A DESPERATE RIDE
Nearing the spring, where he had taken a drink before that day, Jack was
about to dismount to get some cooling water. But such a strange feeling of
weakness and dizziness came over him that he had to hold himself in the
saddle.
"I--I'm afraid if I get out I won't be able to get up again," he murmured
weakly. "Sunger, what's the matter with me, I wonder?"
Then, ill as he felt himself becoming, like a flash an idea came to Jack.
The meaning of it all came to him instantly.
"I've been drugged!" he said, hoarsely. "That Ryan! That was his game. He
drugged my coffee, that time when he made me turn around! I saw him putting
back my cup! He put some drug in my coffee to make me unconscious!"
For a moment the thought of the desperate trick that had been played on him
made Jack so angry that he succeeded in fighting off the feeling of
weakness and dizziness. But it was only for a moment. Then it came back
with increasing distress.
"That was the game," he murmured, scarcely able to see now. "He probably
had doped the whiskey in that flask, but I didn't take that. Then he
watched his chance, urged me to take something to eat with him, and put
some drug in my coffee. No wonder it tasted bitter and queer! What a
simpleton I was to take it! But I did not know."
Jack was reeling in the saddle. The pony sensed that something was wrong
with his master, and stopped.
"No, don't stop! Go on! Go on!" urged Jack. "Oh, what am I going to do?" he
murmured. "I'm on a lonely trail, with the valuable mail and express.
That's what Ryan counts on. He thinks I'll fall by the wayside and he can
come up and get what he wants when I'm unconscious.
"But what is it he wants? The Argent letters, of course. That's what he's
after! He's drugged me. He's going to give me time to fall in a faint, and
then he's coming along to rob the mail. The Argent letters must be in the
sacks that aren't opened. He must have found that out in some way, and have
been on the watch for me.
"But he won't get them. I'll not let him roll the mail!" cried Jack,
speaking aloud, and trying to put some fierce energy into his voice. But it
died away faintly.
"How can I stop him? How can I foil him?" mused the ill and almost fainting
rider. "I--I've got to do something. But what? I can't stay in the saddle
much longer. Go on, Sunger! Go on!"
For the pony had stopped again.
Jack wanted desperately to get a drink from the cold spring, but he dared
not.
"If I leave the saddle I'd not have strength to get up in it again," he
reasoned. "But I've got to do something! I've got to do something!"
He repeated the words over and over again, until they rang in his numbed
brain like the refrain of some song. Sunger did not know what to make of it
all. He could tell something was wrong, and whinnied once or twice. But
Jack was too ill to answer him, or pat him caressingly as he always did.
"Sunger, we've got to do something! We've got to do something to save the
mail!" whispered the poor lad. He was too weak to do more than whisper.
Jack tried to listen, and to ascertain if the outlaw who had played this
trick on him was coming behind him on the trail, for he realized that Ryan
would soon follow, to reap the fruits of his villany. But there was no
sound save the echo of Sunger's hoof-beats. It was getting late in the
afternoon.
Jack was reeling in the saddle now. He could hardly hold himself upright.
Once or twice he nearly fell out, but clutched the pommel in time. Once or
twice, too, the pony stopped, but Jack urged him on. He knew his only hope
lay either in reaching Golden Crossing, or in some one on the trail seeing
his plight and looking after him. But there was not much chance of this
last, for the disabled stage would not be along for some hours yet.
Then, as he thought of what it would mean to him to have the mail robbed a
second time while in his possession, a desperate plan came into Jack's
mind.
"I'll tie myself to the saddle!" he whispered "I've got plenty of rope for
that. I'll lash myself fast. Then if I do get unconscious, which I'm afraid
is going to happen, I won't fall out.
"And when I tie myself fast, Sunger," Jack went on, speaking as loudly as
he could; "when I'm lashed fast, and don't know anything, you've got to go
on and carry the mail--and me. You've got to take the mail safe through to
Jennie at Golden Crossing, and you've got to do it without my guidance. You
know the trail, Sunger! You've got to take the mail through! It's the only
way to save it!"
Jack felt that it was useless longer to try to fight off the effects of the
drug. It was too strong and powerful for him, and he realized that he must
have been given a heavy dose. He could hardly see now.
Jack carried with him a light but strong rope for often he had to tie mail
pouches on the saddle behind him. With hands that trembled, with his head
aching terribly, and his eyes burning, Jack managed to pass about his legs,
and under the saddle girths, several turns of the rope. He made himself
fast in the saddle, so he would not fall off.
Then, when the last knot had been tied and made secure, Jack fell forward
on his pony's neck.
"Go on, Sunger!" he said feebly. "Go on to Jennie and Golden Crossing. It's
my only chance. You've got to run now as you never ran before! You've got
to carry the mail! Go on, Sunger! Don't fail me now, or it will be all up
with dad and me! Don't fail, Sunger! Go on!"
With this last urging Jack's eyes closed, and he felt himself going off
into unconsciousness.
Then the brave and intelligent Sunger sprang forward. Somehow the pony must
have understood. At any rate, he knew that all haste must be made on the
trail. He was carrying the mail, and Jack always urged him to top speed on
such occasions.
With the instinct that characterizes dogs, horses and other animals, Sunger
knew that he must go on to the Post Office. Just what had happened to his
master, of course Sunger did not know. But it was something wrong--the pony
sensed that.
And so with the unconscious form strapped to the saddle, with Jack's head
pillowed on Sunger's neck, the plucky animal started to foil the plans of
the plotters. On and on he galloped over the mountain trail, Jack swaying
from side to side, but remaining safe because of the holding ropes.
It was about this time that Ryan, who, by a roundabout road, had reached
the trail leading from Tuckerton to Golden Crossing, looked at his watch in
a secluded place where he was waiting, and remarked:
"Well, it ought to be working by this time. I guess I'll amble along and
see what's doing. I ought to get the letters without any trouble. I
certainly dosed his coffee good and strong," and he smiled in an evil
fashion.
Springing into the saddle he urged his horse along the trail. He did not
hurry, for he wanted to give the drug time to work its full and stupefying
effect. Ryan was a different sort of worker from the other outlaws. He did
not believe in their rough and ready methods, but, instead, used sneaking
means, such as drugs, that were often no less successful.
"This hold-up work doesn't pay when you can get the same results without
attracting so much attention," he murmured as he rode on. "Now I wonder if
I had better take that last package they gave him. I don't believe the maps
will be in that, though. They must be in the sacks. I hope I have a key
that will fit the lock. I don't want to cut the bags if I can help it.
"If I can come up when he's lying unconscious, pick the locks, and get out
what I want, I can lock the mail pouches again, and he won't know he's been
robbed for some hours. That will give me that much more time to get away.
Yes, that's my best plan," and as Ryan rode along he examined several keys
which he took from a pocket. He had made his plans carefully.
It was not until the outlaw had reached a point near the spring that he
began to be at all concerned. Up to then he had felt sure of the result of
his desperate work.
"Why, I ought to have come upon him before this," he reasoned, wonderingly.
"That stuff would knock out a strong man, let alone a lad like him. He
ought to have fallen off, or have gotten off, and become unconscious before
this. I wonder if I made any mistake."
He went over in his mind the different points of his plot. It seemed
perfect. But where was his victim who should have been lying unconscious
beside the road?
"Something's wrong!" Ryan exclaimed, as he passed the spring. He looked
about. The trail was dusty, but he could sec no signs of Jack's having
dismounted, or indications that the lad had fallen and gotten up to the
saddle again.
"Something's wrong," Ryan repeated. Then he put spurs to his horse and
galloped down the trail toward Golden Crossing.