The Cave of the Outlaws Invaded by Ghosts and US Troops.
We need scarcely say that Buck Tom was wise enough to put a bridle on
his tongue after the warning hint he had received from the scout. He
found this all the easier that he had nothing to conceal save the
Christian name of his friend Leather, and, as it turned out, this was
never asked for by the commander of the troops. All that the dying
outlaw could reveal was that Jake the Flint had suddenly made his
appearance in the cave only a short time previously, had warned his
comrades, and, knowing that he (Buck) was mortally wounded, and that
Leather was helplessly weak from a wound which had nearly killed him,
had left them both to their fate. That, just after they had gone, an
unusually broad powerful man, with his face concealed, had suddenly
entered the cave and carried Leather off, in spite of his struggles, and
that, about half-an-hour later, Hunky Ben had arrived to find the cave
deserted by all but himself. Where the other outlaws had gone to he
could not tell--of course they would not reveal that to a comrade who
was sure to fall into the hands of their enemies.
"And you have no idea," continued the captain, "who the man is that
carried your friend Leather so hurriedly away?"
"Not the slightest," returned Buck. "Had my revolver been handy and an
ounce of strength left in me, you wouldn't have had to ask the
question."
"Passing strange!" murmured Captain Wilmot, glancing at the scout, who
was at the moment seated on a keg before the fire lighting his pipe, and
with a look of simple benignant stolidity on his grave countenance.
"Have _you_ no idea, Ben, where these outlaws have taken themselves off
to?"
"No more'n a lop-eared rabbit, Captain Wilmot," answered the scout.
"You see there's a good many paths by which men who knows the place
could git out o' the Trap, an' once out o' it there's the whole o' the
Rockie range where to pick an' choose."
"But how comes it, Ben, that you missed Jake? Surely the road is not so
broad that you could pass him unseen! Yet you arrived here before him?"
"That's true, sir, but sly coons like the Flint can retire into the
brush when they don't want to be overhauled. That wasn't the way of it,
however. With such a splendid animal as your poor horse, Captain, an'
ridden to death as it was--an' as I 'spected it would be--I knowed I had
no chance o' comin' up wi' the Flint, so I took advantage o' my
knowledge o' the lay o' the land, an' pushed ahead by a straighter
line--finishin' the last bit on futt over the ridge of a hill. That
sent me well ahead o' the Flint, an' so I got here before him. Havin'
ways of eavesdroppin' that other people don't know on, I peeped into the
cave here, and saw and heard how matters stood. Then I thought o'
harkin' back on my tracks an' stoppin' the Flint wi' a bullet but I
reflected `what good'll that do? The shot would wake up the outlaws an'
putt them on the scent all the same.' Then I tried to listen what their
talk was about, so as I might be up to their dodges; but I hadn't bin
listenin' long when in tramps the Flint an' sounds the alarm. Of course
I might have sent him an p'r'aps one o' the others to their long home
from where I stood; but I've always had an objection to shoot a man
behind his back. It has such a sneakin' sort o' feel about it! An'
then, the others--I couldn't see how many there was--would have swarmed
out on me, an' I'd have had to make tracks for the scrub, an' larn
nothin' more. So I fixed to keep quiet an' hear and see all that I
could--p'r'aps find out where they fixed to pull out to. But I heard
nothin' more worth tellin'. They only made some hurried, an' by no
means kindly, observations about poor Buck an' Leather an' went off over
the hills. I went into the woods a bit myself after that, just to be
well out o' the way, so to speak, an' when I got back here Leather was
gone!"
"And you didn't see the man that carried him off?"
"No, I didn't see him."
"You'd have shot him, of course, if you had seen him?"
"No, indeed, captain, I wouldn't."
"No! why not?" asked the captain with a peculiar smile.
"Well, because," answered the scout, with a look of great solemnity, "I
wouldn't shoot such a man on any account--no matter what he was doin'!"
"Indeed!" returned the other with a broadening smile. "I had no idea
you were superstitious, Ben. I thought you feared neither man nor
devil."
"What I fear an' what I don't fear," returned the scout with quiet
dignity, "is a matter which has never given me much consarn."
"Well, don't be hurt, Hunky Ben, I don't for one moment question your
courage, only I fancied that if you saw any one rescuing an outlaw you
would have tried to put a bullet into him whether he happened to be a
man or a ghost."
"But I have told you," broke in Buck Tom with something of his old fire,
"that Leather is _not_ an outlaw."
"I have only _your_ word for that, and you know what that is worth,"
returned the captain. "I don't want to be hard on one apparently so
near his end, and to say truth, I'm inclined to believe you, but we know
that this man Leather has been for a long time in your company--whether
a member of your band or not must be settled before another tribunal.
If caught, he stands a good chance of being hanged. And now," added the
captain, turning to a sergeant who had entered the cave with him, "tell
the men to put up their horses as best they may. We camp here for the
night. We can do nothing while it is dark, but with the first gleam of
day we will make a thorough search of the neighbourhood."
