It was one of Hunky Ben's few weaknesses to take pride in being well
mounted. When he left the tavern he bestrode one of his best steeds--a
black charger of unusual size, which he had purchased while on a trading
trip in Texas--and many a time had he ridden it while guiding the United
States troops in their frequent expeditions against ill-disposed
Indians. Taken both together it would have been hard to equal, and
impossible to match, Hunky Ben and his coal-black mare.
From the way that Ben rode, on quitting the tavern, it might have been
supposed that legions of wild Indians were at his heels. But after
going about a few miles at racing speed he reined in, and finally pulled
up at a spot where a very slight pathway diverged. Here he sat quite
still for a few minutes in meditation. Then he muttered softly to
himself--for Ben was often and for long periods alone in the woods and
on the plains, and found it somewhat "sociable-like" to mutter his
thoughts audibly:
"You've not cotched him up after all, Ben," he said. "Black Polly
a'most equals a streak o' lightnin', but the Britisher got too long a
start o' ye, an' he's clearly in a hurry. Now, if I follow on he'll
hear your foot-falls, Polly, an' p'raps be scared into goin' faster to
his doom. Whereas, if I go off the track here an' drive ahead so as to
git to the Blue Fork before him, I'll be able to stop the Buck's little
game, an' save the poor fellow's life. Buck is sure to stop him at the
Blue Fork, for it's a handy spot for a road-agent, [a highwayman] and
there's no other near."
Hunky Ben was pre-eminently a man of action. As he uttered or thought
the last word he gave a little chirp which sent Black Polly along the
diverging track at a speed which almost justified the comparison of her
to lightning.
The Blue Fork was a narrow pass or gorge in the hills, the footpath
through which was rendered rugged and dangerous for cattle because of
the rocks that had fallen during the course of ages from the cliffs on
either side. Seen from a short distance off on the main track the
mountains beyond had a brilliantly blue appearance, and a few hundred
yards on the other side of the pass the track forked--hence the name.
One fork led up to Traitor's Trap, the other to the fort of Quester
Creek, an out-post of United States troops for which Hunky Ben was bound
with the warning that the Redskins were contemplating mischief. As Ben
had conjectured, this was the spot selected by Buck Tom as the most
suitable place for waylaying his intended victim. Doubtless he supposed
that no Englishman would travel in such a country without a good deal of
money about him, and he resolved to relieve him of it.
It was through a thick belt of wood that the scout had to gallop at
first, and he soon outstripped the traveller who kept to the main and,
at that part, more circuitous road, and who was besides obliged to
advance cautiously in several places. On nearing his destination,
however, Ben pulled up, dismounted, fastened his mare to a tree, and
proceeded the rest of the way on foot at a run, carrying his repeating
rifle with him. He had not gone far when he came upon a horse. It was
fastened, like his own, to a tree in a hollow.
"Ho! ho!" thought Ben, "you prefer to do yer dirty work on foot, Mr
Buck! Well, you're not far wrong in such a place."
Advancing now with great caution, the scout left the track and moved
through the woods more like a visible ghost than a man, for he was well
versed in all the arts and wiles of the Indian, and his moccasined feet
made no sound whatever. Climbing up the pass at some height above the
level of the road, so that he might be able to see all that took place
below, he at last lay down at full length, and drew himself in snake
fashion to the edge of the thicket that concealed him. Pushing aside
the bushes gently he looked down, and there, to his satisfaction, beheld
the man he was in search of, not thirty yards off.
Buck Tom was crouching behind a large mass of rock close to the track,
and so lost in the dark shadow of it that no ordinary man could have
seen him; but nothing could escape the keen and practised eye of Hunky
Ben. He could not indeed make out the highwayman's form, but he knew
that he was there and that was enough. Laying his rifle on a rock
before him in a handy position he silently watched the watcher.
During all this time the Englishman--whom the reader has doubtless
recognised as Charlie Brooke--was pushing on as fast as he could in the
hope of overtaking the man who could guide him to Traitor's Trap.
At last he came to the Blue Forks, and rode into the pass with the
confidence of one who suspects no evil. He drew rein, however, as he
advanced, and picked his way carefully along the encumbered path.
He had barely reached the middle of it, where a clear space permitted
the moonbeams to fall brightly on the ground, when a stern voice
suddenly broke the stillness of the night with the words--
"Hands up!"
