couple of men call at your hotel and keep an
eye on you or any of your pards who happened to be there. I suppose
those men must have roughed things up for Nomad. But I didn’t hear
about it.”
“Nomad said Bascomb called the men ‘light-fingered.’ Didn’t
Bernritter want them to go through our baggage?”
“I don’t know. Bern didn’t say anything to me about it.”
“Did Bernritter tamper with my guns?” asked McGowan.
“Yes. He said that if you ever got a line on him about the first
thing you’d do would be to shoot--and ask for an explanation
afterward.”
“Well, I _am_ rather swift when my mad is up.”
“So Bernritter fixed your guns. Now, Mr. McGowan, I’ve told you all
I know. I have been Bernritter’s tool all through this business. He
got me my job here, and he swore that if I didn’t help him in his
thieving he’d have me discharged. On account of all that, sir, I’m
hoping you’ll be easy with me.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll be easy with you!” growled McGowan. “You’ll not be
hung, I reckon, but you will go over the road, all right.”
“You haven’t lost any gold----”
“It was not through you that I saved any of it.”
“I didn’t know but that you might, when everything was considered,
let me go. I’ll get right out, and this part of the country will
never see me again.”
“You’ll get right out just as soon as you’re able to move; and you’ll
go with Rising, the sheriff. And you’ll leave this part of the
country, all right, when you take that little trip to Yuma.”
“Hyar’s a pard o’ your’n, Buffler!” sung out Nomad, from the other
room.
The scout stepped out of the bedroom and found Little Cayuse. The boy
had erased the war-paint from his face, for he had reached the end of
his war-trail.
“Cayuse all right, Pa-e-has-ka,” said the boy.
“I knew they would be when I told you to take care of them. Where did
you put the animals?”
“All same camp corral.”
“That’s all right.”
The boy edged closer to the scout.
“Me done good work, mebbyso?” he went on.
The scout looked at him in surprise. It was not like Little Cayuse to
claim credit, or try to get some one to pat him on the back.
“You have done fine work, Cayuse,” said the scout heartily.
“Mebbyso you let Cayuse take scalps of Apaches?” pleaded the boy.
The scout started. Every once in a while the boy’s Indian nature
would crop up, just as it did in this request for the scalps of the
slain Apaches.
“You want those scalps pretty bad, do you?” the scout asked.
“Wuh!” said Cayuse, with glimmering eyes.
“You like um Pa-e-has-ka?”
“Wuh!”
“You can take those scalps, Cayuse, if you want to,” went on the
scout, “but the moment you do, our trails divide. I’ll have no pard
about me who will do such heathen work. Take your choice.”
“No take um scalp,” said Cayuse, wheeling silently and striding out
of the room.
Nomad laughed.
“Ye might hev knowed how he’d choose, Buffler,” said he. “Why, he
thinks more o’ you than he does o’ his own dad.”
“His own dad sold him for a quart of whisky and a gun,” said the
scout quietly, “so that isn’t saying much, Nick.”