CAPTURED THE WRONG BOY.
As the boys listened voices came distinctly to their ears. It was
evident that the men who were talking had only recently arrived at the
spot where they stood, for all had been quiet a short time before.
The boys crept closer and saw a party of rough-looking natives gathered
about an evil-looking man, who appeared to be an Englishman, and a
slender figure which Jimmie had no difficulty in recognizing as that of
George Fremont. The sinister Englishman, undoubtedly the leader of the
party, was a giant of a fellow.
As the boys looked, he reached forth a great hand and, seizing Fremont
by one shoulder, shook him fiercely. Then it was seen that Fremont's
hands were tied behind his back. Jimmie started forward,
involuntarily, at sight of the brutality of the act, but the drummer
drew him back.
"You'll have to remain quiet," the latter said, "if you want to help
your friend. We can't fight the whole party. Have you a gun with you?"
Jimmie nodded and laid a hand on his hip.
"I am unarmed," the other said, in a minute, "and so couldn't do much
in a fight; so, perhaps I'd better go down and bring up the guards."
"Just the thing," whispered Jimmie. "I'll remain with this gang of
bandits and manage to leave a trail that can be followed if they leave
the place. Go on down an' bring the guards. And," he added, a half
smile on his anxious face, "don't forget to bring your drum."
"My drum!" repeated the other, in amazement. "What is the good of
bringing a drum, I'd like to know?"
"Bring it, anyway," directed Jimmie. "If you hear a shot up here, play
it to beat a band. Beat it for keeps. Rattle off a charge, and make a
noise like a regiment of cavalry. And if you can't make good time
climbing down, slip on a rock an' roll down. Somethin' must be done
quick!"
"I don't believe they will shoot him," the drummer said, tentatively,
hesitating for an instant.
"If that big lobster gives the order to do it," Jimmie said, his eyes
flashing, "I'll get him before the order can be obeyed. They may get
me after that, but I'll have the satisfaction of knowin' that I got to
him first. Now, run!"
The dawn was strong in the east when the drummer disappeared down the
side of the mountain. It had been an eventful night, a long one to the
boy standing there watching for an opportunity of making his presence
known to the prisoner. There was a deal of talking going on in the
group about the prisoner, but Jimmie could catch only part of what was
said.
The soldiers--if the ragged, sullen-looking natives might so be
termed--talked fast and in a villainous tongue which did not seem to be
Spanish. They appeared to be greatly excited, and it was only when the
heavy voice of the leader boomed forth that they reverted to silence.
Jimmie could not understand what the prisoner had been brought there
for. If the idea of his captors was to restore him to his friends,
that would be the work of only a minute. They would only have to cut
the bonds and Fremont would do the rest. If the idea was to murder
him, why the delay? It had been hours since his capture, and it would
have taken only a minute to discover that the wrong boy had been taken.
If, as Jimmie considered gravely, the big man should prove to be a
civil officer from Texas, a a man with a warrant for Fremont, then it
seemed that he would be getting him across the border as quickly as
possible, taking no chances with slow Mexican criminal procedure. This
last view of the case was the one which Jimmie feared most. He might be
able to get his friend away from Mexican bandits, but not from a Texas
sheriff.
The next words of the leader settled every doubt on the question the
boy was puzzling over. Although they showed that Fremont was in
immediate peril of his life, the watcher was in a measure relieved at
the knowledge they brought him. So long as Fremont was held a prisoner
by those who were breaking and not enforcing the law in doing so, there
was hope of rescue.
"Nestor," the Englishman said, thrusting his bewhiskered face into that
of Fremont, "tell me where the papers are, and I'll set you free in an
instant."
"I know nothing about the papers you speak of," was the reply. "I have
never had them in my possession."
The renegade whispered with his companions for a moment. Jimmie could
not hear what was being said, but the soldiers seemed to be insisting
on some point which the leader was not quite certain of. Then the
latter asked:
"You are certain you made no mistake?"
The others nodded and pointed at Fremont.
"It is as you commanded," one of them said, in fair English.
Then the big man turned back to the prisoner, an ugly frown on his
repulsive face.
"You are not telling me the truth," he said. "You know well enough
where the papers are. It is useless for you to deny."
The leader believed the prisoner to be Nestor. That was plain now.
And Fremont had been captured by these brigands in the absence of the
leader, and he was taking their word that they had abducted the right
boy. This might account for the delay. The leader might have joined
his men only now.
"I don't know anything about the papers," insisted Fremont.
"Huh!" muttered Jimmie, from his hiding place. "Why don't he tell his
nobbs who he is? Then he might be released."
Jimmie did not know that Fremont had long been considering this very
point, and finally decided that the correct course for him to pursue
would be to permit his captor to remain in ignorance of his identity.
