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The Mucker
By
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Contents:
CHAPTER
V. LARRY DIVINE UNMASKED
CHAPTER
VIII. THE WRECK OF THE "HALFMOON".
CHAPTER
X. BARBARA CAPTURED BY HEAD-HUNTERS.
CHAPTER
XI. THE VILLAGE OF YOKA
CHAPTER
XII. THE FIGHT IN THE PALACE
CHAPTER
XIII. A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE
CHAPTER
XIV. THE MUCKER SEES A NEW LIGHT.
CHAPTER
XVI. THE SUPREME SACRIFICE
CHAPTER
XVIII. THE GULF BETWEEN
CHAPTER
III. "FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD".
CHAPTER
V. ONE TURN DESERVES ANOTHER
CHAPTER
VIII. BILLY'S FIRST COMMAND
CHAPTER
X. BILLY CRACKS A SAFE
CHAPTER
XI. BARBARA RELEASES A CONSPIRATOR.
CHAPTER
XII. BILLY TO THE RESCUE
CHAPTER
XIV. 'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY
CHAPTER
XV. AN INDIAN'S TREACHERY
CHAPTER
XVII. "YOU ARE MY GIRL!".
BILLY BYRNE was a
product of the streets and alleys of Chicago's great West Side. From Halste=
d to
Robey, and from Grand Avenue to Lake Street there was scarce a bartender wh=
om
Billy knew not by his first name. And, in proportion to their number which =
was
considerably less, he knew the patrolmen and plain clothes men equally as w=
ell,
but not so pleasantly.
His kindergarten =
education
had commenced in an alley back of a feed-store. Here a gang of older boys a=
nd
men were wont to congregate at such times as they had naught else to occupy
their time, and as the bridewell was the only place in which they ever held=
a
job for more than a day or two, they had considerable time to devote to
congregating.
They were pickpoc=
kets
and second-story men, made and in the making, and all were muckers, ready to
insult the first woman who passed, or pick a quarrel with any stranger who =
did
not appear too burly. By night they plied their real vocations. By day they=
sat
in the alley behind the feedstore and drank beer from a battered tin pail. =
The question of l=
abor
involved in transporting the pail, empty, to the saloon across the street, =
and
returning it, full, to the alley back of the feed-store was solved by the
presence of admiring and envious little boys of the neighborhood who hung,
wide-eyed and thrilled, about these heroes of their childish lives.
Billy Byrne, at s=
ix,
was rushing the can for this noble band, and incidentally picking up his
knowledge of life and the rudiments of his education. He gloried in the fact
that he was personally acquainted with "Eddie" Welch, and that wi=
th
his own ears he had heard "Eddie" tell the gang how he stuck up a=
guy
on West Lake Street within fifty yards of the Twenty-eighth Precinct Police
Station.
The kindergarten
period lasted until Billy was ten; then he commenced "swiping" br=
ass
faucets from vacant buildings and selling them to a fence who ran a junksho=
p on
Lincoln Street near Kinzie.
From this man he
obtained the hint that graduated him to a higher grade, so that at twelve he
was robbing freight cars in the yards along Kinzie Street, and it was about
this same time that he commenced to find pleasure in the feel of his fist
against the jaw of a fellow-man.
He had had his bo=
yish
scraps with his fellows off and on ever since he could remember; but his fi=
rst
real fight came when he was twelve. He had had an altercation with an erstw=
hile
pal over the division of the returns from some freight-car booty. The gang =
was
all present, and as words quickly gave place to blows, as they have a habit=
of
doing in certain sections of the West Side, the men and boys formed a rough
ring about the contestants.
The battle was a =
long
one. The two were rolling about in the dust of the alley quite as often as =
they
were upon their feet exchanging blows. There was nothing fair, nor decent, =
nor
scientific about their methods. They gouged and bit and tore. They used kne=
es
and elbows and feet, and but for the timely presence of a brickbat beneath =
his
fingers at the psychological moment Billy Byrne would have gone down to
humiliating defeat. As it was the other boy went down, and for a week Billy
remained hidden by one of the gang pending the report from the hospital.
When word came th= at the patient would live, Billy felt an immense load lifted from his shoulder= s, for he dreaded arrest and experience with the law that he had learned from childhood to deride and hate. Of course there was the loss of prestige that would naturally have accrued to him could he have been pointed out as the "guy that croaked Sheehan"; but there is always a fly in the ointment, and Billy only sighed and came out of his temporary retirement. <= o:p>
That battle start=
ed
Billy to thinking, and the result of that mental activity was a determinati=
on
to learn to handle his mitts scientifically--people of the West Side do not
have hands; they are equipped by Nature with mitts and dukes. A few have pa=
ws
and flippers.
He had no opportu=
nity
to realize his new dream for several years; but when he was about seventeen=
a
neighbor's son surprised his little world by suddenly developing from an
unknown teamster into a locally famous light-weight.
The young man nev=
er
had been affiliated with the gang, as his escutcheon was defiled with a rec=
ord
of steady employment. So Billy had known nothing of the sparring lessons his
young neighbor had taken, or of the work he had done at the down-town gymna=
sium
of Larry Hilmore.
Now it happened t=
hat
while the new light-weight was unknown to the charmed circle of the gang, B=
illy
knew him fairly well by reason of the proximity of their respective parental
back yards, and so when the glamour of pugilistic success haloed the young =
man
Billy lost no time in basking in the light of reflected glory.
He saw much of his
new hero all the following winter. He accompanied him to many mills, and on=
one
glorious occasion occupied a position in the coming champion's corner. When=
the
prize fighter toured, Billy continued to hang around Hilmore's place, runni=
ng
errands and doing odd jobs, the while he picked up pugilistic lore, and
absorbed the spirit of the game along with the rudiments and finer points of
its science, almost unconsciously. Then his ambition changed. Once he had
longed to shine as a gunman; now he was determined to become a prize fighte=
r;
but the old gang still saw much of him, and he was a familiar figure about =
the saloon
corners along Grand Avenue and Lake Street.
During this period
Billy neglected the box cars on Kinzie Street, partially because he felt th=
at
he was fitted for more dignified employment, and as well for the fact that =
the
railroad company had doubled the number of watchmen in the yards; but there
were times when he felt the old yearning for excitement and adventure. These
times were usually coincident with an acute financial depression in Billy's
change pocket, and then he would fare forth in the still watches of the nig=
ht, with
a couple of boon companions and roll a souse, or stick up a saloon.
It was upon an
occasion of this nature that an event occurred which was fated later to cha=
nge
the entire course of Billy Byrne's life. Upon the West Side the older gangs=
are
jealous of the sanctity of their own territory. Outsiders do not trespass w=
ith
impunity. From Halsted to Robey, and from Lake to Grand lay the broad hunti=
ng
preserve of Kelly's gang, to which Billy had been almost born, one might sa=
y.
Kelly owned the feed-store back of which the gang had loafed for years, and
though himself a respectable businessman his name had been attached to the =
pack
of hoodlums who held forth at his back door as the easiest means of locating
and identifying its motley members.
The police and citizenry of this great territory were the natural enemies and prey of Kell= y's gang, but as the kings of old protected the deer of their great forests from poachers, so Kelly's gang felt it incumbent upon them to safeguard the lives and property which they considered theirs by divine right. It is doubtful t= hat they thought of the matter in just this way, but the effect was the same. <= o:p>
And so it was tha=
t as
Billy Byrne wended homeward alone in the wee hours of the morning after
emptying the cash drawer of old Schneider's saloon and locking the weeping
Schneider in his own ice box, he was deeply grieved and angered to see three
rank outsiders from Twelfth Street beating Patrolman Stanley Lasky with his=
own
baton, the while they simultaneously strove to kick in his ribs with their
heavy boots.
Now Lasky was no
friend of Billy Byrne; but the officer had been born and raised in the dist=
rict
and was attached to the Twenty-eighth Precinct Station on Lake Street near
Ashland Avenue, and so was part and parcel of the natural possession of the
gang. Billy felt that it was entirely ethical to beat up a cop, provided you
confined your efforts to those of your own district; but for a bunch of yaps
from south of Twelfth Street to attempt to pull off any such coarse work in=
his
bailiwick--why it was unthinkable.
A hero and rescue=
r of
lesser experience than Billy Byrne would have rushed melodramatically into =
the
midst of the fray, and in all probability have had his face pushed complete=
ly
through the back of his head, for the guys from Twelfth Street were not of =
the
rah-rah-boy type of hoodlum--they were bad men, with an upper case B. So Bi=
lly
crept stealthily along in the shadows until he was quite close to them, and=
behind
them. On the way he had gathered up a cute little granite paving block, than
which there is nothing in the world harder, not even a Twelfth Street skull=
. He
was quite close now to one of the men--he who was wielding the officer's cl=
ub
to such excellent disadvantage to the officer--and then he raised the paving
block only to lower it silently and suddenly upon the back of that unsuspec=
ting
head--"and then there were two."
Before the man's
companions realized what had happened Billy had possessed himself of the fa=
llen
club and struck one of them a blinding, staggering blow across the eyes. Th=
en
number three pulled his gun and fired point-blank at Billy. The bullet tore
through the mucker's left shoulder. It would have sent a more highly organi=
zed
and nervously inclined man to the pavement; but Billy was neither highly
organized nor nervously inclined, so that about the only immediate effect it
had upon him was to make him mad--before he had been but peeved--peeved at =
the rank
crust that had permitted these cheap-skates from south of Twelfth Street to
work his territory.
