A GOOD RIDDANCE
Jack, when he rode away towards Bozeman the morning before, had no
sooner placed the hill between us and himself than he turned short to
his left and galloped off in a new direction. Keeping in the shelter
of the woods, he circled back until he arrived at a point considerably
higher than the camp, whence he could look down upon us and note the
direction we took when we set out for the horse-thieves’ hiding-place.
Having no pack-mules to drive, it was easy for him to keep ahead of our
party, and when, about three in the afternoon, Squeaky stopped to scan
the valley behind us for signs of our captain’s presence, our captain
himself, half a mile to one side of the trail, was lying flat upon his
stomach on the mountain-side five hundred feet above, looking down at
us.
There he lay, watching, while we followed Bates along the top of the
ridge and in among the loose rocks which concealed the entrance to the
little cañon, which in turn led up to the tunnel. Knowing nothing, and
for the time suspecting nothing, of any such underground passage, Jack
lay still, waiting for our reappearance, or at least for a sight of
the smoke of our camp-fire, until dark, when he went back to the dry
gully where he had left the horse and dog, and riding part way down the
mountain again he made camp for the night. In a secluded hollow well
concealed by the trees he lighted a little fire, and wrapping himself
in the saddle-blanket, he passed a rather comfortless night; for at
that altitude and at that time of year the night-frosts were decidedly
sharp.
At daylight next morning he returned to his post of observation, and
there he again kept watch until an hour after sunrise, waiting, in vain
of course, for the telltale smoke of a camp-fire to inform him of our
whereabouts. As no such smoke appeared he became convinced that the
hiding-place must be some capacious cave, whose entrance was concealed
among the loose rocks; and very much troubled he was to decide whether
to go on or to give up the attempt. He decided at last to go on.
Riding down to the point where we had disappeared from view, he there
left Toby standing, and went forward on foot, with Ulysses, who seemed
perfectly to comprehend the state of the case, sniffing along in front
of him. The ground was so hard that no sign of a hoof-mark was to be
seen; nevertheless there must have been a lingering scent of the mules
and horses, for the old dog, without any hesitation, led the way to the
dry watercourse, and down it to the edge of the stream. There, to his
great satisfaction, Jack picked up a shotgun cartridge, and at once he
jumped to the conclusion that one of us had had the sense to drop it as
a guide for him.
Hastening back he brought Toby down, and taking up Ulysses on the
saddle--not knowing but that the stream might be strong enough to knock
the dog’s feet from under him and send him rolling over the fall--he
rode up the steep incline until he came in view of the arched mouth of
the tunnel.
“Ah,” thought he to himself, “so it is a cave.”
Once more he stopped to consider whether to go on or to turn back, and
once more he decided to go on.
Advancing into the cavern until there was but a glimmer of light
behind him and perfect darkness ahead, he stopped again, this time
for three or four minutes, listening with all his ears. There was no
sound of voices, no sound of a horse snorting or shaking himself, no
crackling of a fire, no smell of smoke. Jack began to suspect that the
cave was merely a passage. To make sure, he ventured to strike a match,
and looking quickly around he saw that he was probably right; there was
no opening visible anywhere, the walls were quite solid. At the same
time he observed that the reason he could not see daylight ahead was
that a big bulge in the wall at one side cut off his view.
Throwing the match into the water, he advanced around the bulge and
rode on slowly until he came in sight of the second dry watercourse
which led down to the valley, and there he paused again to listen.
It was well he did so. He had not been standing there one minute ere
he distinctly heard the click of horseshoes on the bare stone, and a
moment afterwards Squeaky rode into view, coming leisurely up the gully.
Jack backed away until he could no longer see the approaching enemy,
and then turning about he rode quickly but silently back to the far
side of the bulge. There, leaving Ulysses on the saddle, and putting
the reins into the dog’s mouth, with an order to keep quiet, he himself
slipped into the water, and wading some steps forward, squatted down
in the middle of the pool, his head and his hands only being above the
surface. It was not his intention to risk a shot in the dark,--indeed,
he was as much opposed to shooting a man as we were,--but he hoped to
be able to seize Squeaky by the foot as he passed and to throw him from
his horse into the water, when he would have a good chance of mastering
him.
