"I PIPED AND YE DANCED"
Gerald Buxton was boiling over with indignation when he parted company
with Mike Murphy and realized how he had been tricked. He had allowed the
real burglar to get away while he held up his innocent pursuer.
"All I ask is one sight of that villain!" he muttered, striking into a
lope which carried him rapidly over the ground. Since the fugitive had
disappeared several minutes before and there was no telling what course
he had taken, it would seem there was not one chance in a hundred of
Buxton ever seeing him again.
But, although the citizen had been cleverly hoodwinked, he used
shrewdness in wrestling with the problem. As he viewed it, the fellow was
likely to make for the stretch of woods between Beartown and the river,
that he might screen himself as quickly as possible. He would lose no
time in getting away from the village as soon as he could. It was quite
probable that he and his gang had come up or down the river and had a
launch awaiting them. To avoid going astray, he would use the highway
which joined Beartown and the landing.
Mr. Buxton had to climb three fences before he reached an open field of
slight extent, beyond which lay the woods. He knew the chances of
overtaking the criminal were meagre, but with a thrill of delight he
caught sight of his man only a little way in front and walking in the
same direction with himself. He seemed to have sprung from the ground,
and it was clear that he had no thought of further pursuit. His follower
tried to get nearer to him before he reached the woods, but the fellow
heard him and glancing over his shoulder broke into a run.
"Stop or I'll fire!" shouted Buxton.
After the young man's experience with his first pursuer and his
Springfield, he could not be blamed for refusing to heed the command. He
ran the faster and the next minute would have whisked beyond reach, had
not Buxton come to an abrupt halt, and taking a quick aim, fired.
He got his man too. With a cry of pain he leaped several feet in the air
and fell. Terrified by what he had done, Buxton ran forward, gun in hand,
and called out while several paces distant:
"Are you hurt bad?"
"I'm done for," was the reply as the wounded fellow laboriously climbed
to his feet.
With anger turned into sympathy, the captor asked:
"Where did I hit you?"
"You shattered my right leg," was the reply, accompanied by groans as the
fellow with excruciating effort tried to support himself on the other
limb.
Buxton laid down his weapon and knelt to examine the wound. He saw now
that the lower part of the trousers leg was shredded by the charge of
shot and that, doubtless, the hurt was a very grievous one.
"I'm sorry I gave it to you so bad, but you can't deny you desarved it.
If you're able to walk back to my house, with my help, I'll get a doctor
and we'll soon----"
At that instant the young man sprang back a couple of paces, and the
startled Buxton looking up saw that he stood firmly on both feet, with
the shotgun pointed at him. He had snatched up the weapon while the owner
was stooping over to inspect the wound.
"Now it's _my_ turn!" he said, with a chuckle. "It isn't your fault that
you didn't kill me, and it will be my fault if I don't even matters up
with you!"
Poor Buxton slowly came to the upright position, with jaws dropping and
eyes staring. He could only mumble:
"W-w-what's the matter?"
"Nothing with me; it's _you_ that's in a hole."
Believing it was all up with him, the terrified victim stood mute.
"I ought to shoot you down and I'll do so if you don't obey me."
"W-w-what do you want?" Buxton managed to stammer out.
"Dance!" was the crisp command.
The citizen stared, not comprehending the order.
"We cowboys in the West when we want a little fun make a tenderfoot dance
while we fire our revolvers at his feet. BEGIN!"
The victim lowered the point of the gun so as to point it at the shoes of
Mr. Buxton.
"I--I--can't dance; never done it in my life," he stuttered.
"Can't begin earlier. Start up!"
Knowing what was ordered, the victim obeyed. He leaped up and down,
shuffled his feet and made such comical antics that the gun wabbled in
the hands of the laughing master of the situation.
"I have one loaded barrel left and I'm aching to let you have it! Keep it
up!"
Now that he had started, Mr. Buxton threw more vigor into his steps. He
bounded in the air, side-stepped, kicked out his feet, tried a number of
fancy movements of which he knew nothing, and acted like an energetic
youth taking his first lessons in that branch of the terpsichorean art
called buck dancing.
"Turn your back toward me and dance all the way home! If you let up for
one minute or look around I'll blaze away, and you won't get the charge
in your _feet_! Remember that!"
Mr. Buxton reflected that having left home so jauntily with loaded weapon
over his shoulder, it would be anything but a dignified return to dance
back again without it. If he jig-stepped down the main street some
neighbor was likely to see him and make remarks. A waltz through the
gate, up the steps of the porch and into the hall, by which time it would
probably be safe for him to cease his exhausting performance, would
undoubtedly cause annoying inquiries on the part of his wife and family.
