The Race for Life
He could hear the crackling of the shrubbery as the horses of the outlaws
pushed their way through to the higher ground, and it was not long before
he caught sight of them, riding in single file, the captain leading the
way.
With the utmost caution he followed, taking advantage of every bush and
tree, ready to dodge behind them or fall to the ground as the case might
demand. For a time they proceeded at a walk, owing to the rough going,
but as soon as they got to more level ground they put the spurs to their
horses and galloped on at a rapid gait. Bert drifted after them like a
ghost, never letting them get more than half a mile a head, for fear that
they might turn into some byroad and give him the slip. Twice one of the
men turned in the saddle and looked behind him, probably more as the
result of habit than from any real fear that they might be followed, but
each time Bert had discounted the movement and was lying flat on the
ground.
As the latter had surmised, the most of the way lay through a genuine
wilderness, over mountain trails and through ravines that lent themselves
admirably to the lawless purposes of the outlaws. Probably since the old
Indian days, no human feet beside their own had trodden these wilds that
offered no temptations to the farmer or grazier.
Before long the sun had vanished over the western rim and twilight came
on rapidly. This rendered Bert's task, easier by diminishing the chances
of detection, and as the twilight deepened into dusk, he gradually
decreased the distance until, when it was fully dark, he had ventured
to draw so near that he could hear the jingle of their trappings and an
occasional monosyllable that passed between the riders.
Suddenly, as they rode into a little valley, a light gleamed out from a
shack half a mile distant. It was the first sign of a human habitation
Bert had seen. At the sight, an oath of satisfaction broke from the
leader, and the three urged on their horses, who responded willingly.
It was evident that they had reached the end of their journey.
As they dashed into the clearing in front of the house, the door was
thrown open and several men came out to greet the newcomers. The saddles
were taken from the horses' backs and they were turned loose to graze.
Then the party entered the house and the door was closed.
For a few minutes Bert remained perfectly motionless. There had been no
barking of dogs, and, after listening intently, he became convinced that
no living thing was out of doors in the vicinity of the shack. With
infinite caution he wormed his way along the ground and, reaching a
window in the rear of the house, drew himself to the sill and peered over
the edge.
There were six men gathered about a table in the center of the room, upon
which a seventh, who seemed to be the cook, was placing dishes of bacon
and beans. The chief, whose arm had been bathed and rebound in a cotton
bandage, was seated at the head of the table. A bottle of whiskey was
passing from hand to hand as a preliminary to the more substantial part
of the meal, and the men who had just arrived were evidently retailing
to their fellow rascals the events that had led up to the shooting.
So engrossed was Bert in watching the outlaws, that he did not see or
hear the approach of a dark figure stealing up behind him. An arm shot
out and a pistol butt came down on his head with a crash. A myriad of
sparks flashed before his eyes, there was the roar of a cataract in his
ears, and he fell to the ground like a log.
When consciousness came back to him it was morning. He was lying on the
floor of the shack and the hot sun was streaming in upon him. His head
ached horribly, and for a moment he wondered where he was. Then gradually
he recalled the events of the day before, the fracas in the saloon, the
tracking of the rustlers, the looking in at the window. But then it was
night, and now it was broad daylight. What had happened to him?
He put his hand to his head and felt that his hair was matted with blood.
Then he tried to rise to his feet, but found that they were tied
together, and sank back with a groan. The wall of the house was just
behind him, and he edged painfully toward it, until he was able to sit up
and have some support for his back. Then with swimming eyes he looked
around him.
As his vision cleared, he saw that there were two men sitting in the
center of the room. They had not spoken a word, but had watched with a
sort of amused interest his gradual coming back to life. In one of them
he recognized the outlaw captain, and the other was the burly, red-haired
giant, whose trail he had followed the afternoon before. There was no
trace of the others and they had evidently gone to attend to the stock,
or on some errand connected with the operations of the band.
The leader's eyes fastened on Bert with a penetrating glare, as though he
sought to read the secrets of his soul. The captive met his look calmly
and defiantly, and for a moment there was a silent duel. But Bert's gaze
remained level, and the captain, a little disconcerted at his failure to
make his prisoner cringe, resorted to taunts.
"Feel kind o' wobbly, eh?" he jeered. "Got a bad little hangover from
last night? Perhaps we were a little playful, but it's just our hearty
way of welcomin' strangers. 'Specially when they come without an
invitation and we ketches them peepin' through the winders. But we don't
mean no harm, do we, Red?" and he leered at his companion, who grinned
dutifully in response to his leader's humor.
Bert made no answer.
"Now look here, young feller," snapped the speaker, dropping his
elaborate sarcasm and veering round to his natural ferocity, "you ain't
tongue-tied, I reckon, and I want to know right quick, pronto, what
you're doin' round these diggin's, anyhow. One of our men comin' in from
the stables caught you spyin' through the winder. He gave yer one on the
nob, and dragged yer in here. Now, who are yer, where do yer come from
and what are yer doin' in these parts. Speak quick now, or by----" and he
broke into a torrent of vile oaths and death-dealing threats, while he
fingered nervously the knife that hung in his belt.
