THE TABLES ARE TURNED.
The man with the mask emitted a soft chuckle. “Appearances in this case
are not deceitful, William,” he suavely replied. “I have the drop, and
you are exactly where I want you.”
With the words he stepped into the room, but did not close the door.
Placing a stool on one side of the opening, he coolly sat down, his
revolver the while still pointed at the head of the king of scouts.
Buffalo Bill went on smoking, and, though his face was pale, there was
no sign of fear upon it.
There was silence for a few moments, and then the scout said quietly:
“If you are in no hurry to shoot, why not lower that gun of yours? It
might go off accidentally and bring my partner here.”
The masked villain smiled evilly. “Your partner won’t come here to-day.
He has gone where you are soon to go.”
Buffalo Bill could draw but one conclusion from the words. Bart Angell
had been surprised and killed. And a knife, instead of a pistol, had
been used.
Gazing steadily at the masked man, the intrepid border king thus voiced
his opinion of the murderer: “I have met with all sorts of reptiles in
my time, but never one who was so meanly detestable as yourself. You
slimy, rotten, crawling apology for a human being, why don’t you blaze
away? I’d rather slip up the flume than remain a minute longer in your
company. The vilest degenerate that ever sucked air into his lungs is a
saint alongside of you.”
Quick as a flash, the now thoroughly incensed villain raised the
revolver, which had been slightly lowered while the king of scouts was
speaking, and fired. The bullet cut a lock from the wounded scout’s
temple, whereat he laughed.
“This is no laughing matter,” growled the assassin. “You escaped that
time, but I’ll get you with the next bullet.”
“Maybe you will,” composedly responded the other, “but you’ll get
through with your business with me before you really try to kill me. I’m
on to you, Mister Man, and if I hadn’t guessed that you are not yet
ready to extinguish my light, I would never have invited you to cut
loose.”
The murderer lowered his pistol. His expression of hate gave way to one
of admiration. “You are the limit, Cody,” he grudgingly remarked. “You
are sharp, all right, but you’ll need all your wits, and a cartload
besides, to get out of the fix you are now in.”
“Think so?” said Buffalo Bill calmly.
“I do. I have you where I want you. Your partner is dead, and we are
hundreds of miles from a human habitation. When our little séance is
over, one man will be the only living thing in these solitudes.”
“How about the girl? Isn’t she near by?”
The masked man scowled. “Yes, she is not far away,” he admitted, “and
much good may the information do you.”
“You have left her up the ravine somewhere, I suppose?” insinuated the
scout.
“No matter where I have left her. You’ll never see her. But a truce to
this profitless chin music. I am going to ask you a few questions, and I
have an idea that you will answer them promptly, for as long as you
continue on that line I’ll hold back the bullet meant for your brain.”
“I am in the humor for frankness,” said Buffalo Bill easily. “Fire
away.”
The masked murderer showed surprise, but he quickly repressed the
emotion.
“You were a friend of Matt Holmes, were you not?” he asked.
“He had no better friend. I had known him for twenty years.”
“Did you know all his secrets?” The question was eagerly asked.
“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”
As he spoke, the king of scouts was feeling about his person for a match
with which to relight his pipe.
“I’ll come down to cases. Did he tell you when you met him last night
that he was looking for the coming of an enemy?”
“Yes.”
The masked man started slightly.
“What did he say about me?”
The questioner leaned forward, the eyes behind the mask winking rapidly.
The hands of the king of scouts were now out of sight under the blanket,
which reached to his waist. So intent was the murderer upon the matter
of the answer he expected his victim to make that, for one short moment,
he lost caution. The lapse was fatal to his plan of ultimate murder.
There were two lightninglike movements on the part of Buffalo Bill. His
hands came into view. In each of them was a revolver, and the masked
murderer, starting back, found himself covered.
“Drop that gun of yours!” commanded the scout harshly, “and be mighty
quick about it.”
The beaten villain allowed the weapon to fall to the floor of the cabin.
There was an explosion, but the bullet did no other damage than to make
a hole in the wall under the bunk.
The situation was reversed. The king of scouts now held the whip hand.