But there was hope. He might gain a start that would make it safe to
resume his natural gait. He did his best. Facing the boundary fence less
than two hundred yards away he kicked up his heels, swung his arms in
unison, and steadily drew away from that fearful form standing with gun
levelled at him. He yearned to break into a run, but dared not. He
believed his tormentor was following so as to keep him in range.
It was hardly to be expected that he should go over the fence with a
dance step, but he reflected that he could resume his labors immediately
he dropped to the ground on the other side and faithfully maintain it to
the next boundary. But there was risk and he was afraid to incur it.
While still shifting his feet with an energy that caused him to breathe
fast, he approached the obstruction. Partly turning his head while
toiling as hard as ever, he called:
"I'll have to stop a minute till I climb over, but I'll resoom dancing as
soon as I hit the ground on the other side agin. Is that all right?"
There was no reply and he repeated the question in a louder voice. Still
hearing nothing, he ventured to look back. The young man was nowhere in
sight. Truth to tell, no sooner had Mr. Buxton begun his humorous
exhibition than the youth, vainly trying to suppress his mirth, flung
down the gun, turned about and entered the wood toward which he was
running when so abruptly checked by his pursuer.
"Wal, I'll be hanged!" was the disgusted exclamation of the panting
Buxton. "That's the meanest trick I ever had played on me. The scand'lous
villain oughter be hung. What a sight I made! I'm mighty glad no one seen
me."
In his relief, he did not notice a vague form which flitted along the
edge of the wood, so close to the trees that the shadow screened it from
clear view. Had Mr. Buxton noted it he might not have felt certain that
no one witnessed his unrivalled performance.
He was so tired out from his tremendous efforts that he stood awhile
mopping his moist forehead with his handkerchief while he regained his
wind.
"It's lucky he didn't foller and make me dance all the way home. Never
could have done it. Would have dropped dead, I am that blamed tired."
He leaned against the fence while recovering from his unwonted exercise.
Naturally he believed the young man who had used him so ill had carried
away his weapon beyond possibility of recovery.
"And I paid twenty-five dollars for it in Portland," he bitterly mused.
"It looks to me that as a hunter of post office robbers I ain't of much
account."
He resumed his walk homeward, going slowly, carefully climbing the
obstructions in his path and studying what explanation to make to his
friends for the loss of his valuable piece. He might manage it with all
except his wife and son. It would not do to tell them he had dropped it
somewhere along the road without noticing the accident. A boy might lose
his pocketknife (I know of a youngster who lost a wheelbarrow and never
found it again), but a double barreled shotgun manifestly could not
disappear in that fashion so much out of the ordinary way of things.
"I think I'll have a look at the post office and larn what mischief the
villain done there."
He veered in his course and came to the back window, where a light showed
that some persons were gathered. He found mother, daughter and the three
boys, who gave him warm greeting.
"Was that your gun we heard a little while ago?" asked the woman.
"I reckon it must have been," replied Mr. Buxton, who declined the
invitation to enter and remained standing outside the window.
"Did you hit the burglar?" asked Alvin.
"Young man," said Mr. Buxton loftily, "when I fire at anything I _always_
hit it."
"You didn't kill him, Gerald!" exclaimed the horrified mother.
"No; I just winged him so he won't forget it if he lives a thousand
years; don't like to kill a scamp even if he is a burglar."
"Where's your gun?" continued Alvin.
The man glanced around as if it were hidden somewhere about his garments.
"Now isn't that a fine go?" he exclaimed disgustedly. "I set it down
while I went forward to see how bad that feller was hit, and plumb
forgot."
"O dad, here's your gun!"
It was the son Jim who called this greeting as he straddled forward with
the heavy piece resting on his shoulder. All stared in amazement, and the
father in his confusion was imprudent enough to ask:
"Where did you get it?"
"I seen that feller that took it away from you and made you dance all the
way across the field. He throwed it down and went into the woods. When I
seen you hopping and dancing and kicking up your heels I nearly died
a-larfing. But I didn't forgit the gun, and run along the edge of the
woods and picked it up. Gee! it's heavy! But, dad, I didn't know you
could dance like that. Say----"
"You young rascal, didn't I tell you to stay home? I'll larn you!"
The parent made a dive at his son, who, with the gun still over his
shoulder, scooted across the yard and over the fence, with his irate
father in fierce pursuit.