Thoroughly arouse=
d,
Billy was a wonder. From a long line of burly ancestors he had inherited the
physique of a prize bull. From earliest childhood he had fought, always
unfairly, so that he knew all the tricks of street fighting. During the past
year there had been added to Billy's natural fighting ability and instinct a
knowledge of the scientific end of the sport. The result was something
appalling--to the gink from Twelfth Street.
Before he knew
whether his shot had killed Billy his gun had been wrenched from his hand a=
nd
flung across the street; he was down on the granite with a hand as hard as =
the
paving block scrambling his facial attractions beyond hope of recall.
By this time
Patrolman Lasky had staggered to his feet, and most opportunely at that, for
the man whom Billy had dazed with the club was recovering. Lasky promptly p=
ut
him to sleep with the butt of the gun that he had been unable to draw when
first attacked, then he turned to assist Billy. But it was not Billy who ne=
eded
assistance--it was the gentleman from Bohemia. With difficulty Lasky dragged
Billy from his prey.
"Leave enoug=
h of
him for the inquest," pleaded Lasky.
When the wagon
arrived Billy had disappeared, but Lasky had recognized him and thereafter =
the
two had nodded pleasantly to each other upon such occasions as they chanced=
to
meet upon the street.
Two years elapsed
before the event transpired which proved a crisis in Billy's life. During t=
his
period his existence had been much the same as before. He had collected what
was coming to him from careless and less muscular citizens. He had helped to
stick up a half-dozen saloons. He had robbed the night men in two elevated
stations, and for a while had been upon the pay-roll of a certain union and
done strong arm work in all parts of the city for twenty-five dollars a wee=
k.
By day he was a
general utility man about Larry Hilmore's boxing academy, and time and time
again Hilmore urged him to quit drinking and live straight, for he saw in t=
he
young giant the makings of a great heavy-weight; but Billy couldn't leave t=
he
booze alone, and so the best that he got was an occasional five spot for
appearing in preliminary bouts with third- and fourth-rate heavies and
has-beens; but during the three years that he had hung about Hilmore's he h=
ad
acquired an enviable knowledge of the manly art of self-defense.
On the night that
things really began to happen in the life of Billy Byrne that estimable
gentleman was lolling in front of a saloon at the corner of Lake and Robey.=
The
dips that congregated nightly there under the protection of the powerful
politician who owned the place were commencing to assemble. Billy knew them
all, and nodded to them as they passed him. He noted surprise in the faces =
of
several as they saw him standing there. He wondered what it was all about, =
and
determined to ask the next man who evinced even mute wonderment at his pres=
ence
what was eating him.
Then Billy saw a
harness bull strolling toward him from the east. It was Lasky. When Lasky s=
aw
Billy he too opened his eyes in surprise, and when he came quite close to t=
he
mucker he whispered something to him, though he kept his eyes straight ahea=
d as
though he had not seen Billy at all.
In deference to t=
he
whispered request Billy presently strolled around the corner toward Walnut
Street, but at the alley back of the saloon he turned suddenly in. A hundred
yards up the alley he found Lasky in the shadow of a telephone pole.
"Wotinell are
you doin' around here?" asked the patrolman. "Didn't you know that
Sheehan had peached?"
Two nights before=
old
man Schneider, goaded to desperation by the repeated raids upon his cash
drawer, had shown fight when he again had been invited to elevate his hands,
and the holdup men had shot him through the heart. Sheehan had been arreste=
d on
suspicion.
Billy had not been
with Sheehan that night. As a matter of fact he never had trained with him,
for, since the boyish battle that the two had waged, there had always been =
ill
feeling between them; but with Lasky's words Billy knew what had happened. =
"Sheehan say=
s I
done it, eh?" he questioned.
"That's what=
he
says."
"I wasn't wi=
thin
a mile of Schneider's that night," protested Billy.
"The Lieut
thinks different," said Lasky. "He'd be only too glad to soak you;
for you've always been too slick to get nicked before. Orders is out to get
you, and if I were you I'd beat it and beat it quick. I don't have to tell =
you
why I'm handing you this, but it's all I can do for you. Now take my advice=
and
make yourself scarce, though you'll have to go some to make your get-away
now--every man on the force has your description by this time."
Billy turned with=
out
a word and walked east in the alley toward Lincoln Street. Lasky returned to
Robey Street. In Lincoln Street Billy walked north to Kinzie. Here he enter=
ed
the railroad yards. An hour later he was bumping out of town toward the Wes=
t on
a fast freight. Three weeks later he found himself in San Francisco. He had=
no
money, but the methods that had so often replenished his depleted exchequer=
at
home he felt would serve the same purpose here.
Being unfamiliar =
with
San Francisco, Billy did not know where best to work, but when by accident =
he
stumbled upon a street where there were many saloons whose patrons were
obviously seafaring men Billy was distinctly elated. What could be better f=
or
his purpose than a drunken sailor?
He entered one of=
the
saloons and stood watching a game of cards, or thus he seemed to be occupie=
d.
As a matter of fact his eyes were constantly upon the alert, roving about t=
he
room to wherever a man was in the act of paying for a round of drinks that a
fat wallet might be located.
Presently one that
filled him with longing rewarded his careful watch. The man was sitting at a
table a short distance from Billy. Two other men were with him. As he paid =
the
waiter from a well-filled pocketbook he looked up to meet Billy's eyes upon
him.
With a drunken sm=
ile
he beckoned to the mucker to join them. Billy felt that Fate was overkind to
him, and he lost no time in heeding her call. A moment later he was sitting=
at
the table with the three sailors, and had ordered a drop of red-eye.
The stranger was =
very
lavish in his entertainment. He scarcely waited for Billy to drain one glass
before he ordered another, and once after Billy had left the table for a mo=
ment
he found a fresh drink awaiting him when he returned--his host had already
poured it for him.
It was this last
drink that did the business.
WHEN Billy opened=
his
eyes again he could not recall, for the instant, very much of his recent pa=
st.
At last he remembered with painful regret the drunken sailor it had been his
intention to roll. He felt deeply chagrined that his rightful prey should h=
ave
escaped him. He couldn't understand how it had happened.
"This Frisco
booze must be something fierce," thought Billy.
His head ached
frightfully and he was very sick. So sick that the room in which he lay see=
med
to be rising and falling in a horribly realistic manner. Every time it drop=
ped
it brought Billy's stomach nearly to his mouth.
Billy shut his ey=
es.
Still the awful sensation. Billy groaned. He never had been so sick in all =
his
life before, and, my, how his poor head did hurt. Finding that it only seem=
ed
to make matters worse when he closed his eyes Billy opened them again.
He looked about t=
he
room in which he lay. He found it a stuffy hole filled with bunks in tiers
three deep around the sides. In the center of the room was a table. Above t=
he
table a lamp hung suspended from one of the wooden beams of the ceiling.
The lamp arrested
Billy's attention. It was swinging back and forth rather violently. This co=
uld
not be a hallucination. The room might seem to be rising and falling, but t=
hat
lamp could not seem to be swinging around in any such manner if it were not
really and truly swinging. He couldn't account for it. Again he shut his ey=
es
for a moment. When he opened them to look again at the lamp he found it sti=
ll
swung as before.
Cautiously he slid
from his bunk to the floor. It was with difficulty that he kept his feet. S=
till
that might be but the effects of the liquor. At last he reached the table to
which he clung for support while he extended one hand toward the lamp.
There was no long=
er
any doubt! The lamp was beating back and forth like the clapper of a great
bell. Where was he? Billy sought a window. He found some little round,
glass-covered holes near the low ceiling at one side of the room. It was on=
ly
at the greatest risk to life and limb that he managed to crawl on all fours=
to
one of them.
As he straightene=
d up
and glanced through he was appalled at the sight that met his eyes. As far =
as
he could see there was naught but a tumbling waste of water. And then the t=
ruth
of what had happened to him broke upon his understanding.
"An' I was g=
oin'
to roll that guy!" he muttered in helpless bewilderment. "I was a=
-goin'
to roll him, and now look here wot he has done to me!"
At that moment a
light appeared above as the hatch was raised, and Billy saw the feet and le=
gs
of a large man descending the ladder from above. When the newcomer reached =
the
floor and turned to look about his eyes met Billy's, and Billy saw that it =
was
his host of the previous evening.
"Well, my
hearty, how goes it?" asked the stranger.
"You pulled =
it
off pretty slick," said Billy.
"What do you
mean?" asked the other with a frown.
"Come off,&q=
uot;
said Billy; "you know what I mean."
"Look
here," replied the other coldly. "Don't you forget that I'm mate =
of
this ship, an' that you want to speak respectful to me if you ain't lookin'=
for
trouble. My name's MR. Ward, an' when you speak to me say SIR. Understand?&=
quot;
Billy scratched h=
is
head, and blinked his eyes. He never before had been spoken to in any such
fashion--at least not since he had put on the avoirdupois of manhood. His h=
ead
ached horribly and he was sick to his stomach--frightfully sick. His mind w=
as
more upon his physical suffering than upon what the mate was saying, so that
quite a perceptible interval of time elapsed before the true dimensions of =
the
affront to his dignity commenced to percolate into the befogged and pain-ra=
cked
convolutions of his brain.