Holding his pistols in a menacing way, he kicked off the blankets and
sat on the edge of the bunk, with his feet resting on the floor.
“The party of the first part has had his innings,” he coolly remarked,
“and now it is up to the other party in the controversy to do a little
stunt in the way of examination. Need I state that a failure to answer
questions will result in some effective pistol play, or are you wise to
the dangerous position in which you stand?”
The masked murderer was trembling with fear and rage. He did not reply.
“Take off that mask,” was the stern command. “Take it off or I will
shoot it off.”
The mask was removed with celerity, and the face of a young man was
revealed. It was dark and smooth, and not unhandsome, but the thin lips,
the glint of the light-blue eyes and a certain hardness of expression,
betokened a selfish and cruel nature.
The king of scouts looked long and intently at the man. Suddenly his
face lightened. He smiled.
“I remember you,” he said quietly. “Wild Bill reformed Dodge City a few
years ago. Gave the tough ones twenty-four hours’ notice to leave town.
The chief of the disreputable outfit, a man who tried highway robbery
when the money did not flow in rapidly enough from card cheating, was
one Rixton Clay. You are the hombre.”
The murderer showed his teeth. His face was as pale as death.
Buffalo Bill went on calmly: “Clay is not your real name. I’ll bet it’s
Holmes, and that you are the cousin of Myra Wilton.”
The expression that came to the villain’s face showed that the king of
scouts had made a correct guess. The latter proceeded with increased
confidence: “You are in a scheme to capture a rich estate. That’s plain.
Somebody, relative of Jared and Matt Holmes, Myra Wilton, and yourself,
has died recently. With the Holmes brothers and the girl out of the way,
you will become the sole heir to the fortune. I am right, eh?” No
answer. “Of course I am right. Come, own up, for you are on the
toboggan, and a close mouth won’t save you from the fate that awaits the
murderer.”
“I have nothing to say,” replied Rixton Clay slowly.
“Oh, but you have,” said Buffalo Bill, as he brought his revolver nearer
the head of his victim. “You have a whole lot to say. You are going to
tell me all about your game. You are going deep into details. You are
going to tell me how Jared Holmes was killed, by your orders, in Taos,
and how you afterward killed the slayer when you had no further use for
his services. You are going to do a whole lot of talk, and you are going
to begin right now. One, two, three——”
“All right”—the words were jerked out—“I’ll talk. Curse, you! I wish I
had killed you when I first caught sight of your face.”
Buffalo Bill shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “You were a fool, and
no mistake. But as I am the winner by your bad break, I’ll not raise a
kick. Now, what is your true name?”
“Rixton Holmes.”
“Myra Wilton is your cousin, is she not?”
“Yes.”
“What is this fortune you are scheming to get?”
“It’s a mine in Colorado.”
“Who owned it?”
“My uncle, Peter Holmes.”
“Brother of Jared and Matt, and the mother of Myra, eh?”
“Yes”—surlily.
“When did Peter die?”
“Last month.”
“How?”
“How? Why”—he hesitated, and then said with lowered head—“some one
killed him while he was down in the mine inspecting a new lead.”
“Ah, I see. You began with Peter and finished with Matt.” There was
disgust and repulsion on the scout’s honest face.
“I’ll never say I killed him,” returned Rixton Holmes defiantly. “The
mystery of his death will never be cleared up.”
“There you’re wrong,” was the cool response. “The mystery has been
cleared up. But it won’t be necessary to try you for the crime. When the
court gets through with you for your other offenses, there won’t be
anything left of you for further trial.”
Rixton Holmes shivered, then suddenly straightened up and looked
resolutely at the king of scouts. “I am ready to die now,” he said, as
he tried to steady his voice. “I have got through talking. Kill me. I
don’t care.”
Buffalo Bill appeared to consider the matter. “Why not?” he said. “In
these wilds I can be judge, jury, and executioner, and no one would
blame me. It is the safe thing to do.” He tightened his grip on his
pistols. The victim stiffened, expecting a report to come. But neither
trigger was pressed.
