BOB MAKES HIS ESCAPE
For the moment Bob could not realize his awful peril, but when he saw
the tiny flame feeding on the loose hay, and creeping steadily toward
him, he gave a cry of horror.
The flame became stronger each instant, and as it grew it advanced with
increased rapidity.
“I will be burned alive!” groaned the youth.
He tried to roll from the place in which he had been shoved, but Barker
had tied him to a pole in the centre of the hay-stack, and he found it
impossible to free himself.
“Help! help!” he cried.
No answer came back to his appeal. The spot was out of sight of any
house, and it was more than likely that the fire would be well under
way before being discovered by any outsider.
“If only Frank would come,” thought Bob. “He ought to be somewhere
about.”
Little did the youth dream that his friend was at that moment lying at
the bottom of the ditch. The blow upon Frank’s head had been a severe
one, and when Barker and Casco left him they expected he would not
very soon recover.
The flames near the stack were now mounting higher, and suddenly a puff
of wind carried them directly toward Bob, and the youth was almost
immediately surrounded by fire.
“I’m a goner now!” moaned Bob.
The fire ate its way swiftly toward the youth’s back--it touched his
hands--and he shrieked with pain.
The smoke was thick, and it not only blinded him, but choked him as
well.
Bob was almost overcome when the wind shifted and carried the flames
another way.
He began another desperate struggle, and at last succeeded in freeing
one hand, although in so doing he tore a large portion of the skin from
his wrist.
“Now or never,” he muttered, desperately. “I must get free before the
wind shifts back, or I’ll be a goner.”
He tugged at his other hand, but the cord held and the knot refused to
budge.
“Help! help!” he cried again, at the top of his lungs.
He had hardly uttered the words before the wind swerved around, and
once more the flames and smoke surrounded him.
“Hullo there!” came faintly from the darkness beyond.
“Help!” cried Bob again.
His throat was almost choked, and his mouth was parched.
“Where are you?”
“In the hay-stack. Save me, I am tied fast!”
“By Jove! I’m coming!”
An instant passed and then through the smoke appeared a swaying form
that seemed every moment to be on the verge of collapsing.
“Bob!”
“Frank! Save me, quick!”
“What’s the trouble?”
“I am tied to this pole,” moaned Bob. “Quick, cut the cord, or I’ll be
burnt up!”
Frank drew out his knife, and opened it. Two slashes, and Bob was free.
With one mad leap he jumped from the burning stack to the open space
beyond. Frank followed, and both were safe, while a sudden puff caught
the flames and sent them upward with a roar.
“In the nick of time,” burst out Bob. “Just look at that wrist, and I
know my neck is blistered.”
“I am glad I arrived when I did,” returned Frank. “I suppose the same
rascals tied you----”
He stopped short. Bob saw him reel, and, springing forward, he caught
the young man in his arms.
“Fainted, by jinks!” exclaimed the youth. “And his neck is covered
with blood. They must have attacked him, too.”
Bob laid Frank flat on his back, and began to fan him with his cap.
While he was doing this, two men, evidently father and son, rushed up.
“Here, what be yeou a-doin’ here?” demanded the elder, savagely.
“We didn’t set the stack on fire,” returned Bob.
“Thet’s well enough fer yeou to say,” went on the younger. “Git up
there,” this to Frank.
“He can’t get up,” replied Bob.
“Why not?”
“He has fainted.”
“What were yeou doin’ in the stack?” demanded the elder.
“Nothing. I was tied there by three men, and one set the stack on fire
from his pipe.”
“By gum!” ejaculated the younger.
“Thet’s a likely story. Guess we can’t save it, Ruel, anyhow.”
“’Tain’t likely, dad. Thet hay is lost, sure.”
“It’s these fellers’ faults,” grumbled the father. “They most likely
went to sleep smokin’ in it, an’ thet’s how it caught.” He grabbed Bob
by the arm. “Yeou cum along o’ me.”
“It’s not my fault. Let go,” returned Bob. “Look at that wrist! And my
friend has been struck in the back of the head. You had better help me
carry him to some house and get a doctor. He is no tramp, but a guest
over to Fitt’s hotel.”
At these words the farmer let go his hold and scratched his head.
“Wall, I dunno. Who be yeou?”
