STACY WIELDS A CLUB
Stacy Brown’s face wore a serious expression as his captors started
away with him. His pony was free, but there were men ahead of and
behind him, men whose faces were stern and threatening. The rifle
had been taken from the boot of his saddle and his revolvers were
gone. He was as helpless as a child, but the fat boy was watching
for an opportunity to escape.
“Where are you taking me?” he demanded after they had galloped on
for the better part of an hour.
“You’ll see when you git thar,” was the brief reply.
“You don’t say,” retorted Chunky, whereupon he was ordered to keep
silent.
Soon after that a collection of ranch buildings was seen nestling
below in the foothills, which were regarded with interest by the
Overland boy as his captors headed for them. As they neared the
ranch, a few men appeared and with shaded eyes watched the approach.
When the captors finally pulled up before the ranch, a thin, tall,
bronzed man came out and bent a keen gaze on Chunky.
“What have you got heah?” he demanded.
“Feller we caught with the mustang thet was stolen the other night,”
replied one of the captors.
“So? A hoss thief, eh?”
“I’m not!” objected the fat boy indignantly.
“So? Mebby he is your horse, eh?”
Stacy admitted that it was not his horse.
“Where did you get him?” snapped the rancher.
“I helped myself to him—took him because I wanted to get away from
a bunch of ruffians.”
“Where was that?”
Stacy said he didn’t know, but that it was in the mountains on the
edge of a red gulch, and further admitted that he didn’t know much
about the country there and would feel fully as well satisfied if he
didn’t know as much as he did.
“What’s your name?”
“Name’s Brown. What’s yours?”
“I am William Crawley, the owner of this ranch, and the pony you are
on is my property. I don’t suppose there is any use in questioning
you, for a fellow who will rustle horses will lie as well as steal.
I’ll hear what you have to say, however.”
“If you don’t mind, suppose you untie me and let me get down. I
don’t like to be hung up this way ’cause it gets tiresome.”
“I reckon you will have plenty of time to rest, young fellow,”
answered the rancher, grinning sardonically. “Let him down. Has he
guns on him?”
A member of the party said that they had taken his weapons from the
boy, and explained in detail how they happened to discover him
helping himself to food in the chuck-house up on the range, to all
of which Rancher Crawley listened attentively. He turned to Stacy
again.
“Tell me what you wish about yourself and I’ll listen,” he said.
“What’s the use? You won’t believe me,” protested Stacy.
“As you wish. It doesn’t make much difference what you say. You will
have to tell your story to the sheriff at Carrago, for we’re going
to send a man for him today.”
“I belong to the Overland Riders. We ride somewhere every summer,”
began Stacy hurriedly. “This summer we chose the Bad Lands in the
Cosos, but I reckon that, had we known how bad they are, we should
have stayed away. We have been hanging out with Joe Bindloss, and
the rest of my party is over there now. We have a camp pitched just
back of his house where the garden ought to be, but isn’t.”
“How about it, Skip?” interrupted the rancher, turning to one of his
men. “You was over there this morning.”
The man replied that there was no camp back of Bindloss’s house, and
that, further, no one was there when he dropped in.
Bill Crawley smiled sarcastically.
“You see! A hoss thief can’t tell the truth,” he reiterated.
“Neither can some other people,” flung back Chunky heatedly. “I’m
telling you the truth, and I don’t care whether you believe me or
not, but if you are half so smart as you think you are you will know
that I am telling no lies. I don’t have to be a horse thief. I’ve
got money, I’d have you know.”
“Most hoss thieves have,” agreed one of the cowpunchers. “What were
you doing in the mountains alone?”
Stacy, though weary and out of patience with all this, explained
that while out with Bindloss’s men on the round-up, he was roped and
carried into the mountains where he was held prisoner while a gang
of rustlers tried to get his companions to pay a ransom for him. He
told about the carrier pigeons, and the money that the ruffians had
collected by means of the birds. As he talked the grins on the faces
of the cowpunchers grew broader. They had never heard a fairy tale
quite so ingenious. Bill Crawley’s face wore an expression of
weariness.