Before Bert could reply one of the band entered the room. He glanced at
the prisoner, and a sudden recognition leaped to his eyes.
"I know that feller," he exclaimed excitedly, turning to his chief. "I
couldn't just place him last night when his eyes was shut, but now I'm
plumb sure of him. He's livin' over to the Melton ranch with a couple of
pals of his'n. Seen him there more than once. Ain't that straight?" to
Bert.
"Yes," said Bert boldly, "that's straight."
The man's identification was absolute and the time for silence or evasion
was past. He was trapped and absolutely in their power. That they would
kill him he had little doubt. A life more or less meant little to these
ruthless scoundrels. But if he had to meet death, he would meet it
unafraid.
The name of the ranch owner acted on the chief like an electric shock. He
leaped to his feet with a curse.
"So Melton sent you to spy on us, did he?" he demanded furiously.
"He did not," answered Bert.
There was a conviction in the tone that checked the headlong rush that
the captain had seemed about to make. He sat down again and pondered, his
face working with rage and apprehension. At last he reached a decision,
and Bert read in his eyes that his doom had been pronounced.
"It don't make no difference whether yer tellin' the truth or lyin'," he
snarled. "Ye've learned too much fur me to let yer live. If I turned yer
loose, ye'd have Melton and his bunch down on us in no time. Keep a close
watch on him, Red," he commanded as he rose to his feet. "I've got some
things to look after that'll keep me busy till dinner-time, and after
that we'll put this maverick where he won't do no more spyin'."
"How about breakfast?" asked Bert coolly. "You're not going to starve me
to death, are you?"
The outlaw looked at him with astonishment, not unmixed with a sort of
grudging admiration.
"Ye're a cool one," he responded after a moment's hesitation. "Ye'd
better be thinkin' of sayin' yer prayers instead of eatin'. Rustle a
little grub fer 'im, Red, though it seems plumb sinful to waste good
chuck on a feller that's as good as dead already." And with this ominous
remark he went out, accompanied by the man who had identified the
captive, leaving Bert alone with his jailer.
"Red" got together some cold meat and beans and placed them on the floor
within Bert's reach. He ate heartily, knowing that above everything else
he must preserve his strength. And while he ate his mind was busy.
At any rate, he had a little respite. It would be at least two hours
before noontime, and many things might happen before then. He did not
disguise from himself that his situation was desperate. But, though there
might be but one chance in a thousand of escape, he was determined to
find and seize that chance.
His feet had been tied in such a manner that while, if he stood up, he
would be able to take steps a foot apart, he could by no possibility run
away. The knot at each ankle was skillfully looped in cowboy fashion, and
under the watchful eyes of "Red" there was no chance to unfasten them.
His knife and pistol had been taken from him, as well as his watch and
money. So thoroughly had he been "frisked" that, as he felt his pockets
carelessly, he found that nothing had been left except a bunch of keys
that the rustlers had disdained as booty, and a convex piece of glass
that belonged to an old telescope that he had been taking apart a day or
two before.
As his hand came in contact with it a thought sprang into his mind that
sent his pulses leaping in wild delirium. Could he do it? Why not?
Without any pretence of concealment he drew it with the keys from his
pocket and fingered it idly, looking out of the window as though his
thoughts were far away. "Red" looked at the articles, recognized their
harmless character, and with an indifferent grunt went on smoking.
The fierce sun of the dog days was coming hotly through the open window.
Still handling the glass dreamily, Bert brought it in such a position
that its convex surface gathered the rays of the sun into one blistering
shaft. This he directed on the center of the rope that stretched between
his feet.
Slowly but surely it began to darken. The tiny threads of which it was
composed twisted and shriveled and broke. Bert hunched up his knees,
and sat as though rapt in brooding contemplation, while all the time that
tiny shaft bored deeper and deeper into the rope like a red hot iron.
For half an hour this continued until Bert was convinced that the rope
was burned to the core, and that under a vigorous effort it would snap
like thread.
He moved around uneasily, fidgeting and twisting with an occasional groan
until "Red" unbent sufficiently from his surly indifference to ask him
"what was eatin' of him."
"I'm in a fearfully cramped position," explained Bert, meekly. "Do you
mind if I stand up for a minute and stretch?"
"Red" cogitated a moment.
"No law agin it, I reckon," he conceded ungraciously.
Bert labored painfully and clumsily to his feet, yawned wearily and
stretched his arms above his head. Then with one quick jerk he burst the
rope and went into "Red" like a thunderbolt. Before that crashing impact
of bone and muscle that had triumphed on many a football field, the
startled outlaw hit the floor with a tremendous thump, while Bert's
sinewy hands tightened on his throat.
But there was no resistance, and after a moment Bert relaxed his grasp.