Meanwhile Squeaky came riding into the tunnel, quite unsuspicious of
Jack’s presence, and advanced straight upon him, until Jack, fearing
that he was about to be trodden upon, was on the point of hitting
the horse upon the side of its head with his rifle-barrel to make it
swerve, when the horse itself, suddenly thrusting forward its nose,
snorted in Jack’s face and whirled round. This unexpected action
unseated Squeaky, who fell flat upon his face upon the water, at the
same time dropping his rifle, which exploded as it fell.
Jack was upon him in a moment, like a cat upon a mouse, and grasping
him by the collar with his right hand he pressed his head beneath the
water, while he held his rifle ready in his left to strike him upon the
skull if he must.
Squeaky was a powerful fellow, but on this occasion he had to do with
one as strong as himself. Taken by surprise, deprived of his weapon,
assaulted suddenly and vigorously from behind by a silent, unseen
enemy, and more than all, choked by the water every time he tried to
draw breath, he had no chance. The struggle lasted less than five
minutes, during a great part of which time Squeaky’s head was under
water. His efforts grew more and more feeble, and at length ceased
altogether.
Then, still holding him by the collar, all ready to duck him again if
he should be shamming, Jack dragged his defeated foe to the end of
the tunnel and dropped him upon dry ground, where he lay motionless,
streaming water from every part of his body. He was, in fact, very
nearly drowned.
Having whistled to Toby, who at once came wading out of the darkness,
Jack cut from the saddle three of the long buckskin strings with which
it was adorned, and with them he bound his still unconscious antagonist
by his wrists, his elbows, and his ankles.
The enemy being thus rendered entirely helpless, it remained to find
out whether he was dead or alive; a question which was solved in a
few minutes by the gasping and coughing of the captive as he began
to get his breath again. At these signs of recovery Jack felt a good
deal relieved, for though in his opinion it would be a benefit to the
community if Squeaky were dead, still he had no desire to be himself
the executioner.
As soon as Squeaky was sufficiently recovered to sit up, Jack, seeing
that he was shivering with cold, unceremoniously seized him by the
collar again and dragged him to a spot where the sun’s rays found their
way to the bottom of the cañon, and there propped him up with his back
against the wall.
“Well, Mr. Morgan,” said he, “it looks to me as if it were my turn now.”
At this address Squeaky opened his little piggy eyes as wide as they
would go. His hat, and with it his mask, had remained in the pool.
“Who are you calling ‘Mr. Morgan’?” he asked, with an injured air.
“You,” replied Jack. “That was your name back in Utah, I remember.
But I suppose a name doesn’t last more than three months or so with
gentlemen in your line of business. Never mind that, though. Where are
my friends?”
Squeaky looked hard at Jack for a minute, and then, thinking perhaps
that it would be as well to propitiate his captor, he replied:
“They’re in a little cabin on the other side of the valley down here.
They’re all right; at least they were half an hour ago.”
“Very well,” said Jack. “Then I’ll go down and call upon them. You will
have to stay here till I come back. I’ll leave you the dog for company;
and let me recommend you to sit still--he bites sometimes. Here,
Ulysses; mind him.”
Ulysses, who had left his perch on Toby’s back, advanced at the call,
and, lying down with his chin upon his crossed paws, stared fixedly at
the prisoner in a most embarrassing manner; upon which Jack, having
patted the dog and repeated the command to “mind him,” shouldered his
rifle, and, whistling to Toby to follow, walked off down the gully.
As he had surprised Squeaky, so he was destined to suffer a surprise
himself, for, ten minutes later, he was impetuously assaulted by us
two escaped prisoners, who, regardless of the rifle he instinctively
presented at our heads, rushed from our fortification, scrambled over
the barrier, and were “all over him” in a moment.
What a joyous meeting that was! What an immense relief to our minds to
find ourselves once more together, alive and unharmed! It was hard to
realize that we had been parted only for twenty-four hours; it seemed
much more like twenty-four days.
Very few words sufficed to explain the situation; when, assuming the
command again, Jack directed me to go back and look after Bates, while
he and Percy returned to the pool to bring Squeaky down.
In a short time our two prisoners were seated side by side with their
backs against the cabin wall, Ulysses and I standing guard over them,
while Jack and Percy at a little distance discussed in low tones the
somewhat difficult question as to what we were to do with them.
Percy presently came and relieved guard, and I then walked over to
Jack, who explained to me the plan decided upon--subject to my approval.
It was, in brief, that we should set out at once for Bozeman, and there
deliver up Squeaky to the authorities; charging him with kidnapping,
or blackmailing, or whatever the proper term might be by which his
offence was known to the law; at the same time giving information of
the stolen horses, which were to be left in the valley.
