THE PRISONER
At first Bob Somers, standing by the door of the lonely cabin, almost
thought his senses were playing him a trick. But a second shout caused
his heart to quicken.
Though the thick walls muffled the sound, the words, “Help--help!” were
clearly distinguishable.
“By all that’s wonderful, what have I come across?” he gasped. “What
can it mean--some one imprisoned?”
He gave an answering hail, then attacked the door with all the strength
of his sturdy muscles.
“Help--help!”
This appeal coming once more made Bob Somers work with redoubled vigor.
All his efforts went for naught. As though built to resist attack, the
panels scarcely jarred beneath his most furious onslaught.
With his pulse quickened by excitement, the Rambler, even in those busy
moments, asked himself over and over again what this new mystery could
mean. He was thankful indeed that good fortune had led him into this
narrow gulch to aid some one in distress.
“I’ll have to break in,” he decided.
Taking a short-handled axe from his belt he sent blows crashing
one after another around the lock. Chips of wood flew about him.
Crash--smack--bang! The sound of rending wood and the sharp snap of
splintering panels told him that his work would soon be over.
Scarcely taking an instant to regain his breath, he struck harder and
harder, until at last the lock was shattered, and the door, with a
convulsive movement, staggered back.
But where was the man he had expected to see?
For a second Bob Somers’ eyes, blinded by the brilliant light of
out-of-doors, could discern but little in the darkened interior. Then
the obscurity appeared to melt away, and in place of the shadows he saw
a mellow glow, through which the furnishings revealed themselves in
blurred patches of darks and softened lights.
A glance showed him that the interior was divided into two rooms. It
was from the other, then, that the shouts had come. Another sturdy door
lay between him and the prisoner.
The man shouted again.
“I’ll get you out of there in a moment,” yelled Bob.
Attacking the second door, he finally burst it open; and as the man
stepped from the black and forbidding enclosure Bob Somers regarded him
in speechless astonishment.
For a few seconds the two stood gazing fixedly into each other’s faces.
Then the boy, with a mighty effort, partly recovered his composure.
“Hello, Jed Warren!” he exclaimed, extending his hand. “I guess you
haven’t forgotten the Rambler Club.”
The eyes of Jed Warren, former cowpuncher, later a member of the Royal
Northwest Mounted Police, were staring at him; his mouth was open. The
situation seemed unreal--impossible. Here was a boy whom he had last
seen on Circle T Ranch in Wyoming; and now to have him appear before
his vision in such an amazing manner staggered his comprehension.
“Bob--Bob Somers!” he gasped. “Bob!” He seized the Rambler’s hand and
wrung it with powerful force. “I don’t--I can’t understand! Bob, is
this really you?”
A revulsion of feeling came to Bob Somers. He felt like dancing and
shouting for joy. Instead of a disheartening failure, his haphazard
trip had brought him the most wonderful success. Right before him stood
his friend, Jed Warren, for whom every man on the mounted force had
been on the lookout. And it had fallen to his lot not only to discover
his whereabouts, but to release him from imprisonment.
Yet, with the evidence before his eyes, Bob Somers could scarcely
realize it. And if he was excited and astounded at the outcome Jed
Warren continued to be even more so. The policeman passed his hand
across his forehead as though in a daze. He stared hard at the lad and
shook his head.
“This has sure put my brain in a whirl, Bob Somers,” he exclaimed.
“I’ve got to get some air mighty fast. Come--see if it seems any more
real outside.”
The two were presently pacing up and down in the bright sunlight.
It didn’t seem any more real, either. Their ready flow of words was
checked.
“What will the fellows think?” the Rambler kept repeating to himself.
“Won’t they give a yell when Jed Warren and I march right up before
them!”
“No, I sure can’t get over it, Bob,” Jed Warren exclaimed at length. “I
guess I’ll wake up in another minute an’ discover it ain’t nothin’ but
a dream.”
Movement--and quick movement--was the only thing which seemed to be
able to calm excited nerves and fast-beating hearts.
For some time all Bob Somers could get out of Jed was the fact that he
had been captured and imprisoned by smugglers, and for weeks had not
breathed the pure air of out-of-doors.
