THE RESCUE OF MISS SPENCER
While Hampton lingered between life and death, assiduously waited upon
by both Naida and Mrs. Guffy, Brant nursed his burns, far more serious
than he had at first supposed, within the sanctity of his tent, longing
for an order to take him elsewhere, and dreading the possibility of
again having to encounter this girl, who remained to him so perplexing
an enigma. Glencaid meanwhile recovered from its mania of lynch-law,
and even began exhibiting some faint evidences of shame over what was
so plainly a mistake. And the populace were also beginning to exhibit
no small degree of interest in the weighty matters which concerned the
fast-culminating love affairs of Miss Spencer.
Almost from her earliest arrival the extensive cattle and mining
interests of the neighborhood became aggressively arrayed against each
other; and now, as the fierce personal rivalry between Messrs. Moffat
and McNeil grew more intense, the breach perceptibly widened. While
the infatuation of the Reverend Mr. Wynkoop for this same fascinating
young lady was plainly to be seen, his chances in the race were not
seriously regarded by the more active partisans upon either side. As
the stage driver explained to an inquisitive party of tourists, "He 's
a mighty fine little feller, gents, but he ain't got the git up an' git
necessary ter take the boundin' fancy of a high-strung heifer like her.
It needs a plum good man ter' rope an' tie any female critter in this
Territory, let me tell ye."
With this conception of the situation in mind, the citizens generally
settled themselves down to enjoy the truly Homeric struggle, freely
wagering their gold-dust upon the outcome. The regular patrons of the
Miners' Retreat were backing Mr. Moffat to a man, while those claiming
headquarters at the Occidental were equally ardent in their support of
the prospects of Mr. McNeil. It must be confessed that Miss Spencer
flirted outrageously, and enjoyed life as she never had done in the
effete East.
In simple truth, it was not in Miss Spencer's sympathetic disposition
to be cruel to any man, and in this puzzling situation she exhibited
all the impartiality possible. The Reverend Mr. Wynkoop always felt
serenely confident of an uninterrupted welcome upon Sunday evenings
after service, while the other nights of the week were evenly
apportioned between the two more ardent aspirants. The delvers after
mineral wealth amid the hills, and the herders on the surrounding
ranches, felt that this was a personal matter between them, and acted
accordingly. Three-finger Boone, who was caught red-handed timing the
exact hour of Mr. Moffat's exit from his lady-love's presence, was
indignantly ducked in the watering-trough before the Miners' Retreat,
and given ten minutes in which to mount his cayuse and get safely
across the camp boundaries. He required only five. Bad-eye Connelly,
who was suspected of having cut Mr. McNeil's lariat while that
gentleman tarried at the Occidental for some slight refreshments while
on his way home, was very promptly rendered a fit hospital subject by
an inquisitive cowman who happened upon the scene.
On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings the Miners' Retreat was a
scene of wild hilarity, for it was then that Mr. Moffat, gorgeously
arrayed in all the bright hues of his imported Mexican outfit, his long
silky mustaches properly curled, his melancholy eyes vast wells of
mysterious sorrow, was known to be comfortably seated in the Herndon
parlor, relating gruesome tales of wild mountain adventure which paled
the cheeks of his fair and entranced listener. Then on Tuesday,
Thursday, and Saturday nights, when Mr. McNeil rode gallantly in on his
yellow bronco, bedecked in all the picturesque paraphernalia of the
boundless plains, revolver swinging at thigh, his wide sombrero
shadowing his dare-devil eyes, the front of the gay Occidental blazed
with lights, and became crowded to the doors with enthusiastic herders
drinking deep to the success of their representative.
It is no more than simple justice to the fair Phoebe to state that she
was, as her aunt expressed it, "in a dreadful state of mind." Between
these two picturesque and typical knights of plain and mountain she
vibrated, unable to make deliberate choice. That she was ardently
loved by each she realized with recurring thrills of pleasure; that she
loved in return she felt no doubt--but alas! which? How perfectly
delightful it would be could she only fall into some desperate plight,
from which the really daring knight might rescue her! That would cut
the Gordian knot. While laboring in this state of indecision she must
have voiced her ambition in some effective manner to the parties
concerned, for late one Wednesday night Moffat tramped heavily into the
Miners' Retreat and called Long Pete Lumley over into a deserted corner
of the bar-room.
