THE SEVEN IN A TRAP.
Some ten minutes after Bull Harris vanished in the shadow of the hotel,
two figures came down the stairs, bearing a heavy burden between them.
There was no one in the neighborhood to observe them. They crept out
the back door and gently deposited their load upon a wheelbarrow that
stood near. A moment more and they and the wheelbarrow, too, had
disappeared in the shadow of the trees.
At the same instant six figures dashed past the sentry at the camp and
set out to follow swiftly. They were the members of the Banded Seven,
minus the chemical Parson. The other two were Chandler and his cousin.
The latter were wary as foxes; they were aware of the fact that they
might be followed, and Bull was glancing over his shoulder at every
step. But owing to the sentries that patrol the post, he had to keep
in the dark shadow of the woods by the river front, and that was where
the six got their chance to hide. They were cautious, too; even our
fat friend, Joseph Smith, was as silent and stealthy as any genuine
“Indian.”
Bull and his companion skirted the buildings to the south, and emerged
upon the road to Highland Falls. Down this they hurried for a short
distance, and then turned into a patch of thick woods just above cadet
limits. In the center of the woods they halted, set down their load and
went right to work without further parley. They were going to bury the
treasure, where it would be safe beyond possibility of danger.
That was their plan. To be very brief, I may say that they did not
get far. Bull had barely had time to plunge his spade into the ground
before there came a sound of a snapping twig that made him start as if
he had been shot.
It was a dark night, very dark, and the two frightened rascals could
distinguish little. But one thing they did see; that was the grinning
countenance of the “son o’ the Hon. Scrap Powers, o’ Hurricane County,
Texas,” at the present moment peering over the barrel of a luminous and
voluminous revolver.
There never was a hold up more sudden and complete than that, at least
not in the experience of our cowboy friend. Chandler had a revolver
in his pocket (the one that Texas had dropped), but he did not dare
to make a move to touch it. He was too well aware of Jeremiah Powers’
reputation among the cadets. Chandler and Bull could do nothing but
stare and gasp.
It was not part of the programme of the six to keep them in suspense
for any time. Texas kept his gun leveled, reinforced by another in his
other hand, while Mark and his companions, smiling cheerfully, stepped
out and proceeded to take possession in genuine Dick Turpin style.
In the first place, there were the prisoners to be attended to. They
were too much confounded and frightened to resist, and they speedily
found themselves lying flat as pancakes on the ground, tied hand and
foot, with handkerchiefs in their mouths for an extra precaution.
Then, and then only, Texas shoved his revolvers back where they came
from; and the others laid hold of the wheelbarrow and the whole crowd
strolled merrily away, whistling meanwhile.
For which please score one for the Banded Seven.
Unfortunately, their triumph was destined to be a very transitory
one. I blush to record it of my most cautious and wary friend from
Texas, but it is true, and truth must be told. Texas actually forgot to
search his man when he held him up! The result was that the revolver, a
terrible bit of evidence, was still in Chandler’s pocket. But that was
not all. So sure were the six plebes of their complete triumph, that
they even failed to tie their prisoners apart.
The last of the party had scarcely turned away before Bull, glancing
about him with his cunning, catlike eyes, rolled swiftly over until he
was at his cousin’s side. He bit at the rope that tied the latter’s
hands; he could not have chewed more savagely if he had hold of
Mallory’s flesh. Chandler’s hands were free in a moment, and it was the
work of but a few moments more to whip out his knife and loosen Bull.
The sound of the plebes’ merry laughter had not died away in the woods
before the two were on the trail, creeping stealthily up behind their
unsuspecting victims with their load of gold. And Chandler had the
revolver in his hand now by way of a precaution.
Not so very far back in the woods on the way to Highland Falls stood
an old and dilapidated icehouse. Some may remember that icehouse; it
figured rather prominently in one of Mark’s adventures. Mark had not
been in West Point a week before his cheerful friend Bull had tried to
lock him up in that place so as to have him absent from réveille. Bull
had failed, fortunately, and Mark had turned the tables on him. Bull
had had unpleasant recollections of that icehouse ever since.
It was toward that building the six happy and triumphant plebes
were heading; Mark had chanced to think of it, and of the fact that
its soft sawdust would make a most excellent hiding place for the
wonderful treasure. The plebes could hardly realize that they had that
treasure safe. After all the vicissitudes it had been through, all
the disappointments and anxiety it had caused them, it seemed to be
too good to be true. And they ran their fingers through the chinking
contents of the old chest; it was too dark to see it, but they could
feel it, and that was enough to make them chuckle for joy.
They were in a particularly jolly humor as they hurried through the
woods. Dewey was as lively as a kitten, and was being reminded of jokes
enough to take up the rest of this story; and he kept it up until the
building they were looking for loomed up in front of them.
The plebes lost no time about the matter; they opened the creaky door
and the whole six of them hurried in to superintend the all-important
burial ceremony.
Their figures had scarcely been lost in the darkness before the other
two stole out of the woods and halted at the edge of the clearing. The
two were stooping low, creeping with the stealth of catamounts. So
silent were they there was not even the snap of a twig to betray them,
and when they stopped they scarcely dared breathe as they listened. One
of the crouching figures clutched a revolver in his hand; the other’s
fists were clinched until the nails dug into his flesh. His teeth were
set, and his eye gleamed with a hatred and resentment that he alone
knew how to feel. Bull Harris felt that his time had come, the time he
had waited for, for two long months of concentrated yearning.
There were sounds of muffled laughter from inside, and the thud of the
spade that some one was using. Bull glanced at his companion.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
And the other nodded, though his hand shook.
“Are you afraid?” hissed Bull. “It is a risk, for that fiend of a Texan
may fight. You may have to shoot. Do you hear me?”
Once more Chandler nodded, and gripped the revolver like a vise.
There was not another word said. The two crouched low and stepped out
of the shadow of the bushes. Silently as the shadows themselves they
sped across the open space. And then suddenly Bull halted again; for
the sound of murmuring voices from inside the little building grew
audible as they advanced.
“B’gee, it’s a regular Captain Kidd business! I don’t think Bull was a
success as a Kidd, that is, if you spell it with two d’s. He----”
“Say, Mark,” interrupted another voice, “do you remember the time that
ole coyote tried to lock you in hyar? Doggone his boots, I bet he don’t
try that very soon again.”
“I’m afraid not,” laughed Mark, softly. “Bull had his chance once, but
he failed to make the most of it.”
And at the words Bull seized his cousin convulsively by the arm and
forced him back. Before the other could see what the yearling meant he
had sprung forward, gasping with rage. The next instant the heavy door
creaked and swung too.
Mark and his allies started back in alarm. Before they could make
another move, before they could even think, they heard the rusty lock
grate, heard a heavy log jammed against the door to hold it tight.
And then a low, mocking laugh of triumph rang on their ears. Bull
Harris’ time had come at last.