“REVENGE IS SWEET.”
The amount of alarm which that apparition caused to the yearlings it
would be difficult to imagine. The idea of their hated rival escaping
had never once flashed over them, and when they saw him it seemed like
a visit from another world. It was so sudden that they had no time to
think whether that were possible or not.
Except for Bull’s one frightened gasp the four made not one sound.
They stood staring, ready to drop from sheer terror. And as for
Mallory, he, too, was silent and motionless; he felt that a word would
have broken the spell.
There was perhaps half a minute’s wait, and then came another move.
There was a waving in the grass behind Mark, and another shadowy form
arose silently into view. It was the Parson’s solemn features, and the
Parson, too, folded his arms and stared.
After that the rest appeared one by one, and at each Bull Harris
gasped and trembled more. They seemed to him like the ghosts of men he
had murdered. There was Dewey, not smiling for once. There was Indian,
not scared for once. There was Sleepy, wide awake for once. There was
Chauncey, dignified forever. And then last of all was Texas; Texas
broke the spell.
It was not the latter’s features, though, as Dewey facetiously
informed him, he had a face that would break anything from a spell to
a broncho. But it was what Texas held in his hand. It was his usual
style――forty-four caliber――and Texas was aiming it right at Bull’s
head.
“Move one whisker, an’ I’ll fire, you ole coyote.”
That, quite naturally, proved that the plebes were of ordinary flesh
and blood. There was nothing shadowy about the gleam of that revolver,
and Bull started back in still greater alarm.
It was the Banded Seven’s turn, after that.
Mark always declared that it was perfectly safe to let Texas “hold up”
Bull and his gang whenever it was necessary to capture them, for Bull
and his gang never had the courage to blink one eye when Texas was
waving his weapons. There are some advantages in being known as a “bad
man.” It was so in this case; the Seven sprang forward and flung
themselves upon their tormentors and speedily had them flat on the
ground, tied up with the remnants of the cowboy’s most serviceable
lasso.
The question was then what shall we do with them? The plebes retired
to a distance to talk that over. They had a little more than two hours
left, by the watch. During that time they were to devise and execute
some act of retaliation.
The council proceeded to discuss ways and means. Not to delay with
details, suffice it to say that they talked for some ten minutes――and
that then suddenly Mark sprang up and slapped his knee with
excitement.
“By jingo!” he cried. “I’ve got it!”
After that there was excitement. Mark hastily outlined his scheme, the
others chuckling and dancing about in the meantime with sheer delight.
Evidently this was an idea. Bull heard the merry laughter in the
distance, and he realized that it boded ill for him. Bull bit his lip
with vexation and struggled with his bonds. His peace of mind was not
increased in the least by the realization of the fact that everything
that happened to him was richly deserved.
He heard the hasty steps of the plebes as they approached him again.
The plebes set about putting their plans into effect with all possible
celerity, and it was just a very short while before he comprehended
the horrible deed they were going to do. Bull kicked and fought till
he was blue in the face, but it did him not a bit of good, and it
seemed to amuse his captors.
They untied him almost entirely. But he could not run because he was
surrounded, and he dared not fight because Texas kept his revolver
leveled. They removed Bull’s coat and trousers, and in their place put
on the outlandish rig that Mark had worn. Then they tied him up again
and turned their attention to the others.
Indian managed to pull himself out of the almost bursting dress suit
he wore; the suit was put on Baby Edwards, and, so Dewey informed him,
it fit him “like der paper on der vall.” Chauncey, to his infinite
relief, shed his smutty white outing costume at last. And Dewey came
out of drum orderly uniform to furnish the fourth garment. After which
the plebes put on the clothing they had taken from their prisoners,
and everything was well.
Having once realized the design of their enemies and likewise their
own helplessness, the yearlings were completely subdued, even
terrified. It was all very well to send some hated plebes to jail as
lunatics, but to go themselves was horrible. They saw that was the
ultimate purpose of the Banded Seven.
After a brief consultation the latter picked up their helpless captors
and set out in haste for the road, which lay about one hundred yards
to the left. They reached that, and after glancing about cautiously,
hurried out and tied the yearlings tightly to conspicuous trees along
the road. After that they had another whispered discussion, then
turned and vanished in the woods.
As to the rest of the Banded Seven’s actions, suffice it to say that
they hurried up to camp, which they reached in safety. They hid their
clothing, the source of so much trouble, and then stole past the
sentry and entered their tents. They were soon sound asleep and
utterly oblivious to the troubles of their unfortunate rivals.
“If they can have the same luck as we,” said Mark, briefly, “they may
get away, and welcome. If they can’t, they must bear what would have
been our fate. That is about as near to justice as I can come.”
Which summary contained the whole situation.
Meanwhile exciting adventures were happening to Bull. It is presumed
that the reader is interested, though so far as Mark and his friends
are concerned, this story is already finished.
