CAPTURED
When Tom Clifton realized the danger that confronted him he was so
taken by surprise that it was several seconds before he had recovered
sufficient presence of mind to leap aside.
“Hold on--hold on!” he yelled. “Who are you?”
The other threw aside his rifle, but made no reply. Tom Clifton saw a
pair of long arms outstretched; muscular fingers were ready to grip him.
Despite the rapidity of the attack, Tom, by an adroit movement, eluded
his assailant. The bewilderment which at first had threatened seriously
to interfere with him was gone. Cool-headed and steady of nerve, he
attempted to leap toward his horse.
Before he could reach the animal, however, his mysterious adversary was
upon him.
Desperately Tom Clifton strove to tear away from the arms which
encircled his waist. At the high school gymnasium he had learned a few
tricks in wrestling. One of these broke the hold.
Then two wildly-struggling figures swayed back and forth in the hollow,
now illuminated by the faint light which came from the fire, then, once
again, beyond its range, with the pale rays of the moon sending their
shadows weirdly over the uneven ground.
What was the object of the attack? Who could this man be who had
crawled up to his camp and sprung upon him as fiercely as a wolf? He
could find no answer.
All his strength, skill and cunning responded to his call. He was
outmatched in strength but not in generalship. His rapid movements made
firelight, horse and trees appear to be whirling around and around.
Again and again he tore away; again and again, with the skill of a
boxer, he blocked the hands which attempted to seize him. Once he was
down, sprawling on hands and knees.
His game defense seemed destined to end in failure; for, as rapidly as
an eagle darts upon its prey, so did the other follow up his advantage.
Tom Clifton gritted his teeth. He heard a cry of exultation. Out of
the corner of his eye he saw the dark figure towering above him.
Then, with extraordinary swiftness, he twisted around and gripped his
opponent’s leg just in time to prevent himself from being crushed to
earth.
Involuntarily, the enemy straightened up to keep his balance. And in
that instant the nimble Tom had sprung to his feet.
“See here,” he managed to gasp between his labored breathing, “let up!
You must have taken me for some one else.”
There was no reply.
“If I could only get to that horse!” thought Tom.
He sprang away, with the other lunging heavily at his heels.
Dashing madly toward the frightened animal he loosened the picket pin
with a lusty kick. Then, driven to close quarters, faced about.
The fierce struggle was renewed. The shadows danced faster. The hard,
deep breathing of both grew louder. Only the Rambler’s speed kept
him out of the other’s clutches. The realization that once in his
enemy’s grip he would be rendered helpless nerved him to continue the
resistance with all his strength and resourcefulness.
The man’s silence, the broad-brimmed hat pulled low, so as to conceal
his features, and his evident determination to win at all hazards
filled him with an alarm he had never felt before.
An idea had occurred to Tom; and, putting it into execution, he managed
to work his way out of the hollow, at length reaching a point many
yards distant from the camp.
And now he felt that the instant to make his decisive stroke had
arrived. It was a stroke which would mean either victory or defeat.
With an abruptness which took his adversary completely by surprise, the
lad swung to one side; then, with head lowered, made a mad dash for the
camp.
Never, even in his base stealing for the “Kingswood High,” had Tom’s
legs moved with such extraordinary rapidity. In his ears were ringing
the heavier footfalls of the pursuer, who was putting forth every
effort to overtake him.
A last desperate spurt, and Tom was swinging wildly toward the fire,
his eyes fixed on the horse, which at this abrupt and startling
reappearance of its owner began prancing about. This still further
loosened the picket pin, and a blow from Tom’s foot as he passed sent
it spinning over the ground.
A wild leap astride the back of the bridleless and saddleless horse
was made just as the animal realized its freedom. It was a thrilling
moment, in which a second’s time played a most important part.
Gripping the pony’s halter with all his force, Tom’s free hand came
down hard on its flank. He saw the dark figure almost within reach, the
muscular arm again extended. He heard a loud: “Whoa--whoa!” come from
the man’s lips.
But the horse’s legs were already in motion. It plunged headlong
through the underbrush, grazing a tree and causing the rider narrowly
to escape being swept from its back. Only Tom’s long apprenticeship
in the saddle saved him. Away he went over the prairie at a furious
gallop, leaving the hollow and his assailant far in the rear.
