The Bandit’s Messenger
It was a gorgeous day, that first day of Phil’s imprisonment in the
dungeon with the slit high up in the wall, a kind of day when boys,
especially the Radio Boys, always longed to do something particularly
daring and thrilling—anything, so long as it promised adventure.
Alas for poor Phil! Rising from his hard bed, cramped and aching in
every muscle of his body, so stiff that he could hardly move, he gazed
longingly at the patch of intensely blue sky that could be seen through
the makeshift slit of a window.
“Such a day for flying,” he groaned, sinking down on the stone bench
that had served him for a bed, his head hanging dejectedly. “Say, just
to jump in the _Arrow_ and fly through that golden air, eh? Seems as if
I’d had my last look at that old boat.
“Just the kind of a day, too,” he added, staring up again at that
tempting bit of sky, “for sending and receiving radio. There would
hardly be any interference from static. But there I go again, talking
like an idiot. What good is radio, anyway, if, when you most need it you
can’t have it.
“And there’s Rocks Gurney too, the scoundrel,” he reflected, after an
interval during which he had wondered which ached the more, his body or
his mind. “Mixing it with ‘Muggs’ Murray’s gang, getting rich on that
haul from the bank. That’s why he blossomed out so suddenly in flashy
clothes and a car and all. It’s a wonder we didn’t catch on at the time.
We knew he was no good, but we didn’t think he was quite that bad.
“That’s how the thieves happened to know just the right time to pull off
the robbery too,” he added, waxing excited as the whole despicable plot
revealed itself to him, like the pieces of a picture puzzle being fitted
together. “Gurney knew just the day when the mills paid their men and
when the bank had a big amount of cash on hand. Then ‘Rocks’ tipped off
his information to ‘Muggs’ Murray and his gunmen and—there you are. As
simple as A B C when you know the answer. Rocks Gurney is worse than
Murray’s gang because he ought to know better. Wouldn’t I like to get my
hands on that fellow. I’d give him a lots worse trimming than I did
before.”
He clenched his hands in the desire to get hold of Rocks Gurney and the
action caused him to glance down at them despairingly. Oh, yes, he would
do a lot, he would, bound hand and foot, captive to Espato and, for all
he knew, only a few hours more of life before him. For all he, Phil,
could do, Gurney and Muggs Murray’s blackguards could escape without
even a scratch to tell them how near they had come to capture.
Oh, they would escape all right and it was all his fault too, for not
being more careful. He wondered, feeling horribly hungry again, if he
was to be given anything to eat, or if Espato proposed doing away with
him before breakfast.
But no, that would be too quick a death and Espato had promised him a
slower and harder path out of this good old world. He recalled some of
the scoundrel’s blood-curdling descriptions of what was to happen to him
and he shuddered. They were not particularly pleasant reflections for
the early morning—especially a glorious morning like this when all
nature was vibrant with life.
After a while the door of his prison opened and Tony Gomez, the
mysterious young Mexican with the sullen eyes, came in. He bore a tray
in one hand and a basin of cool water in the other.
At sight of the latter vessel, Phil could hardly repress a shout of
delight. He wanted a wash almost more than he wanted food.
Gomez, without a word, untied his hands and joyfully Phil dipped his
face into the basin of cool, refreshing water. From this he emerged,
shaking his head like a half-drowned puppy and Gomez thrust a towel into
his hand.
This was indeed luxury, far more than he had dared to hope for. He told
Gomez so and the Mexican stretched his mouth in a wide grin showing all
his startlingly white teeth.
“Tony bring water,” he said. “Senor pretty dirty.”
“Say,” said Phil, staring at the fellow with surprise and gratitude.
“You sure are a dead game sport, Tony. How did you know I’d almost
rather wash my face than eat?”
But the smile on the Mexican’s face vanished. He looked alarmed and
pressed a finger to his lips in a gesture of caution.
“The senor must take care,” he said, his voice lowered to a guttural
growl, “Espato find Tony kind to Americano, Tony die too.”
