THE CAPTURE.
Nick Nomad, the old trapper and mountainman, had received word
from his famous pard, Buffalo Bill, informing him that the latter
intended to go into the desert country that lay near the base of the
Sepulcher Mountains, for the purpose, if possible, of breaking up the
road-agent organization known to exist there.
The mountains of the gruesome name deserved the title of Sepulcher.
They were barren and forbidding, and held so little water on their
desert side that it was as much as a man’s life was worth to get lost
in them there, for he was pretty certain to die of thirst. Yet the
Sepulcher Mountains held gold in paying quantities, and that lure was
drawing men from all quarters of the country.
Gold is such a magnet that, no matter where it is, men will go to get
it, even under the arctic circle; and if it could be certainly known
that gold is at the north pole, money would soon be found to equip
expeditions of such magnitude that the secret of even that hitherto
unassailable point would quickly be laid bare.
The miners and prospectors who were working in the Sepulcher
Mountains, and in the adjacent desert, locally called Death Valley,
had been shipping out a good deal of gold, by the stages, and in
other ways; and on that gold road agents had been levying heavy
tolls.
Yet, knowing this, Nick Nomad had been unaccountably careless, after
striking the trail leading into the Sepulcher Mountains. He fancied
that the road agents confined their operations rather exclusively to
another trail, and to the other side of the mountains, and to the
trails that crisscrossed the desert. Hence, he did not adopt his
usual precautions. He went to sleep in the open, with a fire burning,
curling himself up by it, and there enjoying his pipe in fancied
security.
Near by grazed his horse, the famous old Nebuchadnezzar; a horse
whose apparent age and decrepitude had to be discounted, or the
beholder would be much fooled in him; for, though it seemed that
Nebuchadnezzar had about outlived his usefulness and could run no
more than a turtle, the old beast was amazingly swift, and also
amazingly intelligent. So intelligent was he that old Nick Nomad felt
as safe, with Nebuchadnezzar grazing close by, as if the horse had
been a trained watch dog sitting guard there.
However, even old Nebuchadnezzar grew sleepy after a while, and lay
down on the grass to rest. Being tired that day, for he had journeyed
far, he slept quite as heavily as did his wearied master; so that,
though his ears were keen, trampling hoofs were almost upon the
camp before the fact was thudded by their hoofs into his dull ears,
arousing him.
Nebuchadnezzar lifted his head then, and squealed a warning, at the
same time scrambling up and snorting in alarm.
Nick Nomad opened his eyes, and bounded to his feet with the agility
of a man many years younger. As he did so, he caught up his rifle, an
ancient weapon, and swung it round his head.
“Whoa, Nebby, consarn ye!” he grunted. “What’s up?”
He knew on the instant. “Hands up!” came to him out of the darkness,
and he heard rifles clicking. Then he saw dimly the figures of
mounted men.
He ducked with lightning quickness, sliding across the smoldering
fire as he did so, trying thus to reach Nebuchadnezzar. He whistled
at the same time in a shrill way, and the knowing beast came running
toward him, until stopped by the lariat.
The horse reached the end of the lariat with a jerk, and stood
snorting.
“Whoa, Nebby!”
In another minute Nick Nomad would have cut the lariat and been on
the back of the old horse; but a rifle rang, and the bullet whistled
past his face, making its wind felt, it was so close.
Nomad stopped, then; not because he so much feared for himself, as
because he feared for the life of Nebuchadnezzar. He knew that even
in the darkness those riflemen could see well enough to shoot down
the horse; he was sure they would do it if he tried to get away on
its back; and Nebuchadnezzar was as dear to him as his own life. He
faced around, swinging his heavy rifle.
“By all ther spooks o’ ther hills, ef I don’t let daylight through
ye, ef ye shoot Nebby!” he yelled. “’Ware thar, and don’t do it!”
A man was riding toward him, and at the man’s heels came others.
“Hands up!”
“And drap my gun? Waal, ye don’t know me, if ye think I’ll do it.