“But,” the scout went on, “there is the poetic side of the case to
consider. If I were to kill you now, your suffering wouldn’t amount to a
hill of beans. You ought to suffer agonies; and, by the crawling
catamount, you shall. I’ll take you to Taos, and there you shall stay in
jail until the scaffold is ready for you to drop from. You shall hear
the carpenters as they hammer the thing into shape. Every nail driven
will be a nail in your coffin. Yes, to Taos you go.”
The speaker rose to his feet. “I am not in the best of condition,” he
continued, “and, therefore, I must ask you to assist me a little. Here
are some rawhides”—tossing them. “Please tie your wrists for me. I think
I will be able to do the rest.”
Rixton Holmes regarded the king of scouts in contemptuous surprise. “Do
you take me for a blanked idiot?” he said. “If you want me tied, you’ll
have to do the tying yourself.”
A bullet scraped the villain’s ear. “You must take another look at your
hand,” remarked the shooter sharply. “You spoke without taking stock of
your situation.”
With an angry expletive, Holmes took the cords and began to follow the
scout’s directions. He was thus occupied when a noise in the bushes
outside made him cease operations and look queerly at Buffalo Bill.
The king of scouts walked quickly to the door and looked out with one
eye. The other he kept glued to the face of Rixton Holmes. He had the
forethought not to expose his body, but stood upon one side of the
opening.
A peculiar, hissing sound from the bushes brought a similar sibilant
exhibition from within the cabin.
Buffalo Bill, instantly alive to the new danger that menaced him, leaped
across the room and dealt Holmes a crushing blow behind the ear.
As the villain collapsed in a heap on the floor, the king of scouts
started for the door for the purpose of closing it, when a series of
bloodcurdling yells broke upon his ears.
The yells were followed by the appearance of a score of painted savages.
They were in full view from the door before Buffalo Bill could reach it.
Instantly his revolvers cracked, and howls and screams announced the
result of his shots. Having fired several times with the effect of
driving the redskins back to the bushes, he closed the door and shot the
bolt. This done, he turned his attention to the villain on the floor.
Before Holmes’ senses returned, he was bound hand and foot.
No gag was applied. The king of scouts desired a little further
information from his victim.
It would probably be some time before the Indians made a new
demonstration, and the scout had a faint hope that the lull might
furnish something that would take the edge off the grave danger that
confronted him.
“You know these savages,” he said harshly to Holmes. “Their coming was
not unexpected. Do they play a part in this villainous scheme of yours?”
“It can do me no harm to answer that question,” replied the villain,
with a malicious grin. “They are friends of mine, and I knew they were
coming.”
“Why have they come? You did not need them to aid you in the murder of
Matt Holmes, nor in the abduction of Myra Wilton.”
“No”—the grin broadening—“but I need them to assist me in taking care of
the girl. She is to be the bride of Raven Feather, the chief.”
“Then I reckon she is with them now.”
“If she isn’t she ought to be. I left her with them when I made my sneak
to prospect this cabin.”
“Did the Indians know that I was here?”
“No, neither did I know you were here when I started for the cabin. I
knew some man, wounded, was here, but my notion was that the man was my
Uncle Matt.”
A voice from without caused Buffalo Bill to look up quickly.
“Raven Feather would speak with the great white warrior, Buffalo Bill,”
were the words, spoken in the Navaho tongue, that reached the scout’s
ears.
“Speak, and see that your tongue is not forked, Raven Feather,” was the
cold reply.
“The tongue of Raven Feather is not the tongue of a serpent. The words
shall be straight. Raven Feather seeks the white man who is Buffalo
Bill’s prisoner. Give Raven Feather the prisoner and Buffalo Bill may go
free. Raven Feather has no quarrel with the great white warrior.”
“That’s a lie, chief,” was the quiet reply. “You want my scalp for the
loss of the braves who fell before the door a few minutes ago. Well, if
you get it you’ll have to suffer the loss of a few more braves. I am in
a tight place—I would be a fool not to admit it—but I’m not going to
peter out without taking a star part in a sanguinary circus. So drop
your smooth talk, and let the fun begin.”
As he ceased speaking, a noise at the window on the side of the cabin
nearest the bushes attracted his attention. Quick as a flash, he wheeled
and fired, and a Navaho fell.
