JIM THURSTON'S SUBSTITUTE
At half-past four on the following morning, Kiddie stood alone on the
trail with his saddled pony, waiting in the darkness outside the depot
of the Express in Fort Laramie, and listening for the thumping sound of
hoofs which should tell him that the westward bound mail was
approaching.
He was earlier than it was necessary he should be, but he was aware
from long past experience that when there was an especially important
dispatch among the mails, the riders taking up their successive relays
tried to gain a few minutes on their time.
And this was what now happened, for he had been waiting less than a
quarter of an hour when he heard the expected sound from afar. Shortly
afterwards the incoming rider dismounted at his side, breathing heavily
after a ride of two hundred and forty miles.
"You've saved seventeen minutes on schedule time, pardner," Kiddie told
him. "Guess I shall improve on that, if my ponies are all up to the
mark an' ready at their stations."
He seized the two satchels, transferred them to his own saddle,
mounted, and with a wave of the hand started off to the westward.
Not a moment had been wasted in making the change, and his trained pony
broke at once into a full gallop which would be continued while the
trail was level until the next station was reached, some thirty miles
away, where a fresh pony would be awaiting him.
His first relay station was at Hot Springs, and it took him less than a
minute to change mounts. He rode eight different ponies on this trip,
and each of them satisfied him. Their pace depended upon the nature of
the ground.
Where the trail was good, as across Laramie Plain, and could be taken
at the gallop, the speed was something like twenty-five miles an hour,
but where the way was rugged, as among the Porcupine Mountains,
fifteen, or even ten miles in an hour was considered good going.
When Kiddie reached the station at Sweetwater Bridge he had gained by
six minutes. Gideon Birkenshaw had come down from the homestead to
greet him, and the fresh pony was held by young Rube Carter. Kiddie's
Highland deerhound, Sheila, was also on the trail. As he dismounted,
she raised herself on her hind feet and put her paws on his shoulders
to lick his chin.
"Down, Sheila, down!" commanded Kiddie, drawing away from her. "I'm on
duty. I've not come home to you."
Sheila walked majestically apart from him.
"Amazin' wise, that animal is," said Gideon, taking the bridle of the
tired pony, and watching Kiddie leap to the saddle of the fresh one.
"Built same's a racehorse, she is. Them long legs of hers, they'd
cover a heap o' ground, eh? What kinder work did she do in her own
country, Kiddie? Huntin'?"
"Yes, deer hunting," Kiddie answered. "She could race any
stag--outdistance any horse. Has a pedigree as long's your arm, Gid.
She's quite an aristocrat."
"Splendidest dog I ever see in my life," commented Rube, patting the
hound's shaggy head. He seized her collar and held her in a firm grip
while Kiddie started. She strained against him as her master went
farther and farther away.
Rider and pony were quickly out of sight in a fold of the trail, but
again they appeared on the farther rise. Sheila pulled harder now, but
Rube dug his heels in the ground, and dragged her back.
"No, you ain't goin' ter foller him," he protested.
But with a sudden strong wrench the hound broke away, and bounded off
along the trail, sending Rube flying backward into the bushes. Rube
scrambled to his feet.
"Look! look, Boss!" he cried, excitedly. "Gee! did y'ever see a
critter run like that? My! jus' look! Kiddie may well say she c'd
outdistance any hoss. D'you reckon a railroad train c'd go faster'n
that, Gideon!"
"Dunno," said Gideon, watching the animal racing at full stretch
through a cloud of dust. "I ain't just certain 'bout that railroad
train; but I sure never seen a critter go along quicker'n that hound's
goin' now. Why, she'll overtake Kiddie inside of half an hour, for all
his long start of her!"
Kiddie, indeed, had not gone half a dozen miles before the deerhound
was galloping at his pony's heels. The pony's ears were twitching
nervously, and there was a change in the measure of its headlong
stride. Kiddie felt instinctively that he was being closely followed,
yet there were no hungry wolves about at this time of year.
An impatient yelping bark reached him. He glanced round over his
shoulder. The dog soon came level with him.
"Go back--back, Sheila!" he called.
But Sheila only slackened her pace, and dropped behind, where he could
neither see nor hear her.
At a bend in the trail, where it entered a deep gully, overshadowed by
trees, Kiddie looked round to assure himself that the hound had obeyed
him. To his surprise he saw her still following him closely. He drew
rein, dropping from a swift gallop to an easy canter. Still Sheila was
close behind. Kiddie began to scold her, but, as this had no effect,
he pulled up to a halt, and dismounted.
"Now, do as you're told, Sheila," he said, half gravely, half
coaxingly. "Go back home, you're not to come with me. I'm going too
far. Go home, now; there's a good girl."
The hound seemed to understand, for she turned away a few steps and
then looked at him pleadingly, standing with her jaws open, and her
long dripping tongue working like a piston over her white fangs.
Suddenly she lifted her head, and looked sharply into the shadow of the
trees. Her ears were raised as if she had heard some strange,
suspicious sound.