Waugh!”
“Put down that gun!”
“I’ll do that, yes; and willin’, see ’t I can’t do nothin’ else. But
I shoots ther fust cuss thet lays a hand in harm on my ole hoss.”
The man drew rein, and some of those behind him snickered at Nomad’s
words.
“Who aire ye?”
“Waugh! I’m a better man than ther critter that asks ther question!”
“No foolishness! Hands up! And give your name!”
One of the man’s followers, who had ridden near enough to see Nomad,
now announced the old trapper’s name.
“Nick Nomad,” he said; “ther friend of Buffler Bill! And may the
devil roast him!”
“Put down yer gun!” the leader commanded.
The tone was so menacing that Nomad saw he must comply, if he didn’t
want to feel the lead of the outlaw’s revolver. So he laid the old
rifle on the ground, though he did it with a sigh. Then he folded
his arms on his breast, and stood erect before the outlaws, an
impressive figure, in spite of his small stature, wizened face, and
his eccentric dress.
He was a typical trapper of the old time in appearance, with his
fringed and greasy leggings, and hunting shirt of cloth and
deerskin, and the round beaver-skin cap on his head, the cap being as
greasy and soiled as his clothing.
“Now, what is it ye want of me?” he said; though the manner in which
the announcement of his name had been received told him that these
men were his enemies; and he was sure they were road agents, the very
desperadoes he had come there to seek with his old pard, Buffalo Bill.
The men sprang from their saddles and surrounded him.
Old Nebuchadnezzar backed from them to the end of his picket rope,
and snorted indignantly and fearfully.
“Aire you Nick Nomad, as he says?” demanded the leader, peering into
the trapper’s face.
Nomad fancied that lying would gain him nothing.
“Happy ter say thet I am,” he declared. “I reckon it ain’t a name ter
be ashamed on, along this hyar border; seein’ thet Injuns and outlaws
never yit liked ther sound of it.”
“Give up yer weapons.”
“Thar’s my gun.”
“But yer other weapons--yer knife and pistols.”
“And then what?” the old man asked. “Mebbe ye’ll be wantin’ me ter
give up my life next?”
“Surrender yer weapons!” was shouted at him.
Nomad was driven to the conviction that this surrender meant his
death; but, if he was to die, he preferred to do it in more heroic
fashion than that.
He sprang from the ground, as the outlaw leader bent toward him; and
his foot, catching the man under the chin, hurled him back against
the men behind him, throwing them into sudden confusion.
Nomad, the next instant, was leaping away.
He did not run toward Nebuchadnezzar, preferring to take the chances
of bullets alone, so strongly did he love his horse.
Bullets followed, whizzing through the air round his head.
The outlaws jumped in chase of him, yelling like Indians.
Nomad stumbled, as he thus leaped along, and fell to the ground.
It was a good thing for him; for bullets swept through the air over
the spot where he dropped, and some of them would have struck him if
he had remained in an upright position.
He was trying to rise, when one of the outlaws sprang on him, landing
astride of his back, and almost knocking the breath out of him. This
outlaw threw his arms round Nomad’s neck, and yelled for help; and,
other outlaws piling on him at once, the old man was forced to submit.
When he had been tied, and sat helpless on the grass, and the light
of a hastily built camp fire illuminated the scene, he stared
quizzically into the face of the infuriated leader, who stood now
before him, boiling with rage.
“If old Nebby once puts his foot in yer face,” said Nomad, “man,
you’ll know thet the little love tap I handed ye wa’n’t jes’ nothin’
at all! And what would ye expect? Was I goin’ to stand still and let
ye kill me? You’ve got me now; and so I cal’late I can’t help myself.”
Snaky Pete, for it was he, drew a knife.
“I’m tempted to slice ye into mince meat!” he gasped.
“I wouldn’t,” said Nomad coolly; “fer I’ll tell ye right now that I’m
too old and tough ter make good mince meat out of.”