“I can’t make it seem real to me, Bob,” Jed kept repeating blankly. “I
can’t, for a fact.”
Reviewing the situation again Bob Somers pictured the astonishment
of Sergeant Erskine. He thought of Billy Ashe; of Teddy Banes. And
although his sensibilities had never been wounded by the remarks of
either he could not repress a feeling of triumph.
They continued pacing to and fro in the yellow glare which filled the
narrow gulch until the emotions of each began to slowly subside. Then,
feeling that a good meal was far more important than explanations, Bob
Somers set to work.
“There’s plenty o’ grub inside that thar room,” explained the former
cowpuncher. “They shoved ’nuff in to keep me goin’ for a spell.”
Bob dashed toward the cabin, returning in a few moments, his arms
burdened with provisions. He had never felt more joyous in his life.
A meal was quickly prepared. And perhaps neither the former prisoner
nor his rescuer ever enjoyed one more. They lingered over it a long
time, too, often looking at each other in silence, as though it was
almost impossible for them to realize their good fortune.
At length Jed began to recount his experiences.
“It ain’t such a long story, Bob,” he explained. “You haven’t told me
much about yourselves yet; but you’ve mentioned seein’ that thar Hank
Styles.” The trooper scowled angrily. “Every time I think of him an’
his crowd my dander rises to the b’ilin’ point.”
“I don’t blame you,” said the Rambler.
“A little while back, when cattle rustlers an’ smugglers had started
things goin’ at a lively rate, Sergeant Erskine gave me a ‘special’ on
the job. I tell you, Bob, I wanted to make my mark on the force; an’ I
thought it would be the means of givin’ me the first big boost.”
“Well, I can just bet you did all you could,” cried Bob.
“You’re sartinly right. I worked day an’ night. Sometimes I thought I
had track of ’em. But nothin’ seemed to pan out; an’ I began to get
sick o’ the job.”
“Remember saying something like that to one of the border patrols?”
“Sure thing. Why?”
“He got an idea you were tired of the force.”
Jed Warren shook his head emphatically.
“Then he didn’t get it straight, Bob. I can see you’ve got some
interesting things to tell me, so I’ll make short work o’ this here
tale of mine.”
“I have,” laughed Bob.
“Of course I knew a lot of ranchmen an’ cowpunchers. Some of ’em used
to hang around the Cree village; an’ I kind of thought that a feller
named Hank Styles an’ some of his men seemed to be takin’ things purty
easy.”
“So he was the ringleader, eh?” inquired Bob.
“He sartinly were. Honest, Bob, I hate to admit it, but I never
suspicioned him. He seemed always so friendly, an’ sayin’ a smart young
chap like me was bound to git ahead; an’, somehow, that kind o’ dope
got me, Bob.”
Jed Warren paused. His eyes flashed as he began again:
“Several times, in passin’ that way, I stopped in to have a friendly
chat with Styles. He treated me fine. Nothin’, he said, was too good
for a trooper of the Northwest Mounted. I fell for that, too, Bob.”
Warren’s tone became sorrowful.
“What a sly old duffer!” exclaimed Bob.
“Yes! An’ all the time I was askin’ myself why them thar fellers didn’t
fix up the ranch-house, an’ make it a comfortable place to live in. I
talked to Hank about it, an’ he laughed. ‘We’re out here for the dough,
Warren,’ he says; ‘it ain’t worth while to take the time an’ trouble.’
Even that didn’t open me eyes.”
“Oh, you can’t blame yourself,” said Bob, consolingly.
“I’m not so sure. I wouldn’t say it to everybody, Bob, but I kind o’
think their smooth, oily ways was what made me miss connections. It’s a
bitter story, an’ it makes me feel mighty bitter to tell it.”
Bob nodded sympathetically.
“I were a-ridin’ about the prairie one black night when I happened to
think that Hank Styles’ place was purty near. ‘Wal,’ says I, ‘it’s me
for a canter over to the big front door.’”
“Ah!” cried Bob. “Now we’re coming to the climax.”