The rustler's head had struck on the sill of the door and the blow had
rendered him unconscious.
Springing to his feet, Bert grasped the knife that lay on the table, and
sawed desperately at the ends of rope that dangled about his feet. A
few minutes sufficed and he was free. Then he took the revolver from the
belt of his fallen enemy, and, after a swift glance round the clearing,
bolted for the woods like a deer.
He had almost reached cover when he heard a yell behind him and a bullet
zipped past his head. He turned and saw one of the outlaws rushing from
the corral behind the house, while others, attracted by the shot, were
running to mount their horses. Then he dived into the woods and ran for
his life.
Through the forest aisles he slipped like a shadow, and for a time he
more than held his own. But his pursuers had the advantage of knowing the
ground, while he had to choose his course on the spur of the moment. He
lost precious seconds in dodging obstacles, and he could hear the clatter
of horses coming nearer and nearer. At any moment a bullet might bring
him down.
The wound in his head was bleeding now under his tremendous exertions,
and he began to grow dizzy and faint. But, although his strength was
ebbing, his heart was as high and his spirit as undaunted as ever. He
would never surrender. As a last resource he had his revolver, and, if he
had to die, he would take some of the outlaws with him. The thud of hoofs
was nearer now, and bullets began to whiz past him. A voice that he
knew was that of the leader of the gang shouted to him to halt. Before
him was a thinning of the woods that indicated open country. On a level
course they could never get him. His second wind was coming back and he
would distance them yet. On, on, he went, running like the wind.
A few rods ahead the trail bent round in a sweeping curve, and as Bert
approached it on flying feet, he heard horsemen coming from that
direction. With a groan he halted. They had him surrounded, then. He had
no chance. The game was up. He drew his revolver and dropped on his knee
to aim.
And then round the curve with a rush and a roar, riding like fiends, came
Melton, Dick and Tom, with twenty cowboys at their back.
There was a wild whoop when they caught sight of Bert, and his comrades
flung themselves from the saddle and rushed toward him. Melton, without
dismounting, reached over and gave him a bear grip that said more than
words. Then he straightened up and rode on at the head of his men to meet
the rustlers.
The latter, however, did not await his coming. They broke and ran,
bending low over the necks of their horses. But Melton's blood was up and
he rode them down relentlessly. Rifle and revolver shots merged into one
crackling fusillade. The cornered outlaws fought to the last ditch when
overtaken, and no one asked for quarter. And when at last the fight was
over, five, including the captain, lay stretched lifeless upon the
ground. One, by hard riding and his knowledge of the country, had
escaped, and "Red," still looking dazed and foolish, was a prisoner.
The cowboys were for stringing him up on the spot, but Bert, who had
swung up behind Dick and been in at the finish, pleaded hard that his
life might be spared.
"You win," conceded Melton. "You've done too much for me to refuse you
anything. We'll turn him over to the sheriff, and he'll have all the
chance that's coming to him, which, between you and me, I think is mighty
little."
Then he turned to Pedro, who, as Bert now noticed for the first time, was
sitting tied upon his horse and guarded by two of the ranchmen.
"Cut his ropes," he commanded, "and turn him loose. I promised the hound
his life if he led me to the rustlers' camp, and I keep my word."
Melton gathered his force together and they took up their march for home,
jubilant at the success of the expedition.
"It's all due to you, you young dare-devil," said Melton, as he and the
reunited comrades rode back at the head of the squad. "Sandy found your
pony neighing to get in the corral, and brought your note to Dick. I
nabbed Pedro and handled him some savage until the fellow wilted. Then we
saddled and started out at the first sign of daybreak and you know the
rest. And I guess, by thunder, that we got here just in time."
And when they reached the ranch, motherly Mrs. Melton folded him in her
arms with tears in her eyes, unable to speak. She washed and bandaged the
wound, which proved to be not serious, and sent him straightway off to
bed. Bert laughingly protested, but he had to yield.
* * * * *
It was with immense regret, a few days later, that the boys parted from
their warm-hearted host and hostess. But duty and the East were calling,
and they had to go. They had passed a glorious summer, full of the
excitement in which their adventurous souls delighted. Far out from the
car windows they leaned and waved their hands, until the kindly figures
on the platform were lost to sight.
The cowboys too had turned out in a body to bid their friends good-by,
and, as the train started, they tossed their hats in the air and fired
their six-shooters till their cartridges gave out. Then they wheeled
their bronchos and headed for the ranch.
"No use talkin'," Sandy broke out suddenly that night as they were
smoking their pipes in the bunkhouse, "that Wilson is the finest feller
that ever wore shoe leather."
Buck, who was half asleep, roused himself.
"Oh, I wouldn't go quite so far as that," he drawled, mistaking the
reference. "Still, he's makin' a pretty fair President."
"Shucks," snorted Sandy, "I didn't mean _him_. I was talkin' of Bert."
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Bert Wilson in the Rockies, by J. W. Duffield