THE ponies were jogging down the trail, Leach Sharkey uncomfortably
lurching in his saddle when some sudden bend or dip was encountered,
Dick Willoughby good-humoredly holding him on when such emergencies
rendered the service advisable if an ignominious fall were to be
avoided. There was a song of joy in Dick’s heart—liberty was at hand;
he was riding down from the hills to join his loved one again. But there
was sullen brooding in the soul of the outwitted sleuth—growing more
sullen with every mile traversed, with every kindness rendered, with the
very realization of his own ridiculous predicament and the contrast of
his companion’s light-hearted happiness.
At last they reached the foot of the trail, leading on to the road that
crossed the plain. At the distance of a few miles the Rancho San Antonio
showed amid its clustering shade and orchard trees.
“Let us dismount for a bit,” suggested Sharkey. “I feel all in—dead beat
and tired.”
“But how will I get you on to your horse again?” replied Dick, a trifle
dubiously.
“Oh, we’ll manage that. Please help me down.” Dick sprang to the ground,
dropped the reins over his pony’s head, and soon had Leach Sharkey on
terra firma.
“You’re no light weight to handle,” he laughed. “By the way, Sharkey, I
forgot to ask: Where’s your boss this afternoon?”
Sharkey eyed Dick curiously.
“You don’t know?”
“Why should I know? It’s quite a time since I met the gentleman.”
“You are aware who Pierre Luzon is?”
“Certainly. Pierre has come to be quite a friend of mine. He’s a good
fellow all right.” There was a moment’s pause. Dick was rolling a
cigarette, Sharkey furtively watching every expression on his face.
“Well, the Frenchie played me a dirty trick when he threw that key
away,” remarked the sleuth, rattling, the handcuffs behind his back.
“I guess Pierre was resolved to take no chances,” replied Dick, grinning
through the tobacco smoke as he surveyed the helpless bodyguard. “He
only needed a pair of hobbles to complete the job.”
A muttered curse came from Sharkey’s lips—but this was an aside. For
Dick he had an insinuating smile.
“You might get these blamed handcuffs off all right, Willoughby. Look
at that big boulder there. If I set my hands across it, you might hammer
through the chain. Or if you have a pistol, that might do the trick.”
“No, I’ve got no pistol,” Dick replied.
He did not notice the gleam of satisfaction in Sharkey’s eyes—the
wolfish smile at the corners of his wolf-like teeth. At the moment he
was looking around for a convenient stone that might serve as a hammer.
“But I think I might break that chain all right with this,” he went on,
as he stooped and picked up a heavy, sharp-edged fragment of granite
from the rock-strewn ground. “Come along, then. Set your wrists just
here. At least, we can try.”
The trial succeeded—the slender steel strain stretched across the
boulder soon yielded to the succession of battering blows.
Sharkey flung his great big brawny arms aloft. He was still wearing the
bracelets, but his hands were free.
“Feels better, don’t it?” said Dick, with a sympathetic smile.
“A damned sight better,” roared the sleuth, as he turned quickly round.
“Now, young man, you are my prisoner. I arrest you for jail-breaking.
There’s my star. I don’t say hands up, for I know you haven’t a gun.”
As he spoke, Sharkey opened his coat so that the official badge might be
displayed.
Dick in his amazement stepped back, just one pace. Sharkey advanced, his
high hands outstretched.
“Make no trouble, now. You know I am only doing my duty.”
“Duty be hanged,” cried Dick, as with a swift uppercut he caught
his would-be captor on the jaw. Sharkey staggered, and Dick, with a
right-arm swing, banged him on the temple, bowling him over like a
ninepin.
Sharkey was soon on his hands and knees; then dazed and tottering, he
got onto his feet again. But Dick was watchfully waiting, and with sharp
jabs, right and left, sent him down once more. The sleuth lay motionless
now.
Like a flash Dick grabbed the riata hanging from the saddle-horn of his
pony, and without a moment’s loss of time had its coils around the arms
and chest of the prostrate man, roping him like a thrown steer with all
the skill of the trained cowboy. In a brief minute the knots were tied,
and with the final clove-hitch the fallen Samson was turned over on his
back. Sharkey’s eyes opened, glaring dully at his conqueror.
“You contemptible hound!” exclaimed Dick, as he tossed the loose end of
the lariat from him. “By God, I’ve seen a few low-down things done in
my lifetime, but this is certainly the limit. I suppose you would have
betrayed me for the sake of the reward, even though you know now for
certain that I was wrongfully arrested at the start. You damned Judas!
You deserve to be hanged like a horse-thief, Leach Sharkey—that’s about
your proper finish.”
And Dick in his righteous indignation glanced around as if in search of
a convenient tree for the operation.
“I’ll give no further trouble,” mumbled Sharkey.
“It will be my particular care that you don’t,” replied Dick. “Get
up, you hulking brute.” And grabbing the coils of the riata, he fairly
lifted Sharkey to his feet.
“Now, I wouldn’t shame the pony by putting you on his back again. Follow
me.”
Picking up the free end of the rope, and gathering the leading rein of
Sharkey’s horse into the same hand, Willoughby vaulted into his saddle.
“Come along,” he called out, turning round as the riata came taut. And
thus, a dozen paces behind, the sleuth, discomfited again a second
time that day, and humiliated worse than ever, followed perforce in his
victor’s trail.
Perhaps half a mile of the open road was thus traversed, Dick speaking
not another word, but looking round occasionally and giving an energetic
yank at the rope whenever there was evidence of laggard steps. Sharkey
stumbled along, his chin buried in his breast, his eyes half-closed to
conceal their dumb, vicious glare of concentrated but impotent fury.
They had now reached a gate; Dick dismounted and threw it open, pointing
the way for Sharkey to take.
“It’s about five miles to the rancho,” he said. “I don’t know how you’ll
get through the other gates, but I reckon you can crawl under them, like
the snake you’ve proved yourself to be. Now, off you go,” and with
the words he looped the loose end of the riata around the victim’s
shoulders. “That’s a better necktie than you deserve, Leach Sharkey.
If it was any one but myself, you would be helped to a start by a few
vigorous kicks behind.”
The sleuth shambled through the gateway, with shamed, averted face. With
a click the gate was closed. For just a few minutes Dick watched the
figure moving away through the now gathering dusk. Then he laid a hand
on his saddle-horn.
“I hope it’s the last I’ll see of that animal,” he murmured to himself,
as he sprang lightly into the saddle. And at a canter he started along
the road, the led pony, after a few heel-kicks as if in joy at being
relieved of its burden, soon dropping into the swinging stride.