The instant he knew that his brigands had made a mistake, the fellow
would be out after Nestor with a larger force, and that would make it
dangerous for the boy, would hamper him in the work he was there to do.
Besides, he believed that the course he proposed would gain time, and
that Nestor would certainly come to his rescue.
"You are making a mistake," the big man threatened, as Fremont again
denied knowledge of the papers. "You are known to have been in the
Cameron building that night. You are known to have taken the papers
away from there, and to have made use of them. I won't say what
treacherous use now. If the papers are not on your person, they are
hidden somewhere."
Fremont only shook his head. In the growing light Jimmie could see
that he was very pale, that he seemed tired out, as if he had been
traveling all night. However, the white face he saw had a determined
look, and Jimmie marveled at the mental processes which should so
obstinately defend a wrong idea, which, of course, he only guessed.
"Everything you have done since you left the building that night is
known to me," the big man went on. "You deserve death for the marplot
that you are, but I will release you if you will restore the papers."
Fremont made no reply whatever to this. As a matter of fact, he did
not even know the nature of the papers which were so in demand, Nestor
having told him little of his real mission to Mexico. In the meantime
Jimmie way trying in every way he could think of, without revealing his
presence, to catch Fremont's eye and make him understand that help was
at hand, and that he ought to reveal his identity and so create delay,
as well as escape whatever cruelty the big fellow had in store for the
boy he was being mistaken for.
"I'll give you three minutes, Nestor," the leader finally said, "to
tell me where the papers are. At the end of that time, if you remain
obstinate, I'll order you shot. Decide!"
Jimmie twisted and wiggled about until he became fearful that the noise
he was making must disclose his presence, but Fremont did not cast a
look in his direction. The leader stood grimly in the foreground with
watch in hand. The seconds seemed to Jimmie to be running by like a
mill-race.
"Two minutes."
Fremont's face did not change, except for a slight tightening of the
lips. Jimmie listened intently for the sound of a drum on the mountain
side below. It now was quite light, and the watcher could see every
movement made by the men he believed to be brigands and their prisoner.
A chill of terror ran through his veins as he saw the ragged squad
examining their guns as if they expected to use them at the expiration
of two more minutes.
"One minute."
The leader snapped out the words viciously; his evil eyes sparred for
an instant with those of his captive and were then lowered to the
ground. Jimmie took his revolver from his pocket and held it ready for
action. As he had declared to the drummer, it was his deliberate
intention to shoot the leader an instant before he gave the order to
fire. He knew that the discharge would point out his place of
concealment, and did not doubt that the volley intended for Fremont
would be turned upon himself, but the knowledge did not swerve him from
his purpose.
He counted the next seconds by his own fierce heart-beats. Thirty-four.
Thirty-five. Thirty-six. It seemed to him that a second was never so
short before. At sixty he would fire if he saw no evidence of
weakening in Fremont. And he did not believe that Fremont would
weaken. He was coming to understand that Fremont was obsessed with the
idea that he was protecting Nestor by the course he was taking. This
being true, he would remain loyal to the very end.
Thirty-nine. The leader seemed about to lift his hand as a signal for
the squad to level their guns, when a shout came from up the slope, and
a figure every whit as ragged and disreputable in appearance as the men
gathered about the prisoner swung into sight, leaping over ledges and
lifting voice and hand in warning as he advanced.
The men, now swinging their guns into position, paused and held them
motionless while they gazed at the intruder. The leader shifted about
uneasily and muttered something under his breath. Released, for the
moment at least, from the strain he had been under, Jimmie dropped back
in his hiding place, his weapon clattering to the ground. It was not
the fact of his own peril that had wrought him up to the point of
breaking, but the thought that it might be necessary for him to take a
human life.
It seemed to the boy that there was displeasure half hidden in the
leader's manner as he conferred with the messenger. He did not appear
to approve of the interruption.
"Why didn't you tell me that you had made a mistake and taken the wrong
boy?" he demanded, then turning to the men. "Why didn't you tell me
this was not Nestor?"
The men made no reply except that one of them grumbled that they had
captured the boy whose description they had been given, and the leader
turned to Fremont.
"Why didn't you declare your identity?" he demanded.
"I had no reason to believe that anything I could say would be
credited," was the cool reply. "You saw fit to disbelieve what I said
about the papers."
"What is your name?" the other asked, laying a hand on the boy's arm.
Fremont remained silent, but the messenger stepped forward and declared
that he knew the fellow well by sight, and that his name was George
Fremont.
"Is that true?" demanded the renegade, and Fremont nodded.
Somehow it seemed to Jimmie that the renegade expected the answer that
he had received, and that he way angry with the messenger for bringing
out the boy's name. At any rate he glanced furtively at his men as the
name was mentioned.
"And so," he said, then, "you are the boy wanted in New York for
attempted murder and robbery? The boy with a reward of $10,000 on his
head."