The plebes had certainly not been gone ten minutes before the
excitement began. The horrified and hopeless yearlings got their first
warning when they heard sounds of approaching footsteps and excitedly
discussing voices.
“They came up this way, I tell you. We ought to go up and hunt above
the Point, for the sheriff’ll ’tend to this part.”
“Are you sure that gun’s loaded, Jack? This is no child’s play, for
one of those fellows is armed.”
There were a few more remarks of this kind and then the party came
into view, almost in front of the prisoners. The latter were silent
and motionless, for they hoped vaguely that somehow they might not be
noticed. But, alas! the white flannel was like a torch in moonlight.
The searchers stopped short and stared in amazement.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed one, apparently the leader. “Here they are
now!”
The surprise that the apparition caused can well be imagined. They
counted one, two, three, four――of the very men they were pursuing,
tied hand and foot to trees along the roadside. Here was a mystery
indeed! This was a strange thing for even lunatics to do, and the
crowd of men handled their weapons nervously as they stared.
“I have it!” cried one of them, suddenly. “I know!”
“What is it?” demanded the others.
“The sheriff’s caught and tied ’em here for us.”
That was a likely conjecture, and it took with the puzzled crowd, who
were glad for any theory. In vain Bull and his crowd protested, in the
words of Poe’s poem, “I am not mad!” That was a likely story, coming
from lunatics. And where did they get those clothes? None of the
sheriff’s posse chanced to be there; so there was no one to recognize
Bull as the original giver of the information. And as for his own
protests and cries, they were of course insane ravings, to be listened
to with gaping mouths and some pity.
There was nothing for the captors to do but march the yearlings down
to jail. This they did with no little caution, and considerable
display of firearms. There was not a man of them who did not feel
relieved when the gates clanged once more upon those desperate
creatures.
There is no need of describing the sensations which that same clang
produced upon the creatures. It has all been described in the case of
the Banded Seven; it was just the same here, only aggravated by a
feeling of baffled rage. It was Bull Harris’ death knell, the clang of
that gate.
They were put in the same cell, but they were tied securely, and so
there was no danger of their escaping “again.” Having seen to this,
the party went out, paying not the least heed to Bull’s frenzied
entreaties to send for the sheriff. It was natural that a captured
lunatic should rave and foam at the mouth a little.
Darkness and silence having fallen upon the jail the situation became
clear at last to the wretched captives. They were tied hand and foot
behind prison bars, it lacking then perhaps an hour and a half of
reveille――and dismissal. They had no watch to let them see the time,
which made the situation all the more agonizing. If the sheriff came
in time――though there was not the least reason for supposing he
would――they might get out. If he didn’t――Bull ground his teeth with
rage when he thought of it.
It was perfectly clear to the yearlings how the former occupants of
the cell had gotten out; the broken bar told the story. But the
prisoners scarcely noticed that, so wild were they with excitement and
suspense and dread.
The time sped on. Nobody knew how much of it, and the four kept their
brains busy disputing with each other, some vowing that it was an
hour, some a half. It seemed as if Father Time were taking an interest
in punishing these villains, for he went with agonizing slowness.
Sometimes a minute may seem an age. After all, time is only relative;
every man has his own time, depending upon the swiftness with which
ideas are passing through his mind.
It was thus a very long period, that hour and a half. The four knew
not, as the end came near, whether it were one hour that had passed or
six. And they had almost given up hope and become resigned, when
suddenly there came a step that made their hearts leap up and begin to
pound.
The outer door opened; then the door to their cell. A figure strode
in. It was the sheriff!
A perfect pandemonium resulted. It took the official but a moment to
recognize that these were not the lunatics. From their excited and
frenzied pleadings he managed to make out the story of their
misfortune, their capture by the real lunatics. Also he made out that
they were in a simply agonizing hurry to get out, to go somewhere.
He knew that he had no right to hold them. He stepped forward and cut
them loose, and showed them to the door. An instant later four figures
were dashing up the street toward West Point at a speed that would
have done credit to an antelope. This was a go-as-you-please race,
each man for himself.
They sped on, past the boundary of cadet limits, the officers’ houses,
the mess hall. They were careless of consequences, making no effort to
hide from any one. Time was too precious. A single glance at the
parade ground ahead showed them that the gun had not yet sounded, that
still there was hope. Their pace grew faster still at that.
The academy building and the chapel they left behind them, and bounded
up the road toward the camp. They saw――oh, horrors!――the corporal and
his single private standing in front of the morning gun, about to
fire! And a moment later the four, one after another, dashed wildly
around the camp, past the astonished officer of the day, and plunged
over the embankment of Fort Clinton, where their uniforms lay hid.
Just then――bang! went the gun.
And two minutes later, red and breathless, but still in uniform and
safe, the four signaled the sentry, rushed into camp, and fell in for
roll call with their classmates on the company street. The escape was
narrow; but the miss was as good as a mile.