“Never mind that. This young man is Frank Landes. Perhaps you have
heard of him. He comes around here occasionally.”
“Frank Landes! By gum, so it is! He’s with a New York commission house.
Wall, thet’s different, o’ course it is. But who sot the hay afire?”
“Three men named Casco, Barker, and Grogan.”
“I don’t know ’em.”
“They are a bad set. But come, help me with Frank. You can’t do
anything with that hay. It’s all smoked through, and the cattle won’t
touch it.”
“Thet’s so. Where shall we take him?”
“How far is your house?”
“Jess tudder side o’ thet hill.”
“Then we might as well take him there,” said Bob.
The three raised up the limp body, and carried it to the farmer’s
house. Half a dozen neighbors, who had been attracted by the blaze,
came up and followed.
Ruel Dalmer--that was the son’s name--set off for the nearest doctor
on his buckboard, and it was not long before a physician arrived.
Just before he entered, Bob, who was standing over Frank, doing all in
his power to make the young man comfortable, had the satisfaction of
seeing the blood-shot eyes open and heard a faint gasp.
“Thank fortune, he’s coming around,” murmured the youth. “His injuries
are much worse than mine.”
The physician at once went to work. He sewed up the cut in the back of
Frank’s head, and gave the young man a strengthening potion.
“All he needs now is plenty of rest,” said the physician. “It is an
ugly wound, but by no means a serious one. Nevertheless, had it come an
inch farther up the young man would have been killed.”
“He can’t be moved, can he?” asked Bob.
“Not for a day or two.”
“He can stay here a week,” said the elder Dalmer. “I did not know it
was Landes at first, or I wouldn’t have been so rough.”
They left Frank lying on a bed in the spare room, and then Bob followed
the others below, and there told his story, starting with the meeting
between Frank and Casco at the hotel.
“I heard about that affair only an hour ago,” said the doctor. “And so
those are the men who attacked you both?”
“They are.”
“They oughter be in jail!” cried old Dalmer. “Sech rascals ain’t fit to
be loose.”
The doctor was about to leave, when a wagon dashed up to the house. It
contained two men, one of whom jumped down and rapped sharply on the
door.
“What’s up, John?” demanded Dalmer, opening the door at once.
“Our house has been robbed, and we want help to catch the robbers,” was
the startling reply.
Of course, every one was astonished. Bob sprang to his feet.
“I’ll wager anything it was Casco, Barker, and Grogan did it,” he
exclaimed.
“Wot makes yeou think thet?” questioned the elder Dalmer.
“Because they spoke of having just time enough to accomplish something.
They robbed the house, and are now getting away as fast as they can.”
“I’m going after them, and I’ll catch ’em, too, just as sure as my
name is John Wright,” exclaimed the man who had made the announcement.
“Who’ll go along?”
“I can’t go,” said the man who had driven up with Wright.
“I’ll go after them,” said Bob. “I owe those fellows one.”
“An’ I’ll go, too,” put in Ruel Dalmer. “They’ll find out they can’t
fire our hay-stack fer nuthin’, by gosh!”
So a party of three was hastily formed, and they drove off in John
Wright’s wagon at a breakneck speed.
“Have you any idea what direction the robbers took?” questioned Bob, on
the way.
“I reckon they cut toward Stampton,” said Wright. “We’ll see if they
have learned anything new up to the house.”
When they reached Wright’s home, they found everything in confusion.
An entrance had been effected through a dining-room window, and the
entire lower floor ransacked.
In one closet Mrs. Wright had had a quantity of silverware. This was
gone, and with it a table spread in which the robbers had most likely
tied up this part of their booty.
An old desk stood in a corner of the sitting-room. This desk held
Wright’s private papers and also his strong box. It had been skilfully
unlocked, and both the box and many of the documents were gone.
“And the box contained eighteen hundred dollars in cash,” said John
Wright. “Plague take the luck! I ought to hev took that money to the
Stampton bank.”
Bob began to look around carefully. Presently he stopped and picked up
something lying on the floor near the looted desk. It was a short clay
pipe.
“That settles it,” he said, holding up the article. “That is the same
pipe Grogan was smoking.”
“You are sure?” questioned Wright.
“Yes. We had better get after them without delay.”
“But which way?”