Kiddie, preparing to re-mount, listened also. He heard the breaking of
a twig far in among the thickly-growing trees. At the same instant
something like the buzz-z of a mosquito passed by his ear. An arrow
flashed across the trail between him and the dog, striking against a
stout tree trunk on the farther side. Then a second arrow, aimed
higher, rattled among the upper branches.
Now, Kiddie had his mail bags to think of. He had already lost several
precious moments dealing with the hound, and he could not afford to
waste time in trying to discover what possible enemy was lurking in the
woods with the evident purpose of taking his life.
Drawing his revolver, he fired two shots in the direction from which
the arrows had come. Then he turned to Sheila.
"Seek him, Sheila--seek him! After him--quick!" he ordered, pointing
out the way; and as the deerhound plunged into the woodland he snatched
up the nearer arrow, ran to his pony, and, re-mounting, renewed his
broken journey.
At Three Crossings, which was his next relay station, he showed the
arrow to the man who met him with the fresh pony.
"Say, Hoskin, how's that?" he questioned. "Some skunk hidin' in the
timber this side of Medicine Creek, figured ter do me in with it.
Poisoned, ain't it?"
Hoskin took the weapon and critically examined its barbed point.
"Yep," he nodded meaningly, handing it back. "It's sure poisoned. A
scratch with it would kill you right away. Got any partic'lar enemy
among them Injuns hangin' out along your way? What about the lot as
was at Birkenshaw's t'other morning? You was thar, I hear. What about
Broken Feather?"
"Broken Feather could hardly know that I'm takin' this trip with the
Pony Express," Kiddie demurred.
"Um!" Hoskin shook his head. "I ain't so sure 'bout that, Kiddie," he
said. "He has spies planted all along the trail. He knows 'most
everything. You'd best be keerful."
Late on that same day. Rube Carter was crossing the trail, carrying a
load of material for Kiddie's building operations, when he saw Sheila
limping towards him over the bridge. He dropped his load, strode up to
her, and was putting his arms about her neck in welcome when he noticed
that there was blood on her chin and throat. He searched for an open
wound, but found none.
"Looks as if you'd bin gettin' back to yer old business of huntin'
stags," he said. "Wait, though," he added, seeing a nasty tear in the
skin over her shoulder. "Stags don't carry no knives along of 'em, an'
if that ain't a knife stab on your shoulder, then I sure ain't fit t'
be called a scout."
Rube was very much perplexed concerning Sheila's condition. It
appeared to him that, after all, she had not overtaken her master; that
notwithstanding Kiddie's confidence in her running powers, she had
proved that a Highland deerhound was not the equal in speed of a
well-trained prairie pony.
Rube blamed himself for having allowed her to break away from him. He
was glad, however, that she was not lost, and that her injury was not
serious. But where had she been? What had she been doing?
He at once began to exercise his scoutcraft in the endeavour to puzzle
out the mystery.
The blood marks on her chin and throat might very well be accounted for
on the supposition that, instead of following her master, she had gone
aside from the trail to give chase to some large animal--a mountain
goat or a big-horn antelope, and that she had attacked and perhaps
killed it, as she had been trained to do when out deer-stalking in her
native Highlands of Scotland.
She might very easily have been wounded in the encounter by a backward
prod of an antelope's sharp horn; even as she might have got the stains
about her mouth in licking the bleeding wound.
But, unfortunately for this simple theory, the wound in the hound's
shoulder was not of a kind to suggest the stab of a goat's horn or of
an antelope's sharp-pointed antler. It was clearly and unmistakably
the cut of a knife; not round, but thin and straight, and it was too
far forward and too high over her shoulder for her to turn her head and
get at it with her tongue.
Moreover, some of the bristles that had been cut by the knife remained
there loose among the congealing blood, showing that it had not been
licked. Rube's obvious conclusion was that it was not an animal, but a
man she had attacked; that she had bitten him severely, and that he had
used his knife in defending himself. But who that man might be, or why
the hound should attack him, Rube could not even conjecture.
It was a dark night, and Rube was sound asleep in his bunk, when Kiddie
changed ponies at Sweetwater Bridge on his eastward-bound trip; but
Kiddie made time to ask Abe Harum if Sheila had returned.
Abe told him that she was then in her kennel, but added nothing about
her condition. On the following day, however, when he returned home
for a spell of rest, it was Rube who met him on the trail.
"Seems Abe told you as the hound had come back," began Rube. "It was
my fault she followed you. I couldn't hardly help lettin' her loose.
Thar was no holdin' her in. She got up t' you, then? How long was she
gettin' abreast o' you? I guess you hadn't gotten far, eh? Gee! how
she did cover the ground!"
"Why," Kiddie answered, "she was alongside o' me inside of six miles
from here. Good going, wasn't it?"
"Sure," agreed Rube. "But she didn't come back so quick, Kiddie,
nothin' like it. Did yer know she'd a cut on her shoulder?"
"Eh--a cut?" Kiddie started in vexed surprise. "Is it bad?"