“All right, old scout,” said Phil, in a whisper—he was strangely hopeful
and elated, now that his face was washed and he saw food before him once
more. “I’ll do whatever you say from now on. And I’ll be careful about
raising my voice, too. There’s no use both of us being hung up by our
thumbs.”
The Mexican’s face blanched a sickly grey and Phil was suddenly very
sorry for him. He watched him curiously as he ate ravenously of the food
on the tray.
He guessed, in fact, he almost knew from what scraps of conversation had
already passed between them that this young Mexican was unhappy and
restive under the brutal command of Espato.
And Phil thought that there was some special reason underlying the
fellow’s dislike—perhaps hatred—of his Chief. Perhaps there had been
some personal wrong committed against himself or some member of his
family.
At any rate, Phil thought, he had been mighty lucky to have fallen under
the direct surveillance of one who was at least not actively unfriendly
to him. Perhaps—if he should win the fellow’s confidence—. But no, there
would be little chance of securing Tony’s assistance in a plan of
escape. Tony was too terrified by Espato to join in any conspiracy
against him. Probably he had been too long a witness of his commander’s
methods to enjoy being a victim of them.
But anyway, the chance was worth considering, thought Phil, desperately,
since it was the only possible chance in sight. If he could just get one
word through to the fellows. But he might just as well wish for a trip
to Mars.
After a while Tony departed, bearing with him the empty tray, and Phil
was once more left to his none too pleasant reflections.
Meanwhile a messenger had been dispatched to Captain Bradley of the
Rangers, informing him that one of his men was captive to Espato, the
latter demanding ten thousands dollars in gold as the price of the safe
return of said captive.
Captain Bradley, who had just returned at the head of one of the search
parties who had been searching high and low for the vanished Phil,
received the messenger none too cordially and demanded absently to know
what the fellow had to say.
But at the greaser’s first words he sat up in his chair, a look of utter
amazement and incredulity on his face. This expression quickly changed,
first to gladness at the thought that Phil was still alive, then to rage
as he realized the insolence of the demand for ransom.
“You stay here for a minute,” he said to the greaser, then called to a
young lieutenant who was passing. In a moment the latter was starting
off to find the Radio Boys and bring them into the presence of their
Captain.
The boys answered the imperative summons of their chief instantly, on
their faces a queer mixture of hope and fear. They guessed that the
Captain had some report of Phil and they were almost afraid to hear it.
The hours since Phil had disappeared had been the hardest ones his chums
had ever spent. They had eaten little, slept scarcely at all, their
entire energy concentrated on the finding of their comrade.
And when, despite all their efforts, they could discover no clue as to
the whereabouts of the missing boy, they had begun reluctantly, sick at
heart, to give him up for dead.
“I knew it was a fool stunt for him to go alone,” Dick had almost
sobbed. “What chance would he have, alone, against a bunch of villainous
greasers.”
“I wish we’d made him take us along now,” said Tom, miserably. “Believe
me, if I had it to do all over again, I’d go with him, Captain Bradley
or no Captain Bradley. I wouldn’t care what he said.”
“Well, we haven’t got the chance to do it all over again,” Steve had
reminded him, moodily. “Phil’s gone and the chances are that if we
haven’t found him now, we won’t. Not but what we’ll keep on trying,” he
added doggedly, “and if it’s the greasers that have got him, we won’t
give up till every one of the scoundrels is dead.”
“You bet we won’t,” Dick had agreed, but in his heart he was thinking
that no amount of vengeance would bring Phil back to them, Dear old
Phil, with his fun and his undaunted courage. He clenched his fists
belligerently. The greasers had better keep out of his way, if they knew
what was good for them!
And now had come this summons for Captain Bradley. Hardly knowing what
to expect, the boys entered his presence and faced him eagerly.
In their excitement, the boys had completely overlooked the fellow
standing stoically in one corner of the room but as the Captain pointed
to him they turned to him, eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and
intense dislike.
“Now repeat what you just said to me,” Captain Bradley commanded of the
greaser.
Obediently and without the slightest trace of emotion, the fellow did as
he was bid.