HELP FROM THE HILLS
After they had stumbled on for about fifteen minutes Curly called a
halt, and ordered the men to build a fire.
"This is as good a place as any," he told them. "No one will bother us
here to-night, an' that's all we care."
Cursing and grumbling in a maudlin manner, several of the men gathered
a number of sticks, and soon a fire was started. As the flames shot up
Reynolds could see plainly the faces of his captors, and as he watched
them his prospects did not seem very bright. They were men as reckless
as Curly himself, and being half drunk they had lost all sense of
responsibility. They did exactly what their leader commanded,
notwithstanding their incessant complaints. This was exactly what
Curly wanted. He had supplied them with liquor, but had taken little
himself.
When the fire had been lighted, Reynolds was securely tied to a tree
standing near. The rope which bound him was drawn tight and caused him
considerable pain, although he exhibited no outward sign. But his
heart was hot within him, especially when he looked upon Curly's
sneering and jubilant face. If he could only be free for a few minutes
he would attack the entire bunch, and revel in the fight. But to be
bound and helpless was most galling.
"How d'ye like it?" Curly asked, coming up close to Reynolds. "Having
a good time, eh? This is our picnic to-night."
"So I see," and the captive's lips curled in a sarcastic smile. "But
just let me free for about five minutes, and then you'll see whose
picnic it is."
"Not on yer life. We've got ye sure now, an' intend to keep ye that
way until we're through with ye. What would yer little girlie say if
she could see ye now?"
"To whom do you refer?"
"Oh, I guess you know, all right," and Curly grinned. "She's pretty,
isn't she? But she has no use for me. She prefers a white-livered
sucker like you."
"Who was the big white-livered sucker during the war?" Reynolds
retorted. "I didn't hide away in the hills like you did, Curly. You
are a coward, and you know it."
"Who killed his pardner, though?" Curly snarled, for the prisoner's
words stung him to the quick.
"What do you mean?" Reynolds asked in surprise.
"Where is Frontier Samson? What happened to the old man?"
Reynolds' eyes grew big with amazement as the meaning of Curly's words
dawned upon his mind. So these men believed that he had killed the
prospector! His face turned pale at the thought. What could he say in
self-defense? Curly noted his embarrassment as well as the change of
countenance, and he was greatly elated.
"Ye can't deny it," he charged. "Look, boys," he shouted. "See the
white streak about his gills."
"Where ish Samson?" a blear-eyed man demanded, thrusting his
whiskey-reeking mouth up close to Reynolds' face. "Where ish my old
friend?"
Reynolds made no reply, although it was with difficulty that he
restrained himself. To try to explain to such men would be useless, he
was well aware. Others now surrounded him, who asked, not only about
Samson, but about Jim Weston's daughter. They made the night hideous
with their oaths and vile questions, until they seemed to Reynolds more
like imps of the infernal regions let loose than human beings. He saw
that they were becoming more and more reckless as they talked, shouted,
and quarrelled with one another, and he expected at any minute to see
them turn upon him and inflict some bodily injury, and, perhaps, tear
him to pieces.
All this pleased Curly immensely, as he stood a little aside and
watched his followers. His eyes seldom left the captive's face, but he
looked in vain for any show of weakness on Reynolds' part. This was
not altogether to his liking. He wished to see his victim show signs
of fear, to cry aloud and plead for mercy. He had done so himself, and
he longed to find it in Reynolds that he might taunt him with weakness
and cowardice.
When he had waited in vain for fully half an hour, he ordered the men
to pile dry wood about the prisoner's feet. They readily obeyed, and
all took part, anticipating some rare sport.
"We'll take that sneer off yer face," Curly remarked, as he stepped up
close to Reynolds. "We'll make ye yell."
"The same as you did at Glen West, I suppose?" Reynolds retorted.
"Your lungs must have been sore after such yelps. Who showed the white
liver then?"
Curly spat contemptuously at the captive, and motioned the men to bring
a burning stick from the fire. Several at once hastened to obey,
tumbling over one another in their eagerness. One, more active than
the rest, extricated himself, seized a flaming torch, and rushed toward
the prisoner. He had almost reached him, and Reynolds felt that the
moment of doom had arrived. But just at this critical instant a
peculiar noise fell upon his ears, and he listened intently. Then his
heart bounded with hope, for it was the sound of galloping horses. His
captors heard it, too, and the man carrying the torch hesitated and
then stopped. It was an ominous sound to them, and their hearts smote
them with a great fear. But they had little time for thought, for at
once nine hundred pounds of quivering horse flesh, bone, and sinewy
muscle leaped out of the darkness into their midst, and reared wildly
when suddenly checked by a pair of strong, tense arms. With head
tossed high, and champing madly at his bits, Midnight reeled back
almost upon his haunches in such a manner that an inexperienced rider
would have been unhorsed in an instant. But Glen was not in the least
perturbed by the rearing steed, and maintained her seat with an easy
composure. In truth, she never thought about herself, but only of him
whose life was in danger.