As to Bates, some time in the course of the journey he was to be
allowed _accidentally_ to escape. Besides a natural inclination to be
easy on our ex-schoolfellow,--an inclination to which Jack readily
deferred,--we felt sure that he had been led into this business more or
less against his will; we knew that he had expressed his intention to
preserve our lives, and we felt grateful to him accordingly; moreover
we were pretty sure that when free to go where he would, he would fly
with all speed to the other side of the Atlantic. And that, we were
agreed, was the very best thing he could do. We did not wish to ruin
his life by consigning him to jail for an unknown number of years; and
we reasoned that if anything would deter him from taking such risks
again, it would be the scare he would get when he found himself, as
he would suppose, about to be turned over to the tender mercies of
the Territorial authorities--a scare which, as his pale countenance
testified, was already beginning to press upon him pretty heavily.
As to the question whether or not we should disclose to Bates the
fact that we were aware of his identity, we decided in the negative,
thinking that it would be an act of charity to allow him to escape
unrecognised, as he would believe; for he still retained his mask, and
unless he should voluntarily discard it, we should have no difficulty
in keeping up our pretence of ignorance.
We decided also that Jack should do all the ordering, and that we two
should hold as little communication as possible with the prisoners.
The matter being settled we at once set about our preparations for
departure. While Percy, with Ulysses’ assistance, remained as guard,
Jack galloped off on Toby to bring up the mules and horses,--Squeaky’s
horse had returned of its own accord,--and I put together the packs,
now very light, for our provisions were almost entirely expended.
The mules being packed and the horses saddled, Bates’s bonds were cut,
and he was ordered to mount, I being set over him as guard. Next,
Squeaky’s horse was brought up, but before its owner was allowed to
mount, the bridle was pulled over the horse’s head and attached by a
short length of rope to the pack-saddle of the more sober of our two
mules--old Joe. Then, while Jack with cocked rifle stood over him,
Squeaky’s bonds were cut by Percy, and he was told to get into the
saddle. I was half afraid he would make a dash for liberty, but having
glanced from Jack to Percy, and from Percy back to Jack, and judging
from their attitude of determination that it would be well to obey,
persuaded too by the gleam of teeth displayed by the ready Ulysses, he
obeyed accordingly, growling to himself like a discontented bear.
We three having mounted, the procession started; Bates first, then I,
riding Toby in order that the mules might follow with docility, then
Calliope, who always took precedence of Joe, then Joe himself, towing
Squeaky’s horse, and last of all, Jack and Percy, side by side.
At the bars Bates was ordered to dismount and let them down, while
Percy, when we had passed through, stopped to put them up again. Soon
we entered the tunnel. As it began to get dark Jack produced from his
pocket half-a-dozen slivers of pitch-pine, and putting a match to
them, held them aloft for a torch. The flare showed up the walls and
the arched roof for a long distance before and behind, and if the
prisoners had entertained hopes of slipping away in the darkness they
were disappointed.
By midday we reached our old camping-ground, for we had descended
much more quickly than we had gone up the range, but without stopping
there we went on until six o’clock, when Jack gave the order to camp.
Our prisoners were fed and sent to bed, tightly rolled up in their
blankets, after the fashion that Squeaky had adopted with us, and one
or other of our party stood guard over them all night, Ulysses acting
as an efficient assistant to each of us. In the same order we set out
again next day, and jogged along till near noon, by which time we
judged we must be coming soon within sight of our destination.
All this time Bates had made no sign of wishing to escape, and I
was wondering how we were to get rid of him, when Percy came riding
along the line, and joining me, began a whispered discussion of that
very subject. He did not advance very far, however, for ere he had
finished his first remark an event occurred which rendered any further
discussion unnecessary.
Just ahead of us, beside the trail we were following, stood a big old
pine-tree, the upper half of which was dead. As we passed this tree
there came one of those sudden, whirling wind-storms so common in the
mountain-country; the top of the tree was twisted off and cast upon the
ground close to old Joe’s quarters. The startled mule sprang forward,
Squeaky’s horse sprang backward, and the result was, naturally, that
the head-stall of the bridle broke. At the same moment we were assailed
by a vicious, spiteful blast of sand and small pebbles, which stung
our faces so that everyone instinctively lowered his head and threw up
one arm as a protection. The squall lasted only a quarter of a minute,
but in that quarter-minute Bates and Squeaky seized the opportunity
they had doubtless been waiting for and went off down-wind with the
dust-cloud. When we looked up again they were just disappearing into
the woods behind us, lying flat upon their horses’ backs to avoid the
bullets they evidently expected to be sent after them.