The man turned around, fierce in his manner as an enraged grizzly.
“Where’s Pool Clayton?” he snarled.
A young man, a mere stripling, stepped forth from the vociferating
crowd.
“Here!” he said.
Nomad looked at him by the light of the fire. He saw a youth of
comely appearance, yet with a certain hardness of face that showed a
desperate attempt at recklessness.
“You’ve been braggin’ of yer nerve,” said Snaky Pete to the youth.
“Hyer’s yer chance to show it!”
Pool Clayton looked at his chief uneasily.
“I don’t think I understand you!” he said, in clear-cut tones that
were quite unlike the gruff, thick speech of his companions.
“Ye don’t?”
“No.”
“Well, hyer’s a chance to show yer nerve, and prove that you’re one
of us. You need hardenin’. We’ve got this old fool; but we can’t keep
him, and we can’t let him go. Git your gun, and put a bullet through
him, as he sets there. That’ll finish him, as a warnin’ to others
like him; and then we’ll go on.”
The young man became as pale as if he had seen a ghost. He looked
about appealingly.
“I--I--can’t do it!” he gasped. “It’s--it’s murder!”
Snaky Pete glared at him.
“You won’t obey orders?”
“Yes--I’m willing to obey orders, but----”
“Then, do what I tell ye!” roared the desperado leader. “Git yer
rifle, and put a bullet through this carrion, and show you’re a man,
with the nerve of a man.”
Pool Clayton whitened still more, and trembled visibly.
The outlaws pressed close about him, staring into his face, noting
this sign of what they considered weakness and cowardice.
Snaky Pete’s eyes glittered like the eyes of the basilisk.
“Do ye hear me?” he yelled.
Clayton half turned about, as if he intended to obey; then stopped.
“I--I can’t do it!” he gasped. “Don’t ask me to.”
Snaky Pete came closer to him, his huge first doubled.
“Do you obey orders?” he shouted.
“Yes--but----”
Crack! Snaky Pete’s heavy fist shot out, and struck the youth full in
the face, knocking him down.
Clayton fell, clawing at the air; and then lay still where he had
fallen.
The outlaw leader stepped toward him, as if he meant to administer a
kick in addition to the blow.
“You’re the one that’s a tarnal coward!” old Nomad muttered. “I never
seen a man o’ that kind that wasn’t.”
He was apparently the only calm person there; though it was his life
that was threatened.
Snaky Pete lifted his heavy boot to kick Clayton, then repented of
his intention.
“Let him lay!” he snarled. “He’ll come ’round all right. And we’ll
move on. He ain’t got the spirit of a skunk.”
The outlaws began to get their horses ready for moving on. Snaky
Pete walked up to his prisoner. He looked fairly fiendish in the
flickering firelight.
“Don’t git gay over this!” he growled. “You’ll go over the range in
the morning, just the same. That young skunk will come ’round bimeby
and foller on, and then will be meek as a kitten. He’ll finish you
with that bullet, and be glad to, before we git through with him.”
The sage old trapper did not answer this brutal speech. He had
learned wisdom with his years.
When the desperadoes lifted him to the back of old Nebuchadnezzar the
cords slipped from one of his wrists.
He did not try to take advantage of it, so far as attempting an
escape was concerned; but in writhing around, as he struggled to
straighten up on his horse, he contrived to drop from an inner
pocket the letter which Buffalo Bill found.
The shrewd old trapper was sure that sooner or later the keen-eyed
scout would hit that trail, and then would find that letter, and he
believed that if he could contrive to keep the breath of life in his
body until Buffalo Bill was given time to do something, his chances
of escape were yet good. Hence, he resolved to do nothing to unduly
anger this truculent outlaw chief and his men.
“I kin be as humble as a creepin’ field mouse, when I haf to,” was
his thought, “and meek and humble is my lay now; maybe it’ll pull me
through.”
When the outlaws went on they left Pool Clayton lying unconscious on
the grass, his horse lariated and grazing close by him.