While the troopers and their commander were busy making themselves as
comfortable as possible in and around the cave, the scout went quietly
up to the clump of wood where Leather was in hiding, and related to that
unfortunate all that had taken place since he left him.
"It is very good of you, Hunky, to take so much interest in me, and
incur so much risk and trouble; but do you know," said Leather, with a
look of surprise, not unmingled with amusement, "you are a puzzle to me,
for I can't understand how you could tell Captain Wilmot such a heap o'
lies--you that has got the name of bein' the truest-hearted scout on the
frontier!"
"You puzzle me more than I puzzle you, Leather," returned the scout with
a simple look. "What lies have I told?"
"Why, all you said about what you saw and heard when you said you were
eavesdroppin' must have been nonsense, you know, for how could you hear
and see what took place in the cave through tons of rock and earth?"
"How I saw and heard, my son Leather, is a private affair of my own, but
it was no lie."
Leather looked incredulous.
"Then you said," he continued, "that you didn't see the man that carried
me away."
"No more I did, boy. I _never_ saw him!"
"What! not even in a looking-glass?"
"Not even in a lookin'-glass," returned Hunky. "I've seed his
_reflection_ there many a time,--an' a pretty good-lookin' reflection it
was--but I've never see'd himself--that I knows on! No, Leather, if
Captain Wilmot had axed me if I saw _you_ carried off, I might ha' been
putt in a fix, but he didn't ax me that. He axed if I'd seen the man
that carried you off an' I told the truth when I said I had _not_.
Moreover I wasn't bound to show him that he wasn't fit to be a lawyer--
specially when he was arter an innocent man, an' might p'r'aps hang him
without a trial. It was my duty to guide the captain in pursuit of
outlaws, an' it is my duty to shield an innocent man. Between the two
perplexin' duties I tried to steer as straight a course as I could, but
I confess I had to steer pretty close to the wind."
"Well, Hunky, it is my duty to thank you instead of criticising you as I
have done, but how do you come to be so sure that I'm innocent?"
"P'r'aps because ye putt such an innocent question," replied Ben, with a
little smile. "D'ye raily think, Leather, that an old scout like me is
goin' to let you see through all the outs and ins by which I comes at my
larnin'! It's enough for you to know, boy, that I know a good deal more
about you than ye think--more p'r'aps than ye know about yerself. I
don't go for to say that you're a born angel, wantin' nothin' but a pair
o' wings to carry ye off to the better land--by no means, but I do know
that as regards jinin' Buck Tom's boys, or takin' a willin' part in
their devilish work, ye are innocent an' that's enough for me."
"I'm glad you know it and believe it, Ben," said Leather, earnestly,
"for it is true. I followed Buck, because he's an old, old chum, and I
did it at the risk of my life, an' then, as perhaps you are aware, we
were chased and I got injured. So far I am innocent of acting with
these men, but, O Ben, I don't admit my innocence in anything else! My
whole life--well, well--it's of no use talkin'. Tell me, d'ye think
there's any chance o' Buck getting over this?"
"He may. Nobody can tell. I'll do my best for him. I never lose hope
of a man, after what I've see'd in my experience, till the breath is
fairly out of him."
"Thank God for these words, Ben."
"Yes," continued the scout, "and your friend Brooke is at this moment
sunk in the blue dumps because you have been carried off by a great
mysterious monster!"
"Then he doesn't know it was you?" exclaimed Leather.
"In course not. An' he doesn't know you are within five hundred yards
of him. An' what's more, you mustn't let him know it was me, for that
must be kept a dead secret, else it'll ruin my character on the
frontiers. We must surround it wi' mystery, my boy, till all is safe.
But I didn't come up here to enjoy an evenin's conversation. You're not
safe where you are, Leather. They'll be scourin' all round for you long
before sun-up, so I must putt you where you'll be able to look on an'
grin at them."
"Where will that be?" asked Leather, with some curiosity.
"You know the cliff about five hundred feet high that rises just over on
the other side o' the valley--where the water-shoot comes down?"
"Ay, it's likely I do, for I've seen it every mornin' for months past."
"An' you remember the hole near the top o' the cliff?"
"Yes--that looks about the size of a crow?"
"Whatever it looks like it's three times the size of a man, an' it's the
mouth of a cave," returned the scout. "Now, I'll lead you to the track
that'll let you up to that cave. It's a splendid place, full of all
sorts o' holes an' places where a man couldn't find you even if he
know'd you was there. Once up, you may sit down, smoke your pipe in the
mouth o' the cave, an' enjoy yourself lookin' on at the hunt arter
yourself. Here's a bit o' chuck I've brought to keep you from wearyin',
for they may keep it up all day. When all danger is past I'll come up
for ye. You needn't show more o' yourself, however, than the top o'
your head. A man can never be over-cautious when he's bein' hunted
down. An' mind, don't leave the place till I come for you."