The mate thought =
that
his bluster had bluffed the new hand. That was what he had come below to
accomplish. Experience had taught him that an early lesson in discipline and
subordination saved unpleasant encounters in the future. He also had learned
that there is no better time to put a bluff of this nature across than when=
the
victim is suffering from the after-effects of whiskey and a drug--mentality,
vitality, and courage are then at their lowest ebb. A brave man often is
reduced to the pitiful condition of a yellow dog when nausea sits astride h=
is
stomach.
But the mate was =
not
acquainted with Billy Byrne of Kelly's gang. Billy's brain was befuddled, so
that it took some time for an idea to wriggle its way through, but his cour=
age
was all there, and all to the good. Billy was a mucker, a hoodlum, a gangst=
er,
a thug, a tough. When he fought, his methods would have brought a flush of
shame to the face of His Satanic Majesty. He had hit oftener from behind th=
an
from before. He had always taken every advantage of size and weight and num=
bers
that he could call to his assistance. He was an insulter of girls and women=
. He
was a bar-room brawler, and a saloon-corner loafer. He was all that was dir=
ty,
and mean, and contemptible, and cowardly in the eyes of a brave man, and ye=
t,
notwithstanding all this, Billy Byrne was no coward. He was what he was bec=
ause
of training and environment. He knew no other methods; no other code. Whate=
ver
the meager ethics of his kind he would have lived up to them to the death. =
He
never had squealed on a pal, and he never had left a wounded friend to fall
into the hands of the enemy--the police.
Nor had he ever l=
et a
man speak to him, as the mate had spoken, and get away with it, and so, whi=
le
he did not act as quickly as would have been his wont had his brain been cl=
ear,
he did act; but the interval of time had led the mate into an erroneous
conception of its cause, and into a further rash show of authority, and had
thrown him off his guard as well.
"What you
need," said the mate, advancing toward Billy, "is a bash on the
beezer. It'll help you remember that you ain't nothin' but a dirty damn
landlubber, an' when your betters come around you'll--"
But what Billy wo=
uld
have done in the presence of his betters remained stillborn in the mate's
imagination in the face of what Billy really did do to his better as that
worthy swung a sudden, vicious blow at the mucker's face.
Billy Byrne had n=
ot
been scrapping with third- and fourth-rate heavies, and sparring with real,
live ones for nothing. The mate's fist whistled through empty air; the
blear-eyed hunk of clay that had seemed such easy prey to him was metamorph=
osed
on the instant into an alert, catlike bundle of steel sinews, and Billy Byr=
ne
swung that awful right with the pile-driver weight, that even The Big Smoke
himself had acknowledged respect for, straight to the short ribs of his
antagonist.
With a screech of
surprise and pain the mate crumpled in the far corner of the forecastle, ra=
mmed
halfway beneath a bunk by the force of the terrific blow. Like a tiger Billy
Byrne was after him, and dragging the man out into the center of the floor
space he beat and mauled him until his victim's blood-curdling shrieks echo=
ed
through the ship from stem to stern.
When the captain,=
followed
by a half-dozen seamen rushed down the companionway, he found Billy sitting
astride the prostrate form of the mate. His great fingers circled the man's
throat, and with mighty blows he was dashing the fellow's head against the =
hard
floor. Another moment and murder would have been complete.
"Avast
there!" cried the captain, and as though to punctuate his remark he sw=
ung
the heavy stick he usually carried full upon the back of Billy's head. It w=
as
that blow that saved the mate's life, for when Billy came to he found himse=
lf
in a dark and smelly hole, chained and padlocked to a heavy stanchion.
They kept Billy t=
here
for a week; but every day the captain visited him in an attempt to show him=
the
error of his way. The medium used by the skipper for impressing his ideas of
discipline upon Billy was a large, hard stick. At the end of the week it was
necessary to carry Billy above to keep the rats from devouring him, for the
continued beatings and starvation had reduced him to little more than an
unconscious mass of raw and bleeding meat.
"There,"
remarked the skipper, as he viewed his work by the light of day, "I gu=
ess
that fellow'll know his place next time an officer an' a gentleman speaks to
him."
That Billy surviv=
ed
is one of the hitherto unrecorded miracles of the power of matter over mind=
. A
man of intellect, of imagination, a being of nerves, would have succumbed to
the shock alone; but Billy was not as these. He simply lay still and
thoughtless, except for half-formed ideas of revenge, until Nature, unaided,
built up what the captain had so ruthlessly torn down.
Ten days after th=
ey
brought him up from the hold Billy was limping about the deck of the Halfmo=
on
doing light manual labor. From the other sailors aboard he learned that he =
was
not the only member of the crew who had been shanghaied. Aside from a
half-dozen reckless men from the criminal classes who had signed voluntaril=
y,
either because they could not get a berth upon a decent ship, or desired to
flit as quietly from the law zone of the United States as possible, not a m=
an
was there who had been signed regularly.
They were as tough
and vicious a lot as Fate ever had foregathered in one forecastle, and with
them Billy Byrne felt perfectly at home. His early threats of awful vengean=
ce
to be wreaked upon the mate and skipper had subsided with the rough but
sensible advice of his messmates. The mate, for his part, gave no indicatio=
n of
harboring the assault that Billy had made upon him other than to assign the
most dangerous or disagreeable duties of the ship to the mucker whenever it=
was
possible to do so; but the result of this was to hasten Billy's nautical ed=
ucation,
and keep him in excellent physical trim.
All traces of alc=
ohol
had long since vanished from the young man's system. His face showed the
effects of his enforced abstemiousness in a marked degree. The red, puffy,
blotchy complexion had given way to a clear, tanned skin; bright eyes
supplanted the bleary, bloodshot things that had given the bestial expressi=
on
to his face in the past. His features, always regular and strong, had taken=
on
a peculiarly refined dignity from the salt air, the clean life, and the
dangerous occupation of the deep-sea sailor, that would have put Kelly's ga=
ng
to a pinch to have recognized their erstwhile crony had he suddenly appeare=
d in
their midst in the alley back of the feed-store on Grand Avenue.
With the new life
Billy found himself taking on a new character. He surprised himself singing=
at
his work--he whose whole life up to now had been devoted to dodging honest
labor--whose motto had been: The world owes me a living, and it's up to me =
to
collect it. Also, he was surprised to discover that he liked to work, that =
he
took keen pride in striving to outdo the men who worked with him, and this
spirit, despite the suspicion which the captain entertained of Billy since =
the
episode of the forecastle, went far to making his life more endurable on bo=
ard the
Halfmoon, for workers such as the mucker developed into are not to be sneez=
ed
at, and though he had little idea of subordination it was worth putting up =
with
something to keep him in condition to work. It was this line of reasoning t=
hat
saved Billy's skull on one or two occasions when his impudence had been
sufficient to have provoked the skipper to a personal assault upon him under
ordinary conditions; and Mr. Ward, having tasted of Billy's medicine once, =
had
no craving for another encounter with him that would entail personal confli=
ct.
The entire crew w=
as
made up of ruffians and unhung murderers, but Skipper Simms had had little
experience with seamen of any other ilk, so he handled them roughshod, using
his horny fist, and the short, heavy stick that he habitually carried, in l=
ieu
of argument; but with the exception of Billy the men all had served before =
the
mast in the past, so that ship's discipline was to some extent ingrained in
them all.
Enjoying his work, the life was not an unpleasant one for the mucker. The men of the forecastle were of the kind he had always known--there was no honor among them, no vir= tue, no kindliness, no decency. With them Billy was at home--he scarcely missed = the old gang. He made his friends among them, and his enemies. He picked quarre= ls, as had been his way since childhood. His science and his great strength, together with his endless stock of underhand tricks brought him out of each encounter with fresh laurels. Presently he found it difficult to pick a fight--his messmates had had enough of him. They left him severely alone. <= o:p>
These ofttimes bl=
oody
battles engendered no deep-seated hatred in the hearts of the defeated. They
were part of the day's work and play of the half-brutes that Skipper Simms =
had
gathered together. There was only one man aboard whom Billy really hated. T=
hat
was the passenger, and Billy hated him, not because of anything that the man
had said or done to Billy, for he had never even so much as spoken to the
mucker, but because of the fine clothes and superior air which marked him
plainly to Billy as one of that loathed element of society--a gentleman.
Billy hated
everything that was respectable. He had hated the smug, self-satisfied
merchants of Grand Avenue. He had writhed in torture at the sight of every
shiny, purring automobile that had ever passed him with its load of
well-groomed men and women. A clean, stiff collar was to Billy as a red rag=
to
a bull. Cleanliness, success, opulence, decency, spelled but one thing to
Billy--physical weakness; and he hated physical weakness. His idea of
indicating strength and manliness lay in displaying as much of brutality and
uncouthness as possible. To assist a woman over a mud hole would have seeme=
d to
Billy an acknowledgement of pusillanimity--to stick out his foot and trip h=
er
so that she sprawled full length in it, the hall-mark of bluff manliness. A=
nd
so he hated, with all the strength of a strong nature, the immaculate,
courteous, well-bred man who paced the deck each day smoking a fragrant cig=
ar
after his meals.