"Cowards!" she cried. "Unloose that man!" and she pointed to Reynolds.
But no one moved to obey her imperious command. The men stared as if
she were an apparition, so sudden and unexpected was her arrival. And
in fact, she did seem like a leader of the legendary Valkyries, with
her flashing eyes and wind-swept hair, mounted upon that prancing horse
as black as night itself. It was little wonder that the men trembled
as they watched her, while several crossed themselves as if to ward off
some malign influence.
Curly, who had staggered back aghast at this sudden intrusion, was the
first to recover. He glanced apprehensively around, as if meditating
flight. But Glen's keen eyes detected his design, and she sternly
ordered him to remain where he was. Then she turned and spoke a few
words to her followers in the Indian tongue. At once a rapid movement
took place, as the natives formed themselves in a circle around the
white men and thus barred every avenue of escape. This brought the
miners somewhat to their senses, and seeing that their unwelcome
visitors were not ghosts, their hands slipped to their hip-pockets.
But a mighty roar from Sconda paralyzed their hands, causing them to
drop by their sides as the baffled men stared sullenly upon almost a
score of rifles pointing straight at their hearts.
It seemed to Reynolds as if he must be beholding a vision, so wonderful
did it all appear. He gazed upon Glen with intense admiration. He
could hardly believe it possible that such a sweet, confiding girl
could be so changed into an imperious leader in such a short time.
Could she be the same who had bade him such a tender farewell by the
shore of the lake in the hills? She looked more beautiful than ever
now, but it was the beauty of wild abandon in the glory of a noble
cause, which for the time had transformed this tender maiden into a
woman of unselfish daring. She held him spellbound as she sat so
superbly upon her now quiet horse. Forgotten were his bonds as he
watched her, and his one thought was of her. How had she heard of his
trouble? and how had she managed to arrive just at the critical moment?
He longed to hear the story from her own lips. A passionate desire
swept upon him to enfold her in his arms, to tell her how proud he was
of what she had done, and to press his lips to hers. And she was the
girl who had been so grossly insulted by his villainous captors! The
thought stung him, and he turned sharply toward the cringing Curly.
The brute was standing there, sullen and defiant. Reynolds knew that
he would soon be free, and then he would deal with the cur. He heard
Glen speak and saw Sconda dismount and disarm the miners. Last of all
he came to Curly, and when the Indian reached for his revolver, the
serpent spat at him and cursed wildly. With a marvelous restraint,
Sconda merely took the weapon from the enraged man's pocket, and then
walking over to Reynolds, swiftly cut the cords which bound him to the
tree and freed his hands.
Finding himself unbound, Reynolds cast one glance toward Glen, and saw
her looking at him with a peculiar expression in her eyes. He seemed
to read there a challenge, which could have but one meaning. He turned
to Curly, and beholding that sneer of contempt still upon his face, he
sprang forward and confronted the villain.
"I am free now," he cried, "and am able to answer your insult to the
purest woman upon earth. It is man to man, and we shall settle it
right here."
But Curly was in no mood for a fight; that was not his nature. He was
a coward at heart, though the failure of his plot made him so angry
that he was daringly reckless. With a curse he started to turn away,
but Reynolds caught him by the shoulders and swung him roughly around.
"No, you don't get off so easily," he told him. "One of us must get a
drubbing here to-night, and if you can give it to me, come on."
"Take that, then," and Curly drew off and hit him a savage blow on the
face.
It was all that Reynolds needed, and springing forward, he felled his
antagonist to the ground with a single blow. And there Curly lay, and
made no attempt to rise. He had enough, and he knew in his heart that
he was no match for the man standing over him.
"Get up," Reynolds ordered. "I'm not through with you yet."
But Curly did not move. He lay there as if dead. Reynolds did not
know what to do, for he was unwilling to inflict further punishment
upon the creature while he was down.
"Curly." It was Glen's voice, and it had an ominous note. "Get up at
once, and explain the meaning of this night's affair. Why this insult
to Mr. Reynolds?"