Breathless with fatigue and excitement, Tom Clifton made no attempt
to stop the furious dash of the frightened horse. The cool night air
fanned his cheeks; he felt a sense of wild exhilaration. The victory
was his. Even in those moments, with the ground slipping beneath him at
terrific speed, he thought of the sensation his story would create.
“Get up, old boy, get up!” he yelled. “Hello--hello!”
On throwing a glance over his shoulder he had made an unpleasant
discovery--the man was pursuing him on horseback.
Tom uttered a shrill whistle.
“He must have had his nag hidden somewhere among the trees,” he cried.
“Well, well, this is an adventure, all right! But he’ll never get
within ten yards of me.”
In the soft light of the moon the prairie presented a picture of the
most poetic charm. It seemed as though he was plunging ahead into a
land of dreams and unrealities. On one side the distant hills cut in
a broken line against a sky of bluish green; shadows wrapped their
base in mystery; and on the other the silent river glimmered faintly
between the trees or lost its placid surface in somber grays.
“Great Cæsar!” muttered the lad, suddenly. “What’s that?”
His eye, once more turning far to the rear, had caught sight of several
specks. One seemed to be a wagon; the others horsemen; and all were
moving slowly in the opposite direction to which he was going.
Tom Clifton’s mind immediately became busy with conjectures.
“There’s surely something doing out here to-night,” he thought. “I
wonder if that fellow chasing me doesn’t belong to that party yonder.
Gee whiz! I guess Teddy Banes was right.”
When he looked around again a wave of relief shot through him. The man
had evidently given up the pursuit, for the forms of horse and rider
now appeared considerably smaller than before.
“Thank goodness!” exclaimed Tom, fervently.
The nerve-racking pace, the jolting and bumping could come to an end.
He tugged and sawed on the bridle; he yelled sharp commands, or
uttered soothing words. But a spirit of madness seemed to have gripped
the horse. With eyes distended, and snorting from fear, the animal was
beyond all control.
“Running away!” cried Tom. “Great Scott!”
His nerves, already wrought to a high pitch of tension, tingled anew.
The objects moving so rapidly past were making a sense of dizziness
come over him. A fear, too, that his horse might stumble and he be
thrown headlong set him to work desperately on the halter again.
And while he was doing this with every ounce of strength at his command
two horsemen suddenly rode into view from a patch of timber only a
short distance to the right.
Tom was now too much occupied, too shaken up and jolted about to have
left any room for surprise. He heard, sounding above the clatter of his
horse’s hoofs, a cry, loud and peremptory--a ringing command to halt.
At the risk of being thrown, he managed to look behind.
The newcomers had spurred up their mounts and were racing toward him
at a whirlwind pace. Visions of falling into the hands of a band of
desperate men flashed into his mind. The stern order to stop came again
and again.
The Rambler made no reply. He no longer sought to control his horse;
but, bending far over on its neck, and, riding with the skill of a
cowboy, awaited developments with a fast-beating heart.
And developments speedily came. The two horsemen were thundering nearer.
“Stop--stop, I say!” yelled one.
“Hold on, or it will be the worse for you!” cried the other.
What could it mean? Were his adventures never to end? No matter how
hard Tom tried he was helpless to shape events. He realized, too, with
a sinking heart, that the exertions of his horse were fast telling on
him; he was slackening speed. The furious race must soon end.
One backward glance showed him the foremost of the horsemen almost
upon him. From out of the corner of his eye he could see the blurred
outlines of a man leaning forward with arm outstretched ready to grasp
the halter of his flying steed. His gray shadow shot in advance; then,
neck and neck, the animals tore across the prairie, leaving a wake of
trampled grass and sometimes a flattened bush behind them.
“I’ve got you, feller!” exclaimed a voice. “You wouldn’t stop, eh?”
His hand shot across the few inches necessary, gripping the halter with
a strength that could not be shaken.
As the horses slackened speed the second rider swung around to Tom’s
left. He, too, in another instant, placed his hand on the leather
straps. Aching in every joint, with the breath nearly shaken out of his
body, Tom Clifton felt unable to utter a word when muscular arms, with
a final tug, brought the animal to a full stop.
“Now I reckon you’ll come to your senses!” exclaimed the man who had
spoken before.
Tom Clifton straightened up to glance into his captor’s face, which was
clearly revealed by the light of the moon.
For a second he seemed dumfounded into silence; then a cry of
astonishment came from his lips.