Two days later, at nine o’clock in the morning, a cavalcade of
black-robed riders, in column of fours, trotted silently into Ramapo.
There were at least two hundred of them. Their costume was identical
with that of the body which had appeared at the “Silver Star,” with one
exception—behind the large, red “J” other smaller letters completed the
word “Justice.”
Once inside the town, they quickly broke up into smaller units. Strong
groups posted themselves at the head of each road leading into the town.
Others quietly patrolled the streets. The main body formed in front of
the post-office and made preparations for the work before them. There
was a skill in the disposition of the riders, an orderly snap and
precision about all their movements, that betrayed competent leadership
by one experienced in military strategy. When the visitors had taken
position, there was as much chance for resistance in Ramapo as for the
proverbial snowball in the well-known place of warmth and discomfort.
But no resistance developed. There was no organization in the town which
could combat these well-drilled and determined men. Not all the
inhabitants were in favor of the riders; but the few who were not
displayed no overmastering desire to attempt to subdue them alone. The
majority were loud in their expressions of welcome and approval.
For a brief period after everything was in readiness the men hesitated
to come forward. Then one of the hardier spirits stepped up and recorded
the first vote ever cast in Ramapo. He was quickly followed by others.
The ice once broken, it was only a short while before the self-appointed
election commissioners were working under high pressure. Lines were
formed, directions given, and the voting went merrily on. At the
invitation of the riders, several of the better known miners took their
places on the board, as an assurance that everything was being done
“above the table.” Half in a spirit of jest, half in a spirit of grim
earnestness and sober satisfaction, the rough and-ready men of that
rough-and-ready country hastened to deposit the little slips that told
of their choice.
It was a crude election, if you will. But in those pioneer days men had
neither the time nor the inclination for the complicated restrictions
which the law of the present day casts around its ballot-boxes. A
pencil, a piece of paper, a basket, and a battery of forty-fours to
guarantee peace and fairness, were all that was necessary. On this
occasion they were amply sufficient. The votes were squarely cast and
squarely counted.
At two o’clock the last man dropped his ballot. At six the committee,
which had been working steadily throughout the day, had completed its
work. The precious slips were carefully locked in the post-office
safe—the only one in town. Then the leader of the riders advanced to the
porch of the building and quietly announced the results.
Ten minutes later the riders reformed. A few sharp words of command, a
rolling beat of hoofs, a cloud of dust gently eddying upward above the
road, and the black cavalcade had vanished as unostentatiously as it had
come.
Not a shot had been fired during the whole day. But now, as the last of
the visitors disappeared, a perfect blast of explosions shattered the
quiet. After a momentary pause the black company moved leisurely on, and
under every hood there was a broad grin. That was merely Ramapo’s way of
celebrating its first proud consciousness of the inauguration of law and
order!
A mile from the town the troops halted. The leader rode back toward the
center of the column and drew rein.
“Boys,” he said in a quiet voice, which nevertheless came clearly to
every man’s ears, “I can’t thank you for the work you’ve done. It’s
bigger than words. All I can say just now is: we’ve won! I’ll have to be
content with that until the general assembly to-morrow. After we break
up I’m going to take a short cut back to Ramapo and see that everything
is still all right. I’d like to have about thirty men with me in case
anything goes wrong.”
More than that number promptly offered themselves. Then, at a word from
the leader, the rest broke ranks and began to disperse, going in all
directions. The new party plunged into the woods. In a few seconds the
black riders had disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened
and swallowed them up.
Two of them, however, were moving along a by-road which led in a
roundabout direction back toward the town. Talking over the victory, and
trotting leisurely through the soft light of early evening, they had
covered nearly two-thirds of the distance, when more than a dozen men
suddenly dashed from the trees of each side. In an instant they were
surrounded. In the face of such odds their resistance, valiant though it
was, lasted but a moment. Both were roughly dragged from their saddles,
disarmed, and secured with stout cords. They were then hurried beneath
the overhanging branch of a giant oak.
“Boys,” said Wasp Williams, “I reckon it wouldn’t be decent an’
respectful not to call attention to the fact that Providence has
obliginly presented us with two o’ these here coyotes, accordin’ to our
prayers! So don’t waste no time with them preparations for the ceremony.
After we has decorated the scenery with these black beauties from time
to time, Ramapo ’ll begin to see as how there’s al’ays two sides to
every question. An’ by the way, reckon it would be considerable more
satisfyin’ to git a look at these pretties ’fore we elevates ’em.”
He advanced to the nearest prisoner and lifted his hood. The undaunted
eyes of Smiley Peterson looked out at him.
“Well, well,” the Wasp grinned, “this is shore a unexpected pleasure! I
didn’t make a very good job o’ you some time ago, friend; but I guess
there ain’t no excuse for not completin’ it this time. Now, let’s see
who we got here.”
As Williams advanced to the other, Peterson struggled fiercely to
extricate himself from his bonds. The cords had been bound only around
the waists of the two, securing their arms to their sides, and not very
tightly at that. It had not been the intention of the captors to waste
much time on their prisoners. Nevertheless, the little man was
apparently unable to loosen himself. After a short struggle he desisted.
Williams smiled tantalizingly. “Enjoyin’ yoreself?” he asked.
“I will be,” Peterson growled, “if I ever meets you in the next world!”
“Look here, Wasp,” one of the others broke in, as he clambered up the
tree and threw two ropes across the overhanging branches, “git through
with that there little comedy o’ yourn, an’ let’s git out o’ here. We
ain’t exactly in no encouragin’ situation ourselves.” He lowered himself
to the ground and waited impatiently with the two looped ends in his
hands.
Williams ignored the thrust and coolly lifted the hood of the other.