Inwardly he wonde=
red
what the dude was doing on board such a vessel as the Halfmoon, and marveled
that so weak a thing dared venture among real men. Billy's contempt caused =
him
to notice the passenger more than he would have been ready to admit. He saw
that the man's face was handsome, but there was an unpleasant shiftiness to=
his
brown eyes; and then, entirely outside of his former reasons for hating him,
Billy came to loathe him intuitively, as one who was not to be trusted. Fin=
ally
his dislike for the man became an obsession. He haunted, when discipline pe=
rmitted,
that part of the vessel where he would be most likely to encounter the obje=
ct
of his wrath, hoping, always hoping, that the "dude" would give h=
im
some slight pretext for "pushing in his mush," as Billy would so
picturesquely have worded it.
He was loitering
about the deck for this purpose one evening when he overheard part of a
low-voiced conversation between the object of his wrath and Skipper Simms--=
just
enough to set him to wondering what was doing, and to show him that whateve=
r it
might be it was crooked and that the immaculate passenger and Skipper Simms
were both "in on it."
He questioned
"Bony" Sawyer and "Red" Sanders, but neither had nearly=
as much
information as Billy himself, and so the Halfmoon came to Honolulu and lay =
at
anchor some hundred yards from a stanch, trim, white yacht, and none knew,
other than the Halfmoon's officers and her single passenger, the real missi=
on
of the harmless-looking little brigantine.
NO SHORE leave was
granted the crew of the Halfmoon while the vessel lay off Honolulu, and deep
and ominous were the grumblings of the men. Only First Officer Ward and the
second mate went ashore. Skipper Simms kept the men busy painting and
holystoning as a vent for their pent emotions.
Billy Byrne notic=
ed
that the passenger had abandoned his daylight strolls on deck. In fact he n=
ever
once left his cabin while the Halfmoon lay at anchor until darkness had fal=
len;
then he would come on deck, often standing for an hour at a time with eyes
fastened steadily upon the brave little yacht from the canopied upper deck =
of
which gay laughter and soft music came floating across the still water.
When Mr. Ward and=
the
second mate came to shore a strange thing happened. They entered a third-ra=
te
hotel near the water front, engaged a room for a week, paid in advance, wer=
e in
their room for half an hour and emerged clothed in civilian raiment.
Then they hastene=
d to
another hostelry--a first-class one this time, and the second mate walked a=
head
in frock coat and silk hat while Mr. Ward trailed behind in a neat, blue se=
rge
sack suit, carrying both bags.
At the second hot=
el
the second mate registered as Henri Theriere, Count de Cadenet, and servant,
France. His first act thereafter was to hand a note to the clerk asking tha=
t it
be dispatched immediately. The note was addressed to Anthony Harding, Esq.,=
On
Board Yacht Lotus.
Count de Cadenet =
and
his servant repaired immediately to the count's rooms, there to await an an=
swer
to the note. Henri Theriere, the second officer of the Halfmoon, in frock c=
oat
and silk hat looked every inch a nobleman and a gentleman. What his past had
been only he knew, but his polished manners, his knowledge of navigation and
seamanship, and his leaning toward the ways of the martinet in his dealings
with the men beneath him had led Skipper Simms to assume that he had once h=
eld a
commission in the French Navy, from which he doubtless had been kicked--in
disgrace.
The man was cold,
cruel, of a moody disposition, and quick to anger. He had been signed as se=
cond
officer for this cruise through the intervention of Divine and Clinker. He =
had
sailed with Simms before, but the skipper had found him too hard a customer=
to
deal with, and had been on the point of seeking another second when Divine =
and
Clinker discovered him on board the Halfmoon and after ten minutes'
conversation with him found that he fitted so perfectly into their scheme of
action that they would not hear of Simms' releasing him.
Ward had little u=
se
for the Frenchman, whose haughty manner and condescending airs grated on th=
e sensibilities
of the uncouth and boorish first officer. The duty which necessitated him
acting in the capacity of Theriere's servant was about as distasteful to hi=
m as
anything could be, and only served to add to his hatred for the inferior, w=
ho,
in the bottom of his heart, he knew to be in every way, except upon the ros=
ter
of the Halfmoon, his superior; but money can work wonders, and Divine's pro=
mise
that the officers and crew of the Halfmoon would have a cool million United
States dollars to divide among them in case of the success of the venture h=
ad
quite effectually overcome any dislike which Mr. Ward had felt for this
particular phase of his duty.
The two officers =
sat
in silence in their room at the hotel awaiting an answer to the note they h=
ad
dispatched to Anthony Harding, Esq. The parts they were to act had been
carefully rehearsed on board the Halfmoon many times. Each was occupied with
his own thoughts, and as they had nothing in common outside the present
rascality that had brought them together, and as that subject was one not w=
ell
to discuss more than necessary, there seemed no call for conversation.
On board the yach=
t in
the harbor preparations were being made to land a small party that contempl=
ated
a motor trip up the Nuuanu Valley when a small boat drew alongside, and a
messenger from the hotel handed a sealed note to one of the sailors.
From the deck of =
the
Halfmoon Skipper Simms witnessed the transaction, smiling inwardly. Billy B=
yrne
also saw it, but it meant nothing to him. He had been lolling upon the deck=
of
the brigantine glaring at the yacht Lotus, hating her and the gay, well-dre=
ssed
men and women he could see laughing and chatting upon her deck. They
represented to him the concentrated essence of all that was pusillanimous,
disgusting, loathsome in that other world that was as far separated from hi=
m as
though he had been a grubworm in the manure pile back of Brady's livery sta=
ble.
He saw the note
handed by the sailor to a gray-haired, smooth-faced man--a large, sleek,
well-groomed man. Billy could imagine the white hands and polished nails of
him. The thought was nauseating.
The man who took =
and
opened the note was Anthony Harding, Esq. He read it, and then passed it to=
a
young woman who stood near-by talking with other young people.
"Here,
Barbara," he said, "is something of more interest to you than to =
me.
If you wish I'll call upon him and invite him to dinner tonight."
The girl was read=
ing
the note.
Anthony Harding, Esq.
On Board Yacht Lo=
tus,
Honolulu
My dear Mr. Hardi=
ng:
This will introdu=
ce a
very dear friend of mine, Count de Cadenet, who expects to be in Honolulu a=
bout
the time that you are there. The count is traveling for pleasure, and as he=
is
entirely unacquainted upon the islands any courtesies which you may show him
will be greatly appreciated.
Cordially,
L. CORTWRITE
DIVINE.
The girl smiled as
she finished perusing the note.
"Larry is al=
ways
picking up titles and making dear friends of them," she laughed. "=
;I
wonder where he found this one."
"Or where th=
is
one found him," suggested Mr. Harding. "Well, I suppose that the
least we can do is to have him aboard for dinner. We'll be leaving tomorrow=
, so
there won't be much entertaining we can do."
"Let's pick =
him
up on our way through town now," suggested Barbara Harding, "and =
take
him with us for the day. That will be settling our debt to friendship, and
dinner tonight can depend upon what sort of person we find the count to
be."
"As you
will," replied her father, and so it came about that two big touring c=
ars
drew up before the Count de Cadenet's hotel half an hour later, and Anthony
Harding, Esq., entered and sent up his card.
The "count&q=
uot;
came down in person to greet his caller. Harding saw at a glance that the m=
an
was a gentleman, and when he had introduced him to the other members of the
party it was evident that they appraised him quite as had their host. Barba=
ra
Harding seemed particularly taken with the Count de Cadenet, insisting that=
he
join those who occupied her car, and so it was that the second officer of t=
he
Halfmoon rode out of Honolulu in pleasant conversation with the object of h=
is
visit to the island.
Barbara Harding f=
ound
De Cadenet an interesting man. There was no corner of the globe however rem=
ote
with which he was not to some degree familiar. He was well read, and posses=
sed
the ability to discuss what he had read intelligently and entertainingly. T=
here
was no evidence of moodiness in him now. He was the personification of
affability, for was he not monopolizing the society of a very beautiful, and
very wealthy young lady?
The day's outing =
had
two significant results. It put into the head of the second mate of the
Halfmoon that which would have caused his skipper and the retiring Mr. Divi=
ne
acute mental perturbation could they have guessed it; and it put De Cadenet
into possession of information which necessitated his refusing the urgent
invitation to dine upon the yacht, Lotus, that evening--the information that
the party would sail the following morning en route to Manila.
"I cannot te=
ll
you," he said to Mr. Harding, "how much I regret the circumstance
that must rob me of the pleasure of accepting your invitation. Only absolute
necessity, I assure you, could prevent me being with you as long as possibl=
e,"
and though he spoke to the girl's father he looked directly into the eyes of
Barbara Harding.
A young woman of =
less
experience might have given some outward indication of the effect of this
speech upon her, but whether she was pleased or otherwise the Count de Cade=
net
could not guess, for she merely voiced the smiling regrets that courtesy
demanded.
They left De Cade=
net
at his hotel, and as he bid them farewell the man turned to Barbara Harding
with a low aside.
"I shall see=
you
again, Miss Harding," he said, "very, very soon."