“Young fellow, I’ve heard some liars in my time, but you win!” he
declared. “Take him over to the hay barn and lock him in. If he
tries to get out, shoot him!”
“If you were alone with me you wouldn’t dare say that, you bluffer!”
retorted Chunky, his cheeks flushing with anger.
“What’s that you say?” demanded the rancher, taking a step toward
the boy, his chin thrust out belligerently.
“Oh, nothing much,” muttered Stacy. “I reckon I was talking in my
sleep.”
“Lock him up. And, Skip! Get a bite to eat, then hit the trail for
Carrago. You ought to get back some time tomorrow forenoon, but
bring the sheriff with you. We’ve got one of the rustlers that have
been stealing stock from us this summer, and, young fellow, we’re
going to send you to jail. You’re lucky that you aren’t shot!” was
Crawley’s parting word.
Stacy was yanked nearly off his feet by a cowpuncher and hauled
protesting to the barn, a structure that was built with the idea of
keeping thieves from stealing from it. He was thrown violently to
the floor as his jailer hurled him into the place, and the door was
slammed behind him and locked.
There were tears of anger in the eyes of the fat boy as he sat up
and rubbed himself.
“I wish I had a gun! Oh, I wish I had a gun!” he raged.
After the peak of his rage had been passed, Stacy began to take
account of his surroundings. On either side of him were huge mows of
hay already laid up for the stock that would have to be wintered on
the ranch, but finally, weariness overcoming him, the Overland boy
stretched out on the barn floor and went to sleep. He did not awaken
until twilight when a boot, coming into violent contact with his
person, brought him up, once more in a belligerent mood.
“Heah’s yer chuck,” announced the cowpuncher. “I hope it chokes ye!”
added the man, backing out and locking the door.
The sight of food made Stacy forget his troubles for the time being,
and he helped himself freely of the liberal meal. Upon second
thought, the boy stowed part of the food in his pockets, thinking it
might be useful later on, for he had hopes of making his escape.
After finishing his meal he climbed the ladder to the top of the hay
loft and floundered about in the faint light for some time, hoping
to find a window. There was none. Getting down, he tried the mow on
the other side of the barn, but with no better results, whereupon
Chunky returned to the floor and sat down, head in hands.
“Tomorrow, if I am here, I’ll be on my way to jail,” he reflected.
“Of course it will all come out right. They won’t keep me there
long, but I don’t like the idea of going to jail when there is so
much going on over in the valley. Besides, a fellow doesn’t get very
good food in these western jails, so I’ve heard. I’ve got to get out
of here. That’s flat!”
The Overland boy got up and leaned against the hay wagon that stood
on the barn floor. One hand came in contact with one of the pins,
oak pins about a yard long, that keep the hay on the rack when
loading. He pulled the pin out and felt over its entire length. It
was smooth, worn so from long usage, and the feel of it was good to
Stacy Brown. It was something that might be used for a weapon as
well as a tool. With it he tried to pry open the barn door, but the
door would not budge. Once more the fat boy was at the end of his
resources, but as he stood leaning against the door, he heard some
one fussing with the lock.
Stacy was instantly on the alert as some one opened the door.
“Hey, ye hoss thief! Whar be ye? The boss reckons as I’d better
start for Carrago with ye now so as to git thar in the mornin’ an’
git back in good season.”
“All right,” replied the lad, yawning.
“What you doin’ heah by the door?” demanded the man.
“Maybe I was trying to get out. What?” laughed the fat boy.
“I don’t reckon as you’ll be gittin’ out till ye go with me, an’
don’t ye try any monkeyshines, ’cause I’ve got er gun in my hand an’
I’ll use it on ye, ye cheap rustler. Git ’round in front of me whar
I kin see ye!”
“I’ll bet you I get away,” answered Chunky, “and I’ll have the law
on this outfit for what it has done to me!”
Whack! He brought the oak stick down on the head of the cowpuncher.
The fellow went down in a heap, whereupon Stacy Brown stepped out,
closed and locked the door behind him and walked calmly away.
“When I get riled I’m a pretty bad man,” admitted the Overland boy,
chuckling to himself.