It had been the design of the treacherous Raven Feather to distract the
attention of the king of scouts until the brave could reach the window
and take a shot at the man who had overcome Rixton Holmes.
Buffalo Bill changed his position so that the window was no longer a
point of danger.
The Navaho chief did not again open his mouth to speak, and for some
minutes silence reigned in the vicinity of the cabin.
Rixton Holmes lay on the floor, a placid expression on his dark
countenance.
The king of scouts regarded the villain with a frown. “Don’t you imagine
that your rescue is near at hand,” he said, in a tone that made Holmes
shiver, “for you’ll die before a savage enters that door. I may be
booked for the last journey, but you can make up your mind that your
ticket for the infernal regions will be punched before the redskins
settle my case.”
The villain shut his eyes and did some tall thinking. He knew that
Buffalo Bill would do as he threatened.
Soon he said: “I am willing to make a deal with you. Raven Feather is in
my employ. He will obey my commands. Turn me loose, and you shall not be
harmed.”
The king of scouts smiled. “What do you take me for, a babe in arms?
What, let me go free after I know your game and am in a position to
spoil it? Oh, no, Mr. Rixton Holmes, no deal of that kind with you. But
I will tell what I am willing to do. Give orders to those Navahos to
withdraw, to light out across the flat to the open country—I will want
to see them as they go off, you understand—and when they are a mile
away, I will go out and leave you here.”
“Where will you go?”
“Out of the danger zone, of course,” answered the scout promptly, but
with his face turned away from the prisoner.
Holmes considered the matter seriously. He sighed. It went against the
grain to accept Buffalo Bill’s proposition, but he must do it, or his
life would be lost. Soon his face cleared a little. Buffalo Bill was
wounded, and therefore could not travel fast. The Navahos, who were
magnificent trailers, and knew every foot of the country, would probably
be able to run the scout down.
“I will accept,” he announced, and the king of scouts, who had divined
what had been passing in the villain’s mind, repressed a smile, and
responded coldly: “Very well. You are a sensible man, sometimes. Now
elevate your voice and talk business to your cutthroat allies outside.”
Holmes shouted, and soon Raven Feather came out of the bushes and
approached the door.
The command requested by Buffalo Bill was given, and immediately the
Indians withdrew, going across the flat and into the stretch of open
country.
Buffalo Bill counted eight. Four, then, must have been slain. He waited
a few moments, and then cautiously opened the door. Three Navahos lay
dead in front of the cabin. He went around the building, and there was
the body of the fourth Indian. It lay under the window.
Returning to the room, he satisfied himself that Holmes was weaponless,
then cut the bonds and told the prisoner to get up. The savages were now
half a mile away.
“In a few minutes I will leave you,” said the scout. “It gravels me to
let you slip out of my fingers, but I am sure that we are destined to
meet again.”
Five minutes later Buffalo Bill, armed with his own and Holmes’ weapons,
walked out of the cabin and entered the bushes. He appeared to be taking
a direction that would bring him to the trail that led over the hills to
Taos.
Rixton Holmes smiled in satisfaction. He had noticed that the scout
moved slowly, and he believed that the wound in the side troubled him,
and would prevent quick movement away from the flat.
The enemy was out of sight when Holmes signaled to the Navahos.
Instantly the band wheeled and started on a run for the cabin.
On arriving at the structure, Holmes briefly explained to Raven Feather
what had happened, and pointed to the east. “He has gone up that way,”
he said. “Send out three or four of your swiftest braves, and they’ll
overhaul him.”
At that moment the king of scouts was on the western side of the cabin.
His weakness had been assumed. The wound was not troubling him much, and
he felt able to do his usual work. Entering the bushes, he had hurried
to the ravine, made a detour, circled Matt Holmes’ cabin, and, under
cover of the brush on the western side of the flat, had crept to a spot
not twenty yards from the cabin door, about which Raven Feather and his
Navahos were standing.
After four of the Indians had departed to trail the fugitive, he heard
Rixton Holmes ask Raven Feather: “Where is the girl?” And he heard the
chief answer: “She is in the cave with my brother Crow-killer.”