“Ye-as, we can’t go after ’em unless we know thet,” put in Ruel Dalmer.
“I suppose they went out the way they came,” said Bob. “Let us see if
we cannot trace them from the dining-room window.”
An extra lamp was procured by Mrs. Wright, who was shedding copious
tears over her loss, and a minute examination of the ground outside of
the window took place.
“The steps lead off in that direction,” said Bob, pointing toward a
road which ran to the south of the house. “Come on!”
By the aid of a lantern they followed the foot-prints to the road.
“And from here they went straight to Stampton,” said Wright. “I wonder
if they had a horse and wagon.”
“No, they didn’t!” shouted Bob, from the other side of the road. “They
crossed to here and struck out for the woods.”
Wright and Dalmer came over, and both agreed that the youth was right.
The foot-prints could be seen plainly.
“We’ll have no difficulty in following them,” said Bob. “I suppose you
are both armed?”
Wright said he had a pistol. Ruel Dalmer had a stout club, and declared
he wanted no better weapon.
“Jess give me a whack at ’em with this, an’ I’ll knock the daylights
clean outer ’em,” he observed, as he grasped the club more firmly than
ever.
“They are desperate men,” said Bob. “They would not hesitate to shoot,
if cornered. I intend to take no chances.”
“It’s a pity it ain’t day instead o’ night,” observed Wright. “I reckon
it’s pitch dark in the woods.”
“The moon is coming up,” said Bob. “That will soon help us. Let us go
forward and make as little noise as possible.”
Without further words, the three left the road and entered the belt of
timber beyond. Here the ground was soft, and the tracks made by the
robbers were plainly visible for a distance of several hundred feet.
“Maybe they crossed to the Shanover turnpike,” suggested Wright. “They
might do that, and throw us off the track.”
“We’ll soon find out,” returned Bob.
Deeper and deeper they went into the timber, until at length they came
to a small stream, both sides of which were covered with rocks.
Here, of course, the tracks made by the robbers could not be followed,
and the searchers came to a halt.
“Stuck,” said Dalmer, laconically. “Wot’s ter do now?”
“We had better separate,” said Bob. “Supposing one of you go up the
brook, one down, and I will cross and see if I can’t hit the trail in
the wood beyond.”
“All right, that’s a good plan,” said Wright. “I’ll be the one to go
down stream.”
He turned in the direction. Ruel Dalmer started in the opposite
direction, and Bob was left alone.
The moon had now risen, and a faint light stole through the timber,
broken here and there by heavy shadows. A boy less brave than Bob might
have shivered at the uncanny situation, but Bob did not know what fear
was. He had seen too much of the seamy side of life for that.
Jumping from one rock to another, he crossed the stream and plunged
boldly ahead. He had a fair idea of the direction of the Shanover
turnpike, and thought he could do no better than make directly for it.
“For that is what those chaps did, if they were bound this way,” he
reasoned.
Less than half an hour later Bob came to a large mass of rocks, covered
with trailing vines and moss. He paused for a second, and as he did so
a peculiar sound came to his ears.
“What was that?” the youth asked himself. “It sounded like a man’s foot
slipping on a wet stone.”
Bob listened intently, but the sound was not repeated, and after
waiting a full minute the youth began to move forward again.
He passed to the end of the rocks, and struck out for the turnpike,
which he knew was now not five minutes’ walk ahead.
Suddenly a dark object seemed to loom up directly in his path. It was
the form of a man. In a moment more the boy made out the figure of John
Wright.
“Do you know where the robbers went?” asked Wright.
“No.”
“I sent word over to Stampton and to Shanover, and the police are now
on the villains’ tracks.”
“Hope they catch them,” muttered Bob. “They are the toughest crowd I
ever heard of.”
“That’s so. But the chief of police of Stampton assured me they
couldn’t escape. I suppose he knows how to run ’em down first clip.”
Bob had his doubts about the matter, but he did not express them. Yet
he hoped Wright spoke the truth.
He was anxious to interview Barker. What did the man know about him and
about his father?
“I’ll make him tell,” muttered Bob to himself. “And I’ll make him prove
what he says, too. I don’t intend to be a nobody any longer.”
Bob followed John Wright to his home. Here he was invited to partake of
breakfast, which he did willingly, for the events of the past hours had
sharpened his appetite.