To this command, however, Curly paid no heed, but remained as he had
fallen. Glen's eyes flashed with a dangerous light as she tapped
impatiently with her riding-whip upon the pommel of her saddle.
"Get up," she again ordered, "or I shall hand you over to the Indians.
They will not be so considerate of you as we are."
As Curly still made no effort to rise, Glen uttered just two Indian
words to Sconda. The latter immediately turned and roared a command to
his followers. At once half a dozen natives sprang eagerly forward,
but before they could lay hands upon him Curly was on his feet,
trembling violently. He leaped aside from the natives, his face
ghastly pale.
"Keep them off!" he yelled. "Don't let the devils touch me!"
"I thought that would bring you somewhat to your senses," and a smile
of contempt hovered about the corners of Glen's mouth as she spoke.
"But I mean what I say, you can be assured of that. Tell me, now, what
is the meaning of all this? Why did you bring Mr. Reynolds here, and
what were you going to do to him?"
"He murdered his pardner," was the low reply.
Glen gave a violent start at this accusation, and looked keenly at
Curly. Her hands trembled, and it seemed to her as if her heart had
stopped beating.
"Who was his partner?" she at length found voice to ask.
"Frontier Samson, of course. He was a friend of ours, and we were
about to avenge his death, when you interfered."
"But how did you learn that Frontier Samson is dead?" Glen inquired.
"Because no one has seen him since he left camp with this guy," and he
motioned to Reynolds who was standing nearby. "Samson hasn't shown up
at Big Draw, an' his pardner doesn't care to explain what happened to
him."
For a few seconds there was a dead silence, save for the crackling of
the fire, and the restless movements of the horses. Then from out of
the darkness came a roar of laughter, and while all turned and stared
in astonishment, Frontier Samson himself bounded into their midst and
confronted Curly.
"Do I look like a dead man?" he demanded. "D'ye think I've been
murdered by me pardner?"
Curly's only reply was a fearful stare as if he had seen a ghost. He
tried to speak, but words would not come.
"Frightened, are ye?" and the prospector took a step closer to the
unhappy villain. "But ye'll be more frightened before I git through
with ye, let me tell ye that. What's the meanin' of sich actions? Out
with it."
"I t-thought y-you were dead," Curly stammered.
"An' so ye was takin' the matter of justice into yer own dirty hands,
eh?"
"Somebody had to do it."
"H'm," Samson grunted as he glanced around upon the miners. "Queer
justice, I call it. Why didn't ye let the Police look after the
affair, if ye thought me pardner had murdered me? No, ye can't answer
that," he continued, for Curly made no defence. "It's yer own bad
heart, that's what made ye do it. Yer jealous; that's what's wrong.
An' as fer justice, you'll git plenty of it soon, an' more'n ye'll care
fer. An' you talk about a man murderin' his pardner, an' givin' him
justice! Who murdered Bill Ducett, at Black Ravine, tell me that?"
Curly's eyes, which were big with fear, now fairly burst from their
sockets as the old prospector laid this startling charge. His knees
trembled, and it seemed as if he must fall to the ground, so great was
his terror.
"H-how d'ye know about Bill?" he gasped.
"Never mind how I know," Samson replied. Then he turned toward Glen.
"Excuse me, Miss," and he lifted his old weather-beaten hat, "I'm real
sorry that you have to witness sich a scene as this. But it can't be
helped, fer thar stands the worst criminal that ever came into this
region. An' to think of him talkin' about murder an' justice, when he
himself murdered his own pardner!"
"It's a lie!" Curly denied with an oath. "What d'ye mean by making
such a charge?"
"It's no lie, Curly," and the prospector looked sternly into the cur's
bloodshot eyes. "I've got all the proof that's necessary to stretch
yer neck. But it'll keep until the right ones git hold of ye. In the
meantime, we might as well go down to Shorty's an' git something to
eat. I'm as hungry as a two-year-old bear. We'll take these fellers
along," and he motioned to the miners. "Jist let yer Injuns look after
'em, Miss. An' ye'd better see that Curly is tied tight so's he can't
git away. We don't want to run any risk with him."
It took but a few minutes to carry out this latter suggestion, and then
all headed for the mining creek. The miners were marshalled by the
Indians, with Samson walking watchfully by Curly's side, while Reynolds
kept close to Glen. No one spoke, and it was a strange procession
which wound its way down the creek, and at length halted in front of
the roadhouse.