“Hank an’ a couple o’ his cowpunchers were there, an’, as usual,
treated me jist as nice as pie. Though it did strike me they looked
kind o’ odd. They kept sayin’: ‘Well, Jed, I guess you’ll be off in a
few minutes, eh?’ ‘Nary,’ says I; ‘right here seems too good.’”
“What happened?” asked Bob, breathlessly.
“About an hour arterward I thought it were time to skip. So I mounted
me nag an’ started to ride around the house. ‘Why, which way are you
goin’, Jed?’ hollers one. ‘In the opposite direction from which I
come,’ says I, laughin’. Hank Styles laughed, too. Wal, Bob, in a
jokin’ sort o’ way, they tried to steer me off in another course. But,
jist the same, I rides toward the rear, an’ almost bumps into a big
wagon.”
“Ah ha!” exclaimed Bob.
“‘Hello!’ says I. ‘What’s this?’ ‘Only a chuck wagon full o’ grub for
men on the range,’ replies a feller, in a queer kind o’ tone. All of
a sudden, Bob, I got mighty suspicious, an’ managed to put my hand
inside. It landed kerplunk on the knee o’ some one a-sittin’ there.”
“Great Scott!” cried Bob.
“Thinks I, there’s sure somethin’ wrong.” Warren smiled grimly. “An’
the trouble was, they knew I’d investigate pretty fast. In about two
seconds I felt cold steel pressed against me side. ‘You’ll come right
in the house, Warren,’ says Hank. ‘Don’t make no fuss.’ Yes--they had
me. I went in.”
“Gee, what an extraordinary tale!” cried Bob.
Warren quickly told of his later experiences. Without delay he was
escorted under heavy guard to the cabin in the gulch and confined in
the inner room. Hank Styles and his men, although furiously angry,
treated him with consideration, and explained that when all their goods
were disposed of they would leave the country and notify the police of
his whereabouts.
“But it took them a mighty long time to finish up, didn’t it?”
exclaimed the Rambler.
“Wal, they probably had a great lot of stuff,” said Jed. “An’ mebbe
they had to go a bit slow, too. I wouldn’t wonder if Styles an’ his men
knew a lot about the cattle stealin’, besides.”
“Did they leave a guard here?” asked Bob.
“Sure thing.”
A sudden idea had flashed into Bob Somers’ mind. Perhaps the object of
the men in drawing lots was to determine which of the three should ride
over to the gulch and notify the sentinel to make his escape.
“Did you hear anything unusual last night, Jed?” he asked.
“Yes, siree!” responded the policeman. “A feller rode up; an’ though it
wasn’t so easy to hear inside those thick walls, I could tell from the
excited way he an’ the guard began to chin that somethin’ was up.”
“Go on!” cried the highly gratified Bob Somers.
“I pressed me ear to the door, an’ by listenin’ hard, managed to catch
a lot. ‘I tell you the same bunch has jist rid’ up to the house,’ says
one. ‘They know all about us; an’ ye kin be sure the perlice ain’t fur
behind ’em.’”
Bob laughed gleefully.
“What happened then?” he demanded.
“Purty soon one of ’em yells: ‘So-long, Warren. We’re goin’ to skip.
Don’t be skeered. Ye’ll git out soon.’ But say, Bob, what do you know
about it?”
The lad immediately explained.
Jed opened his eyes wide with astonishment.
“So yours was the crowd, eh?” he cried. “Wal, wal! I wonder if I’ll
ever git over this, Bob. But fire away. I want to hear the rest o’ your
story.”
Warren followed every word with the utmost eagerness. A flash in his
eye and a tightening of the lips indicated his feelings when he heard
about the attack on Tom Clifton.
“From your description, I think I know the chap, Bob,” he exclaimed.
“I can’t understand those yells and pistol shots you tell me about,
though.”
“We may find out yet,” grinned the lad.
“I’m proud o’ you, Bob,” declared the policeman, emphatically, when all
was told, “I sartinly am. You’ve done some wonderfully slick work, but
this is about the slickest yet.”
Then, to the Rambler’s embarrassment, he abruptly started on a new tack.
“Bob,” he demanded, “was my horse ever found?”
“Yes, Jed,” answered Bob.