Having finished the meal, Bob started back toward the Dalmer house,
to see how Frank Landes was progressing. He sincerely hoped his
newly-found friend would speedily recover from the injuries he had
received.
About half-way down the road he espied a rickety turn-out approaching.
He thought he knew the rig, and he was not mistaken.
It was Joel Carrow’s turn-out, and on the seat sat the miserly farmer,
looking meaner than ever.
“I wonder what he’ll do when he sees me?” thought Bob.
Joel Carrow’s horse approached on a slow trot, and the farmer was not
long in espying the youth.
Bob eyed him sharply, as he stepped aside to let the wagon pass. He
was about to speak, but changed his mind.
“What are yer doin’ here, yer young whelp?” was Carrow’s salutation, as
he pulled up.
“Are you speaking to me?” asked Bob, coolly.
“Who else would I be speaking to, you rat!”
“Thanks for your kind expressions. What I am doing is none of your
business.”
“I hear Wright’s house was robbed last night,” went on Carrow,
meaningly.
“Well?”
“I was goin’ ter ride over an’ see. It’s more’n like you hed sumthin’
ter do with it.”
Bob laughed at this.
“You’re crazy, Mr. Carrow,” he said. “Just because you and I can’t
hitch, I suppose you think I’m the worst boy in the State.”
“So yer be! So yer be! An’ don’t yer call me crazy!” shouted Carrow,
getting angry.
“Then keep your opinions to yourself. Nobody asked you for them, and
they are not wanted.”
“Don’t give me any o’ yer sass!”
“Then don’t call me hard names.”
“I’ll do as I please. I ain’t ter be talked to by no boy!” howled
Carrow.
“Did you catch the pigs?” questioned Bob, in a teasing manner.
“I’ll pig you!”
“How about that hot-bed? It must have cost a nice penny to put all that
glass back.”
“Shut up!”
Carrow was in a fearful rage. He could not stand being chaffed.
“Say another word, an’ I’ll skin yer alive!” he roared.
“Another word,” returned Bob promptly, “You are on too good terms with
yourself. Leave me alone, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“I’ll leave you alone,” snarled the farmer. “How do yer like thet, you
scamp!”
He pulled his whip from the socket, swung the end in the air, and
brought the lash down on Bob’s back.
The blow was a heavy one, and it hurt. Bob sprang back, his eyes
blazing like stars.
“What did you do that for?” he demanded.
“Ter teach you a lesson.”
“Come down off of that seat.”
“What fer?”
“Come down and I’ll show you.”
“I reckon I won’t accommodate ye!” returned Carrow, pulling up on his
reins. “Let thet be a lesson to yer!”
“If you don’t come down, I’ll throw this at you,” cried Bob.
He stooped as he spoke, and picked up a large, round stone.
“Don’t yer dare!” cried the farmer, in alarm.
“Then come down. You had no right to hit me with the whip, and I want
to settle with you.”
Carrow looked at the determined youth, and grew just a bit nervous. He
knew Bob was a good shot with a stone, and he did not fancy getting
such a missile in the head.
“Do you want me to give you more of the whip?” he asked, but in a
milder tone.
“Never mind. Come down.”
Instead of complying, Carrow spoke to his horse. The animal took a step
forward, but Bob promptly stopped him.
“Let go the hoss!” cried the farmer.
“I won’t, and, what is more, I want you to come down. I’ll give you
just half a minute to do it in.”
Carrow hesitated and then jumped to the ground, wondering what would
come next.
He still held the whip in one hand. Rushing up, Bob wrenched it from
his grasp.
“Turn about is fair play,” cried Bob. “How do you like that?”
He hauled off and swish! the lash swept across Carrow’s face, leaving a
deep red stripe behind.
“Ough!” shrieked the farmer, dancing around with pain. “I’ll have you
arrested for that!”
“I am not afraid of you,” returned the youth, as coolly as he could. “I
hope this teaches you a lesson.”
Carrow grew white with rage. That boy had dared to hit him with a whip,
and in the face, too! It was shameful!
He looked around for some means of getting the best of Bob. Suddenly
his eye caught sight of a pitchfork which lay in the back of the wagon.
He made a dash, and secured the pitchfork. Then, handling it as if it
were a bayonet, he rushed upon the youth.