"Oh, no," Rube assured him, "makes her limp some. But I've doctored
th' wound, an' it's gettin' along all right. Come an' have a squint at
it."
He brought the dog out, giving no expression to his own theory. Kiddie
examined the wound.
"Cut of a knife," he decided immediately.
"Thar was blood on her mouth," said Rube. "I washed it. 'Twasn't her
own blood."
"Then they sure got to close grips," concluded Kiddie, "and I guess he
got as much as he gave. She'd make for his throat, but I'm figurin'
that he'd put up an arm to protect himself. His left arm, most like,
as he'd use his right for the knife. We gotter keep our eyes open for
a man with a lame left arm, Rube."
"Didn't yer see him, Kiddie?" Rube questioned.
"No."
"Then how d'you know anythin' about it? How d'you know it was a man as
done it? How d'you know she didn't kill him outright, same's she'd
kill a stag? An' why did she go for him, anyway?"
"She went for him because I sent her into the forest after him," Kiddie
explained. "The scoundrel shot a poisoned arrow at me. And, having
myself no time to spare, I left the business to the dog, see?"
"An arrow!" exclaimed Rube, "a poisoned arrow! Well, 'twas sure a
Injun done it. Any one else 'ud have used a gun."
"Might have been a white man, for all that," resumed Kiddie. "An
arrow's a silent weapon, and if it's poisoned, as this one certainly
was, then a mere scratch would be fatal; whereas the victim might
recover from a bullet wound. Whoever it was, however, Sheila must sure
have left the mark of her fangs on him."
"How d'you know she didn't kill him?" Rube persisted. "How d'you know
he ain't lyin' there dead, right now?"
"Because," Kiddie rejoined, "on my return trip--knowing exactly where
the thing happened--I went into the forest and searched. I found spots
of blood. I found signs of the struggle; that was all. There wasn't
any dead body lyin' around."
"P'raps th' other Redskins carried his body away," conjectured Rube.
"But he was alone," pursued Kiddie. "I'm plumb sure there was nobody
with him."
"See the marks of his moccasins?"
"No. He wore nailed boots, which left scratches on the root of a
cotton wood tree."
"Boots, eh? A Injun would have wore moccasins that wouldn't leave no
scratch, even on the soft bark of a tree root. Y'see, a white man
might wear moccasins, same's I do; but I never knew a Redskin shove his
hoofs inter hob-nailed boots. Wait, Kiddie, wait! I've gotten a idea."
"Let's hear it, then, Rube. I'm glad to find that you're exercising
your powers of reasoning. What's your idea?"
"This," declared Rube, with a knowing headshake. "I was figurin' that
the low-down scoundrel as fired that poisoned arrow might be--well,
_might_ be Nick Undrell. I never told you before, Kiddie, but that day
when your outfit was attacked by the Injuns, I heard one of Nick's
chums say ter him--time you was ridin' alone in advance of the
wagons--that now was the chance if Nick had a mind ter put a bullet
inter you an' vamoose wi' the boodle."
"Yes," smiled Kiddie, "and your idea is that because one of his chums
said such a thing as that, Nick went miles and miles out of his way to
hide himself in Medicine Creek Forest and try to do the trick by
putting a poisoned arrow into me, eh? And what d'you reckon might have
been his motive?"
"Dunno," answered Rube. "Never thought of that."
"Because," pursued Kiddie, "if it was robbery, an experienced
frontiersman like Nick Undrell wouldn't calculate on finding much
boodle on a Pony Express rider. He'd find it a heap more profitable to
do the robbery right here where all my valuables are. Besides, Nick is
too slick a hand with the pistol to have any truck with an Injun's bow
and arrows. No, Rube, my boy, your idea isn't worth a whole lot, come
to analyze it. Even if I suspected Nick Undrell of shooting that
arrow, the fact remains that when I started on that ride I left him in
Fort Laramie, that he had no relays of ponies, as I had, waiting ready
along the trail, and that he couldn't anyhow have got to Medicine Creek
in front of me. It wasn't humanly possible. Any other solution ter
suggest, Rube?"
Rube shook his head decisively.
"No," he answered. "I'm just more puzzled than ever. Can't straighten
it out nohow. Can't think who it could be, or why he did it. Thar's
only one thing t' be said, Kiddie, an' that's this: the man as tried
ter take your life was either a Injun wearin' white man's boots, or
else a white man usin' a Injun's bow an' arrow. Beyond that, I'm
makin' up my mind ter look out fer a individual--red or white--goin'
around with his left arm in a sling."
"Don't hold too tight t' th' idea that it was in the arm he was
bitten--" Kiddie cautioned. "Sheila might have seized on any other
part of his anatomy. My own notion is that the hound herself will spot
him sooner'n you or I could do."
"Thar's a lot in that notion," Rube acknowledged. "Guess I'll keep my
eye on the hound all the time. An' when I sees her bristles rise an'
her teeth showin' an' hears a growl rumblin' up from her throat, I
shall sure know that the skunk ain't a far way off."