Charlie Brooke seemed either to be ignorant of the ways of the country
and of the fact that disobedience to the command involved sudden death,
or he had grown unaccountably reckless, for instead of raising his arms
and submitting to be searched by the robber who covered him with a
revolver, he merely reined up and took off his hat, allowing the moon to
shine full on his countenance.
The effect on Buck Tom was singular. Standing with his back to the
moon, his expression could not be seen, but his arm dropped to his side
as if it had been paralysed, and the revolver fell to the ground.
Never had Buck Tom been nearer to his end than at that moment, for Hunky
Ben, seeing clearly what would be the consequence of the Englishman's
non-compliance with the command, was already pressing the trigger that
would have sent a bullet into Buck Tom's brain, but the Englishman's
strange conduct induced him to pause, and the effect on the robber
caused him to raise his head and open wide his eyes--also his ears!
"Ah! Ralph Ritson, has it come to this?" said Charlie, in a voice that
told only of pity and surprise.
For some moments Ralph did not speak. He was evidently stunned.
Presently he recovered, and, passing his hand over his brow, but never
taking his eyes off the handsome face of his former friend, he said in a
low tone--
"I--I--don't feel very sure whether you're flesh and blood, Brooke, or a
spirit--but--but--"
"I'm real enough to be able to shake hands, Ritson," returned our hero,
dismounting, and going up to his former friend, who suffered him to
grasp the hand that had been on the point of taking his life. "But can
it be true, that I really find you a--"
"It is true, Charlie Brooke; quite true--but while you see the result,
you do not see, and cannot easily understand, the hard grinding
injustice that has brought me to this. The last and worst blow I
received this very night. I have urgent need of money--not for myself,
believe me--and I came down to David's store, at some personal risk, I
may add, to receive payment of a sum due me for acting as a cow-boy for
many months. The company, instead of paying me--"
"Yes, I know; I heard it all," said Charlie.
"You were only shamming sleep, then?"
"Yes; I knew you at once."
"Well, then," continued Buck Tom (as we shall still continue to style
him), "the disappointment made me so desperate that I determined to rob
you--little thinking who you were--in order to help poor Shank
Leather--"
"Does Shank stand in urgent need of help?" asked Charlie, interrupting.
"He does indeed. He has been very ill. We have run out of funds, and
he needs food and physic of a kind that the mountains don't furnish."
"Does he belong to your band, Ritson?"
"Well--nearly; not quite!"
"That is a strange answer. How far is it to where he lies just now?"
"Six miles, about."
"Come, then, I will go to him if you will show me the way," returned
Charlie, preparing to remount. "I have plenty of that which poor Shank
stands so much in need of. In fact I have come here for the express
purpose of hunting him and you up. Would it not be well, by the way, to
ride back to the store for some supplies?"
"No need," answered Buck Tom, stooping to pick up his revolver.
"There's another store not far from this, to which we can send
to-morrow. We can get what we want there."
"But what have you done with your horse?" asked Charlie; "I heard you
start on one."
"It is not far off. I'll go fetch it."
So saying the robber entered the bushes and disappeared. A few minutes
later the clattering of hoofs was heard, and in another moment he rode
up to the spot where our hero awaited him.
"Follow me," he said; "the road becomes better half a mile further on."
During all this time Hunky Ben had stood with his rifle ready, listening
with the feelings of a man in a dream. He watched the robber and his
victim ride quietly away until they were out of sight. Then he stood
up, tilted his cap on one side, and scratched his head in great
perplexity.
"Well, now," he said at length, "this is about the queerest affair I've
comed across since I was raised. It's a marcy I was born with a quiet
spirit, for another chip off the small end of a moment an' Buck Tom
would have bin with his fathers in their happy, or otherwise, huntin'
grounds! It's quite clear that them two have bin friends, mayhap pards,
in the old country. An' Buck Tom (that's Ritson, I think he called him)
has bin driven to it by injustice, has he? Ah! Buck, if all the world
that suffers injustice was to take to robbery it's not many respectable
folk would be left to rob. Well, well, my comin' off in such a
splittin' hurry to take care o' this Britisher is a wild-goose chase
arter all! It's not the first one you've bin led into anyhow, an' it's
time you was lookin' arter yer own business, Hunky Ben."
While giving vent to these remarks in low muttering tones, the scout was
quickly retracing his steps to the place where he had tied up Black
Polly. Mounting her he returned to the main track, proceeded along it
until he reached the place beyond the pass where the roads forked; then,
selecting that which diverged to the left, he set off at a hard gallop
in the direction of Quester Creek.