She could not gue=
ss
what was in his mind as he voiced this rather, under the circumstances, unu=
sual
statement. Could she have, the girl would have been terror-stricken; but she
saw that in his eyes which she could translate, and she wondered many times
that evening whether she were pleased or angry with the message it conveyed=
.
The moment De Cad=
enet
entered the hotel he hurried to the room where the impatient Mr. Ward await=
ed
him.
"Quick!"=
; he
cried. "We must bundle out of here posthaste. They sail tomorrow morni=
ng.
Your duties as valet have been light and short-lived; but I can give you an
excellent recommendation should you desire to take service with another
gentleman."
"That'll be
about all of that, Mr. Theriere," snapped the first officer, coldly.
"I did not embark upon this theatrical enterprise for amusement--I see
nothing funny in it, and I wish you to remember that I am still your superi=
or
officer."
Theriere shrugged.
Ward did not chance to catch the ugly look in his companion's eye. Together
they gathered up their belongings, descended to the office, paid their bill,
and a few moments later were changing back to their sea clothes in the litt=
le
hotel where they first had engaged accommodations. Half an hour later they
stepped to the deck of the Halfmoon.
Billy Byrne saw t=
hem
from where he worked in the vicinity of the cabin. When they were not looki=
ng
he scowled maliciously at them. They were the personal representatives of
authority, and Billy hated authority in whatever guise it might be visited =
upon
him. He hated law and order and discipline.
"I'd like to
meet one of dem guys on Green Street some night," he thought.
He saw them enter=
the
captain's cabin with the skipper, and then he saw Mr. Divine join them. Bil=
ly
noted the haste displayed by the four and it set him to wondering. The scra=
p of
conversation between Divine and Simms that he had overheard returned to him=
. He
wanted to hear more, and as Billy was not handicapped by any overly refined
notions of the ethics which frown upon eavesdropping he lost no time in
transferring the scene of his labors to a point sufficiently close to one of
the cabin ports to permit him to note what took place within.
What the mucker b=
eard
of that conversation made him prick up his ears. He saw that something after
his own heart was doing--something crooked, and he wondered that so
pusillanimous a thing as Divine could have a hand in it. It almost changed =
his
estimate of the passenger of the Halfmoon.
The meeting broke=
up
so suddenly that Billy had to drop to his knees to escape the observation of
those within the cabin. As it was, Theriere, who had started to leave a sec=
ond
before the others, caught a fleeting glimpse of a face that quickly had been
withdrawn from the cabin skylight as though its owner were fearful of
detection.
Without a word to=
his
companions the Frenchman left the cabin, but once outside he bounded up the
companionway to the deck with the speed of a squirrel. Nor was he an instant
too soon, for as he emerged from below he saw the figure of a man disappear=
ing
forward.
"Hey there,
you!" he cried. "Come back here."
The mucker turned=
, a
sulky scowl upon his lowering countenance, and the second officer saw that =
it
was the fellow who had given Ward such a trimming the first day out.
"Oh, it's yo=
u is
it, Byrne?" he said in a not unpleasant tone. "Come to my quarter=
s a
moment, I want to speak with you," and so saying he wheeled about and
retraced his way below, the seaman at his heels.
"My man,&quo=
t;
said Theriere, once the two were behind the closed door of the officer's ca=
bin,
"I needn't ask how much you overheard of the conversation in the capta=
in's
cabin. If you hadn't overheard a great deal more than you should you wouldn=
't
have been so keen to escape detection just now. What I wanted to say to you=
is
this. Keep a close tongue in your head and stick by me in what's going to
happen in the next few days. This bunch," he jerked his thumb in the
direction of the captain's cabin, "are fixing their necks for halters,=
an'
I for one don't intend to poke my head through any noose of another man's
making. There's more in this thing if it's handled right, and handled witho=
ut too
many men in on the whack-up than we can get out of it if that man Divine ha=
s to
be counted in. I've a plan of my own, an' it won't take but three or four o=
f us
to put it across.
"You don't l=
ike
Ward," he continued, "and you may be almighty sure that Mr. Ward
ain't losing any sleep nights over love of you. If you stick to that bunch =
Ward
will do you out of your share as sure as you are a foot high, an' the chanc=
es
are that he'll do you out of a whole lot more besides--as a matter of fact,
Byrne, you're a mighty poor life insurance risk right now, with a life
expectancy that's pretty near minus as long as Bender Ward is on the same s=
hip
with you. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Aw," s=
aid
Billy Byrne, "I ain't afraid o' that stiff. Let him make any funny cra=
ck
at me an' I'll cave in a handful of slats for him--the piker."
"That's all
right too, Byrne," said Theriere. "Of course you can do it if any=
body
can, provided you get the chance; but Ward isn't the man to give you any
chance. There may be shooting necessary within the next day or so, and ther=
e's
nothing to prevent Ward letting you have it in the back, purely by accident;
and if he don't do it then there'll be all kinds of opportunities for it be=
fore
any of us ever see a white man's port again. He'll get you, Byrne, he's that
kind.
"Now, with my
proposition you'll be shut of Ward, Skipper Simms, and Divine. There'll be =
more
money in it for you, an' you won't have to go around expecting a bullet in =
the
small of your back every minute. What do you say? Are you game, or shall I =
have
to go back to Skipper Simms and Ward and tell them that I caught you eavesd=
ropping?"
"Oh, I'm
game," said Billy Byrne, "if you'll promise me a square deal on t=
he
divvy."
The Frenchman
extended his hand.
"Let's shake=
on
it," he said.
Billy took the
proffered palm in his.
"That's a
go," he said; "but hadn't you better wise me to wot's doin'?"=
;
"Not now,&qu=
ot;
said Theriere, "someone might overhear just as you did. Wait a bit unt=
il I
have a better opportunity, and I'll tell you all there is to know. In the
meantime think over who'd be the best men to let into this with us--we'll n=
eed
three or four more besides ourselves. Now go on deck about your duties as
though nothing had happened, and if I'm a bit rougher than usual with you
you'll understand that it's to avert any possible suspicion later."
"I'm next,&q=
uot;
said Billy Byrne.
BY DUSK the trim
little brigantine was scudding away toward the west before a wind that could
not have suited her better had it been made to order at the special behest =
of
the devil himself to speed his minions upon their devil's work.
All hands were in=
the
best of humor. The crew had forgotten their recent rancor at not having been
permitted shore leave at Honolulu in the expectancy of adventure in the near
future, for there was that in the atmosphere of the Halfmoon which proclaim=
ed
louder than words the proximity of excitement, and the goal toward which th=
ey
had been sailing since they left San Francisco.
Skipper Simms and
Divine were elated at the luck which had brought them to Honolulu in the ni=
ck
of time, and at the success of Theriere's mission at that port. They had
figured upon a week at least there before the second officer of the Halfmoon
could ingratiate himself sufficiently into the goodwill of the Hardings to
learn their plans, and now they were congratulating themselves upon their
acumen in selecting so fit an agent as the Frenchman for the work he had
handled so expeditiously and so well.
Ward was pleased =
that
he had not been forced to prolong the galling masquerade of valet to his
inferior officer. He was hopeful, too, that coming events would bring to the
fore an opportunity to satisfy the vengeance he had inwardly sworn against =
the
sailor who had so roughly manhandled him a few weeks past--Theriere had not
been in error in his estimate of his fellow-officer.
Billy Byrne, the
arduous labor of making sail over for the time, was devoting his energies to
the task of piecing out from what Theriere had told him and what he had
overheard outside the skipper's cabin some sort of explanation of the work
ahead.
As he pondered Th=
eriere's
proposition he saw the wisdom of it. It would give those interested a larger
amount of the booty for their share. Another feature of it was that it was
underhanded and that appealed strongly to the mucker. Now, if he could but
devise some scheme for double-crossing Theriere the pleasure and profit of =
the
adventure would be tripled.
It was this
proposition that was occupying his attention when he caught sight of
"Bony" Sawyer and "Red" Sanders emerging from the
forecastle. Billy Byrne hailed them.
When the mucker h=
ad
explained the possibilities of profit that were to be had by entering the
conspiracy aimed at Simms and Ward the two seamen were enthusiastically for=
it.
"Bony"
Sawyer suggested that the black cook, Blanco, was about the only other memb=
er
of the crew upon whom they could depend, and at Byrne's request
"Bony" promised to enlist the cooperation of the giant Ethiopian.=
From early mornin=
g of
the second day out of Honolulu keen eyes scanned the eastern horizon through
powerful glasses, until about two bells of the afternoon watch a slight smu=
dge
became visible about two points north of east. Immediately the course of the
Halfmoon was altered so that she bore almost directly north by west in an
effort to come safely into the course of the steamer which was seen rising
rapidly above the horizon.
The new course of=
the
brigantine was held as long as it seemed reasonably safe without danger of
being sighted under full sail by the oncoming vessel, then her head was bro=
ught
into the wind, and one by one her sails were lowered and furled, as the keen
eyes of Second Officer Theriere announced that there was no question but th=
at
the white hull in the distance was that of the steam pleasure yacht Lotus. =
Upon the deck of =
the
unsuspecting vessel a merry party laughed and chatted in happy ignorance of=
the
plotters in their path. It was nearly half an hour after the Halfmoon had c=
ome
to rest, drifting idly under bare poles, that the lookout upon the Lotus
sighted her.
