GOOD NEWS FROM WASHINGTON.
"Fainted, by Jove!"
So spoke Pawnee Brown as he sprang forward to Mortimer Arbuckle's aid.
The man was as pale as the driven snow, and for the instant the great
scout thought his very heart had stopped beating.
He raised Mortimer Arbuckle up and opened his collar and took off his
tie, that he might get some air.
"Wot's the row here?"
It was the voice of Peter Day, the backwoodsman who had agreed to take
care of Arbuckle during his illness. He had followed the man out of the
house to see that no harm might befall him.
"He has fainted," answered Pawnee Brown. "Fetch some water, and hold
that--hang it, he's gone!"
Pawnee Brown rushed to the barn door. Far away he saw Powell Dike
running as though the old Nick was after him. A second later the rascal
disappeared from view. The boomer never saw or heard of him again.
Between the great scout and Pawnee Brown, Mortimer Arbuckle was once
again taken to Day's home and made comfortable.
"He insisted on taking a walk to-day," explained the backwoodsman. "I
told him he couldn't stand it. I reckon he's as bad now as he ever was."
"Take good care of him, Day, and beware of any men who may be prowling
about," answered Pawnee Brown. "There is something wrong in the air, but
I'm satisfied that if we help this poor fellow we'll be on the right
side of the brush."
Mortimer Arbuckle was now coming around, but when he spoke he was quite
out of his mind. The doctor was hastily sent for, and he administered a
potion which speedily put the sufferer to sleep.
"It's an odd case," said the medical man. "The fellow is suffering more
mentally than physically. He must have something awful on his mind."
"He is the victim of some plot--I am certain of it," was the scout's
firm answer.
Not long after this, Pawnee Brown was returning to Arkansas City,
certain that Mortimer Arbuckle would now be well cared for and closely
watched until he and Dick could return to the sufferer.
"As soon as this booming business is over I must try to clear things for
that old gent," murmured the boomer to himself as he rode up to the
telegraph office. "I'd do a good deal for him and that noble son of
his."
Another telegram had just come in, by way of Wichita, which ran as
follows:
"The Lower House of Congress has passed the Oklahoma bill. Pawnee Brown
has woke the politicians up at last. Stand ready to enter Oklahoma if an
attempt is made to throw the bill aside in the Senate, but don't be
rash, as it may not be long before everything comes our way--in fact, it
looks as if everything would come very soon."
At this telegram the great scout was inclined to throw up his hat and
give a cheer. His work in Kansas was having an effect. No longer could
the cattle kings stand up against the rights of the people. He handed
the message to a number of his friends standing near.
"Hurrah fer Pawnee Brown!" shouted one man, and standing on a soap box
read the telegram aloud.
"Score one fer the boomers!"
"An' a big one fer Pawnee."
"Don't hurry now, Pawnee, you've got 'em whar the hair ez good an'
long!"
"It would seem so, men," answered the great scout. "No, I'll be careful
now--since the tide has turned. In less than sixty days I'll wager all I
am worth we'll march into Oklahoma without the first sign of trouble."
It did not take the news long to travel to the boomers' camp, and great
was the rejoicing upon every side.
"Dot's der pest ding I vos hear for a month," said Humpendinck. "Pawnee
ought to haf a medal alreatty."
"It's a stattoo we will put up fer him in Oklahomy," said Delaney. "A
stattoo wid Pawnee a-ridin' loike mad to the new lands, wid the
Homestead act in wan hand an' a bundle o' sthakes in th' other, an'
under the stattoo we'll put the wurruds, 'Pawnee Brown, the St. Patrick
av Oklahomy!'"
"Ach! go on mit yer St. Patrick!" howled Humpendinck. "He vos noddings
but a snake killer."
"Oh, mon!" burst in Rosy Delaney. "A snake killer, Moike, do ye moind
thot? Swat the Dootchman wan, quick!"
And Mike "swatted" with an end of a fence rail he was chopping up for
firewood. But Humpendinck dodged, and Rosy caught the blow, and there
followed a lively row between her and Mike, in the midst of which the
German boomer sneaked away.
"Dot Irishmans vos so fiery as der hair mit his head," he muttered to
himself. "I dink I vos keep out of sight bis he vos cool off, and
den--Mine gracious, Bumpkin, var did you come from? I dinks you vos left
behind py Arkansas City."
For there had suddenly appeared before Humpendinck the form of the
dunce, hatless and with his black hair tumbled over his face in all
directions.
"Ha, ha! where have I been?" cried Pumpkin. "Where haven't I been you
had better ask. I've been everywhere--among the soldiers and the boomers
and the Indians." He stopped short. "Where is Pawnee Brown?"
"Ofer py Clemmer's vagon. But he ton't vont ter pother mit you now."
"He will bother with me," and so speaking Pumpkin ran off, to reach the
great scout's side and pluck him by the coat sleeve.
"At your service, sir," he said, bowing low, for with all of his
peculiarities Pumpkin had a great respect for Pawnee Brown.
"What is it, lad?"
"I have to report, sir, that your pard is captured--Jack Rasco; he had a
fearful fight and the soldiers have him. Ha! ha! they will shoot
Jack--if you let 'em, but I know you won't--will you now?"
"You are certain Jack is captured?"
"Dead sure--saw him with my own eyes. Ha! ha! they tried to catch
Pumpkin, but they might as well try to catch a ghost. Ha! ha! but I give
'em a fine run."
It took a good deal of talking to get a straight story from the
half-witted youth, but at last Pawnee Brown was in full possession of
the facts. Pumpkin had seen Rasco on the march just before Dick was
taken.
Immediately after this the boomer held a short consultation with
Clemmer.
"I feel it my duty to help Rasco to escape, if it can be done," he said.
"Besides, it is high time for me to return to Dick Arbuckle and to find
out, if possible, what has become of Jack's niece."
"Shall I go along?" questioned Clemmer, "I wouldn't like anything
better."
"All right, come on," answered the great scout.
He had scarcely spoken when a loud cry rang out, coming from the lower
end of the camp.
"Buckley's bull has broken loose! Look out for yourself, the beast has
gone mad!"
"Buckley's bull!" muttered Pawnee Brown. "I ordered him to slaughter
that vicious beast. Why, he's as fierce as those the Mexicans use in
their bull fights!"
"He's a terror," answered Clemmer. "If he--By gum, here he comes,
Pawnee!"
As he spoke Clemmer turned to one side and started to run. Looking
forward the great scout saw the bull bearing down upon him. The eyes of
the creature were bloodshot and the foam was dripping from the corners
of his mouth, showing that he was clearly beyond control.
The bull, which was of extra large size, had Clemmer in view, and made
after the cowboy, who happened to be unarmed. Away went man and beast in
something of a circle, to fetch up near Pawnee Brown less than a minute
later. As they came close, Clemmer fell and went sprawling almost at the
scout's feet.
"Save me!" he panted. "Save me, Pawnee!"
Pawnee Brown did not answer. Leaping over the cowboy's prostrate form,
he pulled out his pistol and his hunting knife and stood ready to
receive the bull, who came tearing along, with lowered horns, ready to
charge the scout to the death.