It was uncommonly well done on their part, I am bound to admit. I had
not given Bates, at any rate, credit for such promptness of action.
Jack’s first impulse was to fulfil their expectations by sending an
experimental bullet after them. He half raised his rifle; but on
second thought he lowered it again, and turning to us, said:
“Well, after all, I believe that that is the best way out of it. They
won’t trouble us any more. We’ll inform the authorities, and if they
want to go after them they can do so. I’m sorry for Bates, though;
he’ll live to be hanged, I’m afraid.”
“I wish he had escaped before,” said Percy. “Now that he has gone off
again with Squeaky there’s no telling what scrape he will be led into
next. It is a pity we didn’t tell him we were going to let him escape.”
“I’m sorry too,” Jack responded; “but we acted to the best of our
judgment. I don’t think we are to blame. There is one thing:--he may
have been so badly scared by the prospect of going to prison that he
may conclude to part company with Squeaky at the first opportunity.”
“Do you suppose they will go back to the hiding-place?” I asked.
“I doubt it,” replied Jack. “They will know that we shall give
information of the place as soon as we get to town, and that somebody
will probably set out at once to recover the horses, when they might
be caught like rats in a trap. They are more likely, I think, to get as
far away as they can from the place. Come on. Let us jog along. We must
get in before sunset, if possible.”
The citizens of Bozeman were accustomed, I suppose, to the sight of
rough-looking strangers riding through their streets; and we were
rough-looking enough, surely, with our elbows showing through our
coat-sleeves and our knees through our trousers, with our hair down
below our collars, and our faces so sunburned that Jack and Percy
looked like a pair of Mexicans, while I was about the colour of the
rising moon. At any rate, nobody took any notice of us as we rode along
the main street of the little town to the post-office, and there pulled
up.
Jack dismounted and went in, returning in a few minutes with a handful
of letters, and we then passed on through the town and encamped upon
the stream just outside. There were three or four letters for each
of us. Eagerly, and with a bit of a tremour, Percy and I tore open
the envelopes, one after the other, glanced at the contents, and
simultaneously heaved such a big sigh of satisfaction that Jack looked
up.
“All right?” he asked.
“All right,” we replied together.
“Good!” said he. “Same here.”
After which laconic dialogue, silence ensued for the space of half an
hour, while we read and re-read the welcome letters from home.
Letters from home! Nobody knows their right value until he reads them
five thousand miles away from the hand that wrote them.
It was plain that my parents had great confidence in Jack, for they
expressed no anxiety on my account, though they did intimate that
it was rather a long time since they had heard from me. They also
suggested that it was about time we came home again, though, if there
should be a really good reason for our not returning at once, we were
given permission to stay on.
They were too wise, however, to leave the question of the goodness of
the reason to our prejudiced and immature opinions; Jack was to be the
sole and only judge.
Jack, we found, had a letter from Percy’s father repeating these
instructions, and having read it, he sat silent for five minutes,
thinking, while Percy and I fidgeted about, waiting for his decision.
At length he delivered judgment.
“Well, you fellows,” said he, regretfully, “I suppose you must go home.”
“Oh, no!” we both exclaimed together. “Not yet.”
“My instructions are to send you home,” Jack went on, “unless there is
a good reason against it; and I’m afraid there’s no good reason. We’ve
had a jolly outing; but from a business point of view it has resulted
in nothing. From the day we started to this present moment we haven’t
seen so much as a speck of gold.--What’s up?”
It was no wonder he asked what was up; for Percy, springing from the
ground as suddenly as though he had just discovered that he was sitting
on a nest of red ants, dived his hand into his trousers pocket, and
then, holding it out, palm upwards, exclaimed, “What’s that?”
“Where did you get that?” cried Jack, full of excitement in a moment.
“I found it in a pot-hole in the bed of the creek, close to that
curious rock in the horse-thieves’ hiding-place.”
“You did!”
Jack took the little nugget; looked it over and over; took out his
pocket-knife and cut little nicks in it; and then, for several
seconds, stood staring hard at nothing; while we stood silently by,
staring hard at him.
Presently he heaved a big sigh, shut up the knife with a snap, and said
quietly, but with much decisiveness:
“I’m going back.”
“Then so are we,” said Percy.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]