"Sailin' ves=
sel
lyin' to, west half south," he shouted, "flyin' distress signals.=
"
In an instant gue=
sts
and crew had hurried to points of vantage where they might obtain unobstruc=
ted
view of the stranger, and take advantage of this break in the monotony of a
long sea voyage.
Anthony Harding w=
as
on the bridge with the captain, and both men had leveled their glasses upon=
the
distant ship.
"Can you make
her out?" asked the owner.
"She's a
brigantine," replied the officer, "and all that I can make out fr=
om
here would indicate that everything was shipshape about her. Her canvas is
neatly furled, and she is evidently well manned, for I can see a number of
figures above deck apparently engaged in watching us. I'll alter our course=
and
speak to her--we'll see what's wrong, and give her a hand if we can." =
"That's
right," replied Harding; "do anything you can for them."
A moment later he
joined his daughter and their guests to report the meager information he ha=
d.
"How
exciting," exclaimed Barbara Harding. "Of course it's not a real =
shipwreck,
but maybe it's the next thing to it. The poor souls may have been drifting
about here in the center of the Pacific without food or water for goodness
knows how many weeks, and now just think how they must be lifting their voi=
ces
in thanks to God for his infinite mercy in guiding us to them."
"If they've =
been
drifting for any considerable number of weeks without food or water,"
hazarded Billy Mallory, "about the only things they'll need'll be what=
we
didn't have the foresight to bring along--an undertaker and a preacher.&quo=
t;
"Don't be
horrid, Billy," returned Miss Harding. "You know perfectly well t=
hat
I didn't mean weeks--I meant days; and anyway they'll be grateful to us for
what we can do for them. I can scarcely wait to hear their story."
Billy Mallory was=
inspecting
the stranger through Mr. Harding's glass. Suddenly he gave an exclamation of
dismay.
"By
George!" he cried. "It is serious after all. That ship's afire. L=
ook,
Mr. Harding," and he passed the glass over to his host.
And sure enough, =
as
the owner of the Lotus found the brigantine again in the center of his lens=
he
saw a thin column of black smoke rising amidships; but what he did not see =
was
Mr. Ward upon the opposite side of the Halfmoon's cabin superintending the
burning by the black cook of a bundle of oily rags in an iron boiler.
"By Jove!&qu=
ot;
exclaimed Mr. Harding. "This is terrible. The poor devils are
panic-stricken. Look at 'em making for the boats!" and with that he da=
shed
back to the bridge to confer with his captain.
"Yes," =
said
that officer, "I noticed the smoke about the same time you did--funny =
it
wasn't apparent before. I've already signaled full speed ahead, and I've
instructed Mr. Foster to have the boats in readiness to lower away if we fi=
nd
that they're short of boats on the brigantine.
"What I can't
understand," he added after a moment's silence, "is why they didn=
't
show any signs of excitement about that fire until we came within easy sigh=
t of
them--it looks funny."
"Well, we'll
know in a few minutes more," returned Mr. Harding. "The chances a=
re
that the fire is just a recent addition to their predicament, whatever it m=
ay
be, and that they have only just discovered it themselves."
"Then it can=
't
have gained enough headway," insisted the captain, "to cause them=
any
such immediate terror as would be indicated by the haste with which the who=
le
ship's crew is tumbling into those boats; but as you say, sir, we'll have t=
heir
story out of them in a few minutes now, so it's idle speculating
beforehand."
The officers and =
men
of the Halfmoon, in so far as those on board the Lotus could guess, had all
entered the boats at last, and were pulling frantically away from their own
ship toward the rapidly nearing yacht; but what they did not guess and could
not know was that Mr. Divine paced nervously to and fro in his cabin, while
Second Officer Theriere tended the smoking rags that Ward and Blanco had
resigned to him that they might take their places in the boats.
Theriere had been
greatly disgusted with the turn events had taken for he had determined upon=
a
line of action that he felt sure would prove highly remunerative to himself=
. It
had been nothing less than a bold resolve to call Blanco, Byrne,
"Bony," and "Red" to his side the moment Simms and Ward
revealed the true purpose of their ruse to those on board the Lotus, and wi=
th
his henchmen take sides with the men of the yacht against his former
companions.
As he had explain=
ed
it to Billy Byrne the idea was to permit Mr. Harding to believe that Therie=
re
and his companions had been duped by Skipper Simms--that they had had no id=
ea
of the work that they were to be called upon to perform until the last mome=
nt
and that then they had done the only thing they could to protect the passen=
gers
and crew of the Lotus.
"And then,&q=
uot;
Theriere had concluded, "when they think we are a band of heroes, and =
the
best friends they have on earth we'll just naturally be in a position to gr=
ab
the whole lot of them, and collect ransoms on ten or fifteen instead of just
one."
"Bully!"
exclaimed the mucker. "You sure got some bean, mate."
As a matter of fa= ct Theriere had had no intention of carrying the matter as far as he had intim= ated to Billy except as a last resort. He had been mightily smitten by the face = and fortune of Barbara Harding and had seen in the trend of events a possible opportunity of so deeply obligating her father and herself that when he paid court to her she might fall a willing victim to his wiles. In this case he would be obliged to risk nothing, and could make away with his accomplices = by explaining to Mr. Harding that he had been compelled to concoct this other scheme to obtain their assistance against Simms and Ward; then they could t= hrow the three into irons and all would be lovely; but now that fool Ward had up= set the whole thing by hitting upon this asinine fire hoax as an excuse for boarding the Lotus in force, and had further dampened Theriere's pet scheme= by suggesting to Skipper Simms the danger of Theriere being recognized as they were boarding the Lotus and bringing suspicion upon them all immediately. <= o:p>
They all knew tha=
t a
pleasure yacht like the Lotus was well supplied with small arms, and that at
the first intimation of danger there would be plenty of men aboard to repel
assault, and, in all probability, with entire success.
That there were
excellent grounds for Theriere's belief that he could win Barbara Harding's
hand with such a flying start as his daring plan would have assured him may=
not
be questioned, for the man was cultivated, polished and, in a sinister way,
good-looking. The title that he had borne upon the occasion of his visit to=
the
yacht, was, all unknown to his accomplices, his by right of birth, so that
there was nothing other than a long-dead scandal in the French Navy that mi=
ght have
proved a bar to an affiance such as he dreamed of. And now to be thwarted at
the last moment! It was unendurable. That pig of a Ward had sealed his own
death warrant, of that Theriere was convinced.
The boats were now
quite close to the yacht, which had slowed down almost to a dead stop. In
answer to the query of the Lotus' captain Skipper Simms was explaining their
trouble.
"I'm Captain
Jones," he shouted, "of the brigantine Clarinda, Frisco to Yokoha=
ma
with dynamite. We disabled our rudder yesterday, an' this afternoon fire
started in the hold. It's makin' headway fast now, an'll reach the dynamite
most any time. You'd better take us aboard, an' get away from here as quick=
as
you can. 'Tain't safe nowhere within five hun'erd fathom of her."
"You'd better
make haste, Captain, hadn't you?" suggested Mr. Harding.
"I don't like
the looks of things, sir," replied that officer. "She ain't flyin'
any dynamite flag, an' if she was an' had a hold full there wouldn't be any
particular danger to us, an' anyone that has ever shipped dynamite would kn=
ow
it, or ought to. It's not fire that detonates dynamite, it's concussion. No
sir, Mr. Harding, there's something queer here--I don't like the looks of i=
t.
Why just take a good look at the faces of those men. Did you ever see such =
an
ugly-looking pack of unhung murderers in your life, sir?"
"I must admit
that they're not an overly prepossessing crowd, Norris," replied Mr.
Harding. "But it's not always either fair or safe to judge strangers
entirely by appearances. I'm afraid that there's nothing else for it in the
name of common humanity than to take them aboard, Norris. I'm sure your fea=
rs
are entirely groundless."
"Then it's y=
our
orders, sir, to take them aboard?" asked Captain Norris.
"Yes, Captai=
n, I
think you'd better," said Mr. Harding.
"Very good,
sir," replied the officer, turning to give the necessary commands.
The officers and =
men
of the Halfmoon swarmed up the sides of the Lotus, dark-visaged, fierce, and
forbidding.
"Reminds me =
of a
boarding party of pirates," remarked Billy Mallory, as he watched Blan=
co,
the last to throw a leg over the rail, reach the deck.
"They're not
very pretty, are they?" murmured Barbara Harding, instinctively shrink=
ing
closer to her companion.
"'Pretty'
scarcely describes them, Barbara," said Billy; "and do you know t=
hat
somehow I am having difficulty in imagining them on their knees giving up
thanks to the Lord for their rescue--that was your recent idea of 'em, you =
will
recall."
"If you have
purposely set yourself the task of being more than ordinarily disagreeable
today, Billy," said Barbara sweetly, "I'm sure it will please you=
to
know that you are succeeding."
"I'm glad I'm
successful at something then," laughed the man. "I've certainly b=
een
unsuccessful enough in another matter."
"What, for
example?" asked Barbara, innocently.
"Why in tryi=
ng
to make myself so agreeable heretofore that you'd finally consent to say 'y=
es'
for a change."