“Where?”
“On the other side of the international boundary line.”
Warren shook his fist savagely in the air.
“I think I see through their game!” he cried, springing to his feet.
“Now see here”--he planted himself squarely before the lad--“did
Sergeant Erskine think--think I was--I was”--he seemed to utter the
words with difficulty--“a deserter?”
“Yes,” answered Bob, frankly. “But we stood up for you as solidly as a
stone wall, Jed.”
The policeman had been able to bear his capture and imprisonment with
fortitude; he had accepted it as one of those incidents liable to
happen to one in his position. But the thought of having the stigma of
“deserter” attached to his name made his blood fairly boil.
“Come on, Bob,” he exclaimed. “I can’t lose another instant. I reckon
your horse can carry double. We’ll hit the trail for Jerry Duncan’s.”
“Jerry Duncan’s?” queried Bob, in surprise. “Why not Hank Styles’,
where I left the crowd?”
“Because Duncan’s is nearer. Besides, a good trail leads there. And
from his ranch-house you can skirt around the hills and reach Hank
Styles’ without any trouble.”
Dashing back into the cabin Jed Warren reappeared a moment later with
his scarlet coat--the coat he had worn so proudly.
“Where’s your horse, Bob?” he demanded, hurriedly. “I reckon you know
how I feel about this thing. Nobody before ever said that Jed Warren
weren’t on the square.”
“And I don’t believe anybody ever will again,” said Bob, emphatically.
“If those chaps had known you half as well as we do, Jed, they never
could have believed it possible.”
The athletic young policeman drew himself up to his full height, and
there was a huskiness in his voice as he exclaimed:
“Bob, when you an’ your crowd are friends to a feller you’re real
friends. Shake!”
Bob wrung his hand warmly. Then, closing the door of the cabin, the two
started briskly off in the direction of the horse.
Every step of the way Bob was picturing in his mind the astonishment,
the joy, their arrival was bound to create. He thought how the anxious
watchers would be repaid for all their worry.
The horse was in good condition to continue the journey. Bob Somers
quickly mounted; then Jed sprang up behind him, and in this fashion
they started off to carry the news of a most sensational event to the
Canadian authorities.
Jed Warren, being thoroughly familiar with the topography of the
country, directed their course. Bob Somers soon found himself riding
along the trail by the base of the hill. There were still many ridges
to be crossed, so the sturdy little nag was not pushed too hard.
It was very trying on Jed Warren’s patience, though under the influence
of Bob Somers’ cheery remarks the stern lines on his face gradually
relaxed, to be replaced at length by a grin.
“I sure think it’s a rich joke on me, Bob,” he exclaimed. “How Hank
Styles an’ his men must have laughed when everybody fell for that
little trick o’ theirs.”
Up and down hill they jogged, across broad or narrow valleys, with a
soft breeze blowing in their faces and white clouds floating in the
field of blue above.
The journey seemed very long to both, but, like all journeys, finally
approached an end. Reaching the crest of a hill they looked down, to
see Jerry Duncan’s substantial ranch-house about a quarter of a mile
beyond at the base of the slope.
“Hooray!” shouted Bob.
And now he sent his pony pounding along faster and faster until
they were traveling at a pace which might have been trying to less
experienced riders.
“That’s right, Bob; whoop ’er up!” cried Jed.
He gave a long, rousing yell, which produced a most extraordinary
result.
A crowd came rushing out on the porch and down the steps of the house.
And every one among them eyed the approaching horse and its double
burden with apparently the greatest astonishment.
And Bob Somers was astonished, too; for, as the nag galloped across
the last stretch, he recognized his friends--the friends whom he had
thought were miles away.
And there was Jerry Duncan, his round, smiling face wearing a ludicrous
expression of amazement.
“Hello--hello!” yelled Bob. He tried to control the ring of triumph in
his voice--to still the excitement which gripped him.
They swung up amidst the group and sprang to the ground. Then, for the
first time, the boys seemed to find their tongues. But it was not until
Larry Burnham caught the name “Jed Warren” passing from lip to lip that
he understood what the riotous, uproarious demonstration was all about.