"Well, Jack," the latter began expectantly, "hev ye railly got the
cinch on that cowboy at last, hey?"
"Dern it all, Pete, I 'm blamed if I know; leastwise, I ain't got no
sure prove-up. I tell ye thet girl's just about the toughest piece o'
rock I ever had any special call to assay. I think first I got her
good an' proper, an' then she drops out all of a sudden, an' I lose the
lead. It's mighty aggravating let me tell ye. Ye see it's this way.
She 's got some durn down East-notion that she's got ter be rescued,
an' borne away in the arms of her hero (thet's 'bout the way she puts
it), like they do in them pesky novels the Kid 's allers reading and so
I reckon I 've got ter rescue her!"
"Rescue her from whut, Jack? Thar' ain't nuthin' 'round yere just now
as I know of, less it's rats."
The lover glanced about to make sure they were alone. "Well, ye see,
Pete, maybe I 'm partly to blame. I 've sorter been entertainin' her
nights with some stories regardin' road-agents an' things o' thet sort,
while, so fur as I kin larn, thet blame chump of a McNeil hes been
fillin' her up scandalous with Injuns, until she 's plum got 'em on the
brain. Ye know a feller jist hes ter gas along 'bout somethin' like
thet, fer it's no fool job ter entertain a female thet's es frisky es a
young colt. And now, I reckon as how it's got ter be Injuns."
"Whut's got ter be Injuns?"
"Why thet outfit whut runs off with her, of course. I reckon you
fellers will stand in all right ter help pull me out o' this hole?"
Long Pete nodded.
"Well, Pete, this is 'bout whut's got ter be done, es near es I kin
figger it out. You pick out maybe half a dozen good fellers, who kin
keep their mouths shet, an' make Injuns out of 'em. 'Tain't likely she
'll ever twig any of the boys fixed up proper in thet sorter
outfit--anyhow, she'd be too durned skeered. Then you lay fer her, say
'bout next Wednesday, out in them Carter woods, when she 's comin' home
from school. I 'll kinder naturally happen 'long by accident 'bout the
head o' the gulch, an' jump in an' rescue her. _Sabe_?"
Lumley gazed at his companion with eyes expressive of admiration. "By
thunder, if you haven't got a cocoanut on ye, Jack! Lord, but thet
ought to get her a flyin'! Any shootin'?"
"Sure!" Moffat's face exhibited a faint smile at these words of
praise. "It wouldn't be no great shucks of a rescue without, an' this
hes got ter be the real thing. Only, I reckon, ye better shoot high,
so thar' won't be no hurt done."
When the two gentlemen parted, a few moments later, the conspiracy was
fully hatched, all preliminaries perfected, and the gallant rescue of
Miss Spencer assured. Indeed, there is some reason now to believe that
this desirable result was rendered doubly certain, for as Moffat moved
slowly past the Occidental on his way home, a person attired in chaps
and sombrero, and greatly resembling McNeil, was in the back room,
breathing some final instructions to a few bosom friends.
"Now don't--eh--any o' you fellers--eh--go an' forget the place. Jump
in--eh--lively. Just afore she--eh--gits ter thet thick
bunch--eh--underbrush, whar' the trail sorter--eh--drops down inter the
ravine. An' you chumps wanter--eh--git--yerselves up so she can't pipe
any of ye off--eh--in this yere--eh--road-agent act. I tell ye, after
what thet--eh--Moffat's bin a-pumpin' inter her, she's just got ter
be--eh--rescued, an' in blame good style, er--eh--it ain't no go."
"Oh, you rest easy 'bout all thet, Bill," chimed in Sandy Winn, his
black eyes dancing in anticipation of coming fun. "We 'll git up the
ornariest outfit whut ever hit the pike."