Then he started back. “Gawd!” he ejaculated.
Before them was the ashen face of Jeanne Dudley. She was standing with
closed eyes. Her white teeth had sunk so deeply into her trembling lip
that a little drop of blood had welled out and now stood like a
bright-red spot upon the soft, pale bow of her mouth.
For several moments Williams stared at her in genuine amazement. Then,
gradually, the consternation on his face was supplanted by his evil,
leering grin. Under the influence of their surprise, none of the captors
was watching little Peterson. Very slowly, very cautiously, his right
hand was working its way into a slit in the side of his garment. There
was no hope of entirely freeing himself, and he had no weapon even if he
succeeded. But he was not entirely at the end of his resources.
Williams turned to his confederates. “Boys,” he said, “as I says before,
I got a lot to be thankful for; but I never counted on no blessln’ like
this! You’re welcome to that little ungrowed bunch o’ cactus there; but,
as for me, I reckon I’ll jest struggle along with this one myself!”
“You mean yo’re a goin’ to take the gal?” one of the men asked,
grinning.
“Them’s my sentiments,” Williams answered. “Y’ see, I been holdin’ a
sort a’ option on this here person for some time. Reckon I’ll jest take
it up now that I got the chance. Mrs. Wasp Williams! Sounds purty nice,
don’t it?”
The girl opened her eyes. They were dark and glittering.
“You coward!” she taunted. “Why don’t you shoot me? I dare you! I dare
you all!”
But the grin on his face only broadened.
“Reckon I ain’t a goin’ to do nothin’ foolish like that—sweetheart,” he
mocked. “I got better plans.” He advanced toward her.
Just then Peterson, with a supreme effort, withdrew his hand from the
slit in his robe. There was a small cylindrical object in his knotted
fist. So far he had not been noticed. Now he suddenly stooped forward
and struggled to reach his half-freed hands with his lips. He could not
quite make it. Without hesitation, the quick-witted little man dropped
the object he had been holding to the ground. He threw himself upon it.
The others had quickly realized his intention, and with a rush they were
upon him. But they were a moment too late. He had succeeded in closing
his teeth upon the precious whistle, and before it could be knocked from
his lips its loud, long blast had shrilled through the woods.
Taking advantage of the momentary pause that resulted, the little man
managed to drag himself to his feet. Now he hurled himself, bonds and
all, at the figure of Williams. With a snarl of fury, that highly moral
and conscientious individual snatched his revolver from its holster and
fired twice, point blank. Both bullets buried themselves in Peterson’s
breast.
The little man stopped, stood still an instant with an old, surprised
expression on his face, and crumpled up in the dust of the road.
“Don’t stand there gawpin’, you fools!” There was a note of alarm in the
Wasp’s shout. “Quick! Git aboard them nags o’ yourn an’ clear out! First
thing y’ know, we’ll have a flock o’ them black devils on our heels.
I’ll take care o’ this here person.”
He leaped at the girl, lifted her in his arms, and carried her in among
the trees. He thrust her upon his horse. She was too stunned by the
sudden catastrophe that had just taken place to resist. Williams sprang
up behind her.
Several minutes later all were in the saddle and driving in their spurs.
But they had not gone twenty yards when there was a heavy crashing among
the underbrush. A moment later black figures seemed to swarm into the
road in front of them. So sharp and furious was the onslaught that the
demoralized ruffians had no time to prepare themselves for the shock.
Some of them were literally ridden down; others managed to fire a few
scattered shots before the attackers were upon them; the majority turned
tail and fled. The leader of the newcomers had picked out one man and
ridden straight at him. Williams had no opportunity even to draw his
weapon when the other’s fist smashed him senseless to the road.
In less time than it takes to tell it the mêlée was over. Those of the
defeated party that had not escaped, or gone down in the skirmish, were
standing sullenly in the road, well guarded by the rescuers. The steady
drum of galloping hoofs and the occasional crack of revolvers, dying
away in the distance, told of relentless pursuit of the rest.
“Rand, Rand—come quick! Cut these cords!” At the girl’s despairing cry,
the leader had dashed again to her side. In a moment she was free. She
leaped weakly down, and stood there, grasping the saddle for support.
“Peterson!” she gasped. “Williams shot him—when he—blew the whistle!
Back there on the road!”
Then she let go and rushed dizzily back to where the little, gray-haired
man lay on his side. Careless alike of pain and the eyes that watched
her, she dropped beside him and took his head into her lap. Little
wordless murmurings fell from her lips.
Peterson opened his swiftly dimming eyes and looked up. He recognized
the two faces bending over him. A smile, a shadowy reflection of the
pleasant expression that had given him his nickname, hovered round his
lips.
“Guess—it’s—good-by—this time,” he whispered faintly. “Rand, reckon you
can—open—that letter now. An’—an’—take care—o’—Miss Jeanne here. She’s a
fine—girl—a almighty—fine—fine—”
The last words trailed off into silence. And, with the little smile
still on his face, Smiley Peterson crossed the Great Divide. Minutes
later Rand Cameron, utterly unsuccessful in his efforts to console her,
rose from beside the bitterly sobbing girl. He walked softly back to the
group which had been watching them in silent sympathy.
“McCoy,” he said in a low, hoarse voice, “I’m going to take Miss Dudley
home. She’s been under too great a strain. I wish you’d bring back
little Peterson when you come. I’ll leave these creatures to you,
and”—his gray eyes burning into the steady pair that showed through the
slits in the black hood before him—“you can use your own judgment!”
McCoy threw back his mask. His gaze strayed to a big overhanging branch
a little farther back beside the road. His jaw lightened grimly.
“All right, chief,” he answered coolly. “Reckon everything’s all ready
to take good care o’ them!”