Handing a cold roast fowl and a loaf to his companion, the scout got up
and led him away to the spot which he had just described. It was by
that time quite dark, but as Hunky Ben knew every inch of the ground he
glided along almost as quickly as if it had been broad day, followed,
with some difficulty, by poor Leather, who was still in a state of great
prostration, partly because of his injury and partly in consequence of
his previous dissipation. As the place, however, was not much more than
half-a-mile distant his powers of endurance were not much tried. The
scout led him across the narrow valley just above the outlaws' cave, and
then, entering a steep rocky defile, he began to ascend a place that was
more suitable for goats than men. After half-an-hour of upward toil
they reached a plateau where the track--if it may be so styled--seemed
to run in a zig-zag manner until it reached a small hole in the solid
rock. Through this they entered and found themselves within a cavern
and in total darkness.
"We may rest a bit now," said the scout. "There's a ledge hereabouts.
There you are. Sit down. I'll have to take your hand here lest you
fall off the bridge into the holes on each side o' the track."
"Are the holes dangerous?" asked Leather.
"They're dangerous enough to be worth takin' care of, anyhow, for if ye
was to tumble into one you'd never come out again. There, now, let's go
on, for if I don't git back soon, they'll be wonderin' if the monster
hasn't run away wi' me too, as well as you!"
After advancing a short distance in total darkness--Ben feeling his way
carefully step by step--they came suddenly to the hole in the front of
the cave to which reference has been already made. The place had
evidently been used before as a place of refuge and temporary abode,
for, near this front-mouth of the cave was found a litter of pine
branches which had plainly been used as a bed.
"Sit ye down there, Leather," said the scout, "see, or, rather, hear--
for the eyes aren't of much use just now--I've set down the grub an' a
flask o' water beside ye. Don't strike a light unless you want to have
your neck stretched. Daylight won't be long o' lettin' ye see what's
goin' on. You won't weary, for it'll be as good as a play, yourself
bein' chief actor an' audience all at the same time!"
Saying this the scout melted, as it were, into the darkness of the
cavern, and, with noiseless moccasined feet, retraced his steps to the
rear entrance.
Left to himself the poor wanderer found both time and food for
reflection, for he did not dare in the darkness to move from the spot
where he had seated himself. At first an eerie feeling of indefinable
fear oppressed him, but this passed away as the busy thoughts went
rambling back to home and the days of comparative innocence gone by.
Forgetting the dark surroundings and the threatening dangers, he was
playing again on the river banks, drinking liquorice-water, swimming,
and rescuing kittens with Charlie Brooke. Anon, he was wandering on the
sea-beach with his sister, brown-eyed Mary, or watching the manly form
of his old friend and chum buffeting the waves towards the wreck on the
Sealford Rocks. Memory may not be always faithful, but she is often
surprisingly prompt. In the twinkling of an eye Shank Leather had
crossed the Atlantic again and was once more in the drinking and
gambling saloons--the "Hells" of New York--with his profoundly admired
"friend" and tempter Ralph Ritson. It was a wild whirl and plunge from
bad to worse through which Memory led him now--scenes at which he
shuddered and on which he would fain have closed his eyes if possible,
but Memory knows not the meaning of mercy. She tore open his eyes and,
becoming unusually strict at this point, bade him look particularly at
all the minute details of his reckless life--especially at the wrecks of
other lives that had been caused by the wreck of his own. Then the
deepest deep of all seemed to be reached when he rose--or rather fell--
from the condition of tempted to that of tempter, and, somehow, managed
for a time to lead even the far stronger-minded Ralph Ritson on the road
to ruin. But he did not lead him long. The stronger nature soon
re-asserted itself; seized the reins; led the yielding Leather to the
cities of the far west; from gambling took to robbing, till at last the
gay and handsome Ritson became transformed into the notorious Buck Tom,
and left his weaker chum to care for himself.
It was at this point--so Memory recalled to him--that he, Leather, was
stopped, in mid and mad, career, by a man of God with the love of Jesus
in his heart and on his lips. And at this point Memory seemed to change
her action and proved herself, although unmerciful, pre-eminently
faithful. She reminded him of the deep contrition that God wrought in
his heart; of the horror that overwhelmed him when he thought of what he
was, and what he had done; of the sudden resolve he had formed to follow
Ritson, and try to stop him in the fearful career on which he had
entered. Then came the memory of failure; of desperate anxieties; of
futile entreaties; of unaccountably resolute perseverance; of joining
the outlaw band to be near his friend; of being laughed to scorn by them
all of being chased by US troops at the very commencement of his
enterprise; of being severely wounded, rescued, and carried off during
the flight by Buck Tom, and then--a long blank, mingled with awful
dreams and scenes, and ribald songs, and curses--some of all which was
real, and some the working of a fevered brain.
So terribly vivid were these pictures of memory, that one of the shouts
of dreamland absolutely awoke him to the fact that he had extended his
wearied limbs on his couch of pine brush and fallen asleep. He also
awake to the perception that it was broad daylight, and that a real
shout had mingled with that of dreamland, for after he had sat up and
listened intently for a few moments, the shout was repeated as if at no
great distance.