The long shadows of the late afternoon were already falling across the
gloomy Carter woods, while the red sun sank lower behind old Bull
Mountain. The Reverend Howard Wynkoop, who for more than an hour past
had been vainly dangling a fishing-line above the dancing waters of
Clear Creek, now reclined dreamily on the soft turf of the high bank,
his eyes fixed upon the distant sky-line. His thoughts were on the
flossy hair and animated face of the fair Miss Spencer, who he
momentarily expected would round the edge of the hill, and so deeply
did he become sank in blissful reflection as to be totally oblivious to
everything but her approach.
Just above his secret resting-place, where the great woods deepen, and
the gloomy shadows lie darkly all through the long afternoons, a small
party of hideously painted savages skulked silently in ambush.
Suddenly to their strained ears was borne the sound of horses' hoofs;
and then, all at once, a woman's voice rang out in a single shrill,
startled cry.
"Whut is up?" questioned the leading savage, hoarsely. "Is he a-doin'
this little job all by hisself?"
"Dunno," answered the fellow next him, flipping his quirt uneasily;
"but I reckon as how it's her as squealed, an' we 'd better be gitting
in ter hev our share o' the fun."
The "chief," with an oath of disgust, dashed forward, and his band
surged after. Just below them, and scarcely fifty feet away, a
half-score of roughly clad, heavily bearded men were clustered in the
centre of the trail, two of their number lifting the unconscious form
of a fainting woman upon a horse.
"Cervera's gang, by gosh!" panted the leading savage. "How did they
git yere?"
"You bet! She's up agin the real thing," ejaculated a voice beside
him. "Let's ride 'em off the earth! Whoop!"
With wild yells to awaken fresh courage, the whole band plunged
headlong down the sharp decline, striking the surprised "road-agents"
with a force and suddenness which sent half of them sprawling.
Revolvers flashed, oaths and shouts rang out fiercely, men clinched
each other, striking savage blows. Lumley grasped the leader of the
other party by the hair, and endeavored to beat him over the head with
his revolver butt. Even as he uplifted his hand to strike, the man's
beard fell off, and the two fierce combatants paused as though
thunderstruck.
"Hold on yere, boy!" yelled Lumley. "This yere is some blame joke.
These fellers is Bill McNeil's gang."
"By thunder! if it ain't Pete Lumley," ejaculated the other. "Whut did
ye hit me fer, ye long-legged minin' jackass?"
The explanation was never uttered. Out from the surrounding gloom of
underbrush a hatless, dishevelled individual on foot suddenly dashed
into the centre of that hesitating ring of horsemen. With skilful
twist of his foot he sent a dismounted road-agent spinning over
backward, and managed to wrench a revolver from his hand. There was a
blaze of red flame, a cloud of smoke, six sharp reports, and a wild
stampede of frantic horsemen.
Then the Reverend Howard Wynkoop flung the empty gun disdainfully down
into the dirt, stepped directly across the motionless outstretched
body, and knelt humbly beside a slender, white-robed figure lying close
against the fringe of bushes. Tenderly he lifted the fair head to his
throbbing bosom, and gazed directly down into the white, unconscious
face. Even as he looked her eyes unclosed, her body trembling within
his arms.
"Have no fear," he implored, reading terror in the expression of her
face. "Miss Spencer--Phoebe--it is only I, Mr. Wynkoop."
"You! Have those awful creatures gone?"
"Yes, yes; be calm, I beg you. There is no longer the slightest
danger. I am here to protect you with my life if need be."
"Oh, Howard--Mr. Wynkoop--it is all so strange, so bewildering; my
nerves are so shattered! But it has taught me a great, great lesson.
How could I have ever been so blind? I thought Mr. Moffat and Mr.
McNeil were such heroes, and yet now in this hour of desperate peril it
was you who flew gallantly to my rescue! It is you who are the true
Western knight!"
And Mr. Wynkoop gazed down into those grateful eyes, and modestly
confessed it true.