"Now you are
going to make it all the worse by being stupid," cried the girl
petulantly. "Why can't you be nice, as you used to be before you got t=
his
silly notion into your head?"
"I don't thi=
nk
it's a silly notion to be head over heels in love with the sweetest girl on
earth," cried Billy.
"Hush! Someo=
ne
will hear you."
"I don't car=
e if
they do. I'd like to advertise it to the whole world. I'm proud of the fact
that I love you; and you don't care enough about it to realize how really h=
ard
I'm hit--why I'd die for you, Barbara, and welcome the chance; why--My God!
What's that?"
"O Billy! Wh=
at
are those men doing?" cried the girl. "They're shooting. They're
shooting at papa! Quick, Billy! Do something. For heaven's sake do
something."
On the deck below
them the "rescued" crew of the "Clarinda" had surrounded
Mr. Harding, Captain Norris, and most of the crew of the Lotus, flashing
quick-drawn revolvers from beneath shirts and coats, and firing at two of t=
he
yacht's men who showed fight.
"Keep
quiet," commanded Skipper Simms, "an' there won't none of you get=
hurted."
"What do you
want of us?" cried Mr. Harding. "If it's money, take what you can
find aboard us, and go on your way. No one will hinder you."
Skipper Simms pai=
d no
attention to him. His eyes swept aloft to the upper deck. There he saw a
wide-eyed girl and a man looking down upon them. He wondered if she was the=
one
they sought. There were other women aboard. He could see them, huddled
frightened behind Harding and Norris. Some of them were young and beautiful;
but there was something about the girl above him that assured him she could=
be
none other than Barbara Harding. To discover the truth Simms resorted to a
ruse, for he knew that were he to ask Harding outright if the girl were his
daughter the chances were more than even that the old man would suspect
something of the nature of their visit and deny her identity.
"Who is that
woman you have on board here?" he cried in an accusing tone of voice.
"That's what we're a-here to find out."
"Why she's my
daughter, man!" blurted Harding. "Who did you--"
"Thanks,&quo=
t;
said Skipper Simms, with a self-satisfied grin. "That's what I wanted =
to
be sure of. Hey, you, Byrne! You're nearest the companionway--fetch the
girl."
At the command the
mucker turned and leaped up the stairway to the upper deck. Billy Mallory h=
ad
overheard the conversation below and Simms' command to Byrne. Disengaging
himself from Barbara Harding who in her terror had clutched his arm, he ran
forward to the head of the stairway.
The men of the Lo=
tus
looked on in mute and helpless rage. All were covered by the guns of the
boarding party--the still forms of two of their companions bearing eloquent
witness to the slenderness of provocation necessary to tighten the trigger
fingers of the beasts standing guard over them.
Billy Byrne never
hesitated in his rush for the upper deck. The sight of the man awaiting him
above but whetted his appetite for battle. The trim flannels, the white sho=
es,
the natty cap, were to the mucker as sufficient cause for justifiable homic=
ide
as is an orange ribbon in certain portions of the West Side of Chicago on S=
t.
Patrick's Day. As were "Remember the Alamo," and "Remember t=
he
Maine" to the fighting men of the days that they were live things so w=
ere
the habiliments of gentility to Billy Byrne at all times.
Billy Mallory was=
an
older man than the mucker--twenty-four perhaps--and fully as large. For four
years he had played right guard on a great eastern team, and for three he h=
ad
pulled stroke upon the crew. During the two years since his graduation he h=
ad
prided himself upon the maintenance of the physical supremacy that had made=
the
name of Mallory famous in collegiate athletics; but in one vital essential =
he
was hopelessly handicapped in combat with such as Billy Byrne, for Mallory =
was
a gentleman.
As the mucker rus=
hed
upward toward him Mallory had all the advantage of position and preparednes=
s,
and had he done what Billy Byrne would have done under like circumstances he
would have planted a kick in the midst of the mucker's facial beauties with=
all
the power and weight and energy at his command; but Billy Mallory could no =
more
have perpetrated a cowardly trick such as this than he could have struck a
woman.
Instead, he waite=
d,
and as the mucker came on an even footing with him Mallory swung a vicious
right for the man's jaw. Byrne ducked beneath the blow, came up inside
Mallory's guard, and struck him three times with trip-hammer velocity and
pile-driver effectiveness--once upon the jaw and twice--below the belt!
The girl, clingin=
g to
the rail, riveted by the paralysis of fright, saw her champion stagger back=
and
half crumple to the deck. Then she saw him make a brave and desperate rally,
as, though torn with agony, he lurched forward in an endeavor to clinch with
the brute before him. Again the mucker struck his victim--quick choppy hooks
that rocked Mallory's head from side to side, and again the brutal blow bel=
ow
the belt; but with the tenacity of a bulldog the man fought for a hold upon=
his
foe, and at last, notwithstanding Byrne's best efforts, he succeeded in clo=
sing
with the mucker and dragging him to the deck.
Here the two men
rolled and tumbled, Byrne biting, gouging, and kicking while Mallory devoted
all of his fast-waning strength to an effort to close his fingers upon the
throat of his antagonist. But the terrible punishment which the mucker had
inflicted upon him overcame him at last, and as Byrne felt the man's efforts
weakening he partially disengaged himself and raising himself upon one arm
dealt his now almost unconscious enemy a half-dozen frightful blows upon the
face.
With a shriek Bar=
bara
Harding turned from the awful sight as Billy Mallory's bloody and swollen e=
yes
rolled up and set, while the mucker threw the inert form roughly from him.
Quick to the girl's memory sprang Mallory's recent declaration, which she h=
ad
thought at the time but the empty, and vainglorious boasting of the man in
love--"Why I'd die for you, Barbara, and welcome the chance!"
"Poor boy! H=
ow
soon, and how terribly has the chance come!" moaned the girl.
Then a rough hand
fell upon her arm.
"Here,
youse," a coarse voice yelled in her ear. "Come out o' de trance,=
"
and at the same time she was jerked roughly toward the companionway.
Instinctively the
girl held back, and then the mucker, true to his training, true to himself,
gave her arm a sudden twist that wrenched a scream of agony from her white
lips.
"Den come
along," growled Billy Byrne, "an' quit dis monkey business, or I'=
ll
sure twist yer flipper clean off'n yeh."
With an oath, Ant=
hony
Harding sprang forward to protect his daughter; but the butt of Ward's pist=
ol
brought him unconscious to the deck.
"Go easy the=
re,
Byrne," shouted Skipper Simms; "there ain't no call to injure the
hussy--a corpse won't be worth nothing to us."
In mute terror the
girl now permitted herself to be led to the deck below. Quickly she was low=
ered
into a waiting boat. Then Skipper Simms ordered Ward to search the yacht and
remove all firearms, after which he was to engage himself to navigate the
vessel with her own crew under armed guard of half a dozen of the Halfmoon's
cutthroats.
These things atte=
nded
to, Skipper Simms with the balance of his own crew and six of the crew of t=
he
Lotus to take the places upon the brigantine of those left as a prize crew
aboard the yacht returned with the girl to the Halfmoon.
The sailing vesse=
l's
sails were soon hoisted and trimmed, and in half an hour, followed by the
Lotus, she was scudding briskly southward. For forty-eight hours this course
was held until Simms felt assured that they were well out of the lane of
regular trans-Pacific traffic.
During this time
Barbara Harding had been kept below, locked in a small, untidy cabin. She h=
ad
seen no one other than a great Negro who brought her meals to her three tim=
es
daily--meals that she returned scarcely touched.
Now the Halfmoon =
was
brought up into the wind where she lay with flapping canvas while Skipper S=
imms
returned to the Lotus with the six men of the yacht's crew that he had brou=
ght
aboard the brigantine with him two days before, and as many more of his own
men.
Once aboard the L=
otus
the men were put to work with those already on the yacht. The boat's rudder=
was
unshipped and dropped into the ocean; her fires were put out; her engines w=
ere
attacked with sledges until they were little better than so much junk, and =
to
make the slender chances of pursuit that remained to her entirely nil every
ounce of coal upon her was shoveled into the Pacific. Her extra masts and s=
pare
sails followed the way of the coal and the rudder, so that when Skipper Sim=
ms
and First Officer Ward left her with their own men that had been aboard her=
she
was little better than a drifting derelict.
From her cabin wi=
ndow
Barbara Harding had witnessed the wanton wrecking of her father's yacht, and
when it was over and the crew of the brigantine had returned to their own s=
hip
she presently felt the movement of the vessel as it got under way, and soon=
the
Lotus dropped to the stern and beyond the range of her tiny port. With a mo=
an
of hopelessness and terror the girl sank prostrate across the hard berth th=
at
spanned one end of her prison cell.
How long she lay
there she did not know, but finally she was aroused by the opening of her c=
abin
door. As she sprang to her feet ready to defend herself against what she fe=
lt
might easily be some new form of danger her eyes went wide in astonishment =
as
they rested on the face of the man who stood framed in the doorway of her
cabin.
"You?" =
she
cried.
"YES, Barbar=
a,
it is I," said Mr. Divine; "and thank God that I am here to do wh=
at
little any man may do against this band of murdering pirates."
"But,
Larry," cried the girl, in evident bewilderment, "how did you com=
e to
be aboard this ship? How did you get here? What are you doing amongst such =
as
these?"
"I am a
prisoner," replied the man, "just as are you. I think they intend
holding us for ransom. They got me in San Francisco. Slugged me and hustled=
me
aboard the night before they sailed."
"Where are t=
hey
going to take us?" she asked.
"I do not
know," he replied, "although from something I have overheard of t=
heir
conversations I imagine that they have in mind some distant island far from=
the
beaten track of commerce. There are thousands such in the Pacific that are
visited by vessels scarce once in a century. There they will hold us until =
they
can proceed with the ship to some point where they can get into communicati=
on
with their agents in the States. When the ransom is paid over to these agen=
ts
they will return for us and land us upon some other island where our friends
can find us, or leaving us where we can divulge the location of our whereab=
outs
to those who pay the ransom."
The girl had been
looking intently at Mr. Divine during their conversation.
"They cannot
have treated you very badly, Larry," she said. "You are as well
groomed and well fed, apparently, as ever."
A slight flush
mounting to the man's face made the girl wonder a bit though it aroused no
suspicion in her mind.
"Oh, no,&quo=
t;
he hastened to assure her, "they have not treated me at all badly--why
should they? If I die they can collect no ransom on me. It is the same with
you, Barbara, so I think you need apprehend no harsh treatment."
"I hope you =
are
right, Larry," she said, but the hopelessness of her air rather belied=
any
belief that aught but harm could come from captivity with such as those who
officered and manned the Halfmoon.
"It seems so
remarkable," she went on, "that you should be a prisoner upon the
same boat. I cannot understand it. Why only a few days ago we received and
entertained a friend of yours who brought a letter from you to papa--the Co=
unt de
Cadenet."
Again that tellta=
le
flush mantled the man's cheek. He cursed himself inwardly for his lack of
self-control. The girl would have his whole secret out of him in another
half-hour if he were not more careful.
"They made m=
e do
that," he said, jerking his thumb in the general direction of Skipper
Simms' cabin. "Maybe that accounts for their bringing me along. The 'C=
ount
de Cadenet' is a fellow named Theriere, second mate of this ship. They sent=
him
to learn your plans; when you expected sailing from Honolulu and your cours=
e.
They are all crooks and villains. If I hadn't done as they bid they would h=
ave
killed me."
The girl made no
comment, but Divine saw the contempt in her face.
"I didn't kn=
ow
that they were going to do this. If I had I'd have died before I'd have wri=
tten
that note," he added rather lamely.
The girl was sudd=
enly
looking very sad. She was thinking of Billy Mallory who had died in an effo=
rt
to save her. The mental comparison she was making between him and Mr. Divine
was not overly flattering to the latter gentleman.
"They killed
poor Billy," she said at last. "He tried to protect me."
Then Mr. Divine
understood the trend of her thoughts. He tried to find some excuse for his
cowardly act; but with the realization of the true cowardliness and treache=
ry
of it that the girl didn't even guess he understood the futility of seeking=
to
extenuate it. He saw that the chances were excellent that after all he woul=
d be
compelled to resort to force or threats to win her hand at the last.
"Billy would
have done better to have bowed to the inevitable as I did," he said.
"Living I am able to help you now. Dead I could not have prevented them
carrying out their intentions any more than Billy has, nor could I have been
here to aid you now any more than he is. I cannot see that his action helped
you to any great extent, brave as it was."
"The memory =
of
it and him will always help me," she answered quietly. "They will
help me to bear whatever is before me bravely, and, when the time comes, to=
die
bravely; for I shall always feel that upon the other side a true, brave hea=
rt
is awaiting me."
The man was silen=
t.
After a moment the girl spoke again. "I think I would rather be alone,
Larry," she said. "I am very unhappy and nervous. Possibly I could
sleep now."
With a bow he tur=
ned
and left the cabin.
For weeks the
Halfmoon kept steadily on her course, a little south of west. There was no
material change in the relations of those aboard her. Barbara Harding, find=
ing
herself unmolested, finally acceded to the repeated pleas of Mr. Divine, to
whose society she had been driven by loneliness and fear, and appeared on d=
eck
frequently during the daylight watches. Here, one afternoon, she came face =
to
face with Theriere for the first time since her abduction. The officer lift=
ed
his cap deferentially; but the girl met his look of expectant recognition w=
ith a
cold, blank stare that passed through and beyond him as though he had been
empty air.
A tinge of color =
rose
to the man's face, and he continued on his way for a moment as though conte=
nt
to accept her rebuff; but after a step or two he turned suddenly and confro=
nted
her.
"Miss
Harding," he said, respectfully, "I cannot blame you for the feel=
ing
of loathing and distrust you must harbor toward me; but in common justice I
think you should hear me before finally condemning."
"I cannot
imagine," she returned coldly, "what defense there can be for the
cowardly act you perpetrated."
"I have been
utterly deceived by my employers," said Theriere, hastening to take ad=
vantage
of the tacit permission to explain which her reply contained. "I was g=
iven
to understand that the whole thing was to be but a hoax--that I was taking =
part
in a great practical joke that Mr. Divine was to play upon his old friends,=
the
Hardings and their guests. Until they wrecked and deserted the Lotus in
mid-ocean I had no idea that anything else was contemplated, although I felt
that the matter, even before that event, had been carried quite far enough =
for
a joke.
"They
explained," he continued, "that before sailing you had expressed =
the
hope that something really exciting and adventurous would befall the
party--that you were tired of the monotonous humdrum of twentieth-century
existence--that you regretted the decadence of piracy, and the expunging of
romance from the seas.
"Mr. Divine,
they told me, was a very wealthy young man, to whom you were engaged to be
married, and that he could easily afford the great expense of the rather
remarkable hoax we were supposed to be perpetrating. I saw no harm in taking
part in it, especially as I knew nothing of the supposititious purpose of t=
he
cruise until just before we reached Honolulu. Before that I had been led to
believe that it was but a pleasure trip to the South Pacific that Mr. Divine
intended.
"You see, Mi=
ss
Harding, that I have been as badly deceived as you. Won't you let me help to
atone for my error by being your friend? I can assure you that you will need
one whom you can trust amongst this shipload of scoundrels."
"Who am I to
believe?" cried the girl. "Mr. Divine assures me that he, too, has
been forced into this affair, but by threats of death rather than
deception."
The expression on=
Mr.
Theriere's face was eloquent of sarcastic incredulity.
"How about t=
he
note of introduction that I carried to your father from Mr. Divine?" a=
sked
Theriere.
"He says tha=
t he
was compelled to write it at the point of a revolver," replied the gir=
l.
"Come with m=
e,
Miss Harding," said the officer. "I think that I may be able to
convince you that Mr. Divine is not on any such bad terms with Skipper Simm=
s as
would be the case were his story to you true."
As he spoke he
started toward the companionway leading to the officers' cabins. Barbara
Harding hesitated at the top of the stairway.
"Have no fea=
r,
Miss Harding," Theriere reassured her. "Remember that I am your
friend and that I am merely attempting to prove it to your entire satisfact=
ion.
You owe it to yourself to discover as soon as possible who your friends are
aboard this ship, and who your enemies."
"Very
well," said the girl. "I can be in no more danger one place aboar=
d her
than another."
Theriere led her
directly to his own cabin, cautioning her to silence with upraised forefing=
er.
Softly, like skulking criminals, they entered the little compartment. Then
Theriere turned and closed the door, slipping the bolt noiselessly as he did
so. Barbara watched him, her heart beating rapidly with fear and suspicion.=
"Here,"
whispered Theriere, motioning her toward his berth. "I have found it
advantageous to know what goes on beyond this partition. You will find a sm=
all
round hole near the head of the berth, about a foot above the bedding. Put =
your
ear to it and listen--I think Divine is in there now."
The girl, still
frightened and fearful of the man's intentions, did, nevertheless, as he bi=
d.
At first she could make out nothing beyond the partition but a confused mur=
mur
of voices, and the clink of glass, as of the touch of the neck of a bottle
against a goblet. For a moment she remained in tense silence, her ear press=
ed
to the tiny aperture. Then, distinctly, she heard the voice of Skipper Simm=
s.
"I'm a-telli=
n'
you, man," he was saying, "that there wan't nothin' else to be do=
ne,
an' I'm a-gettin' damn sick o' hearin' you finding fault all the time with =
the
way I been a-runnin' o' this little job."
"I'm not fin=
ding
fault, Simms," returned another voice which the girl recognized
immediately as Divine's; "although I do think that it was a mistake to=
so
totally disable the Lotus as you did. Why, how on earth are we ever to retu=
rn
to civilization if that boat is lost? Had she been simply damaged a little,=
in
a way that they could themselves have fixed up, the delay would have been
sufficient to permit us to escape, and then, when Miss Harding was returned=
in
safety to her father, after our marriage, they would have been so glad to be
reunited that he easily could have been persuaded to drop the matter. Then
another thing; you intended to demand a ransom for both Miss Harding and
myself, to carry out the fiction of my having been stolen also--how can you=
do
that if Mr. Harding be dead? And do you suppose for a moment that Miss Hard=
ing will
leave a single stone unturned to bring the guilty to justice if any harm has
befallen her father or his guests? If so you do not know her as well as
I."
The girl turned a=
way
from the partition, her face white and drawn, her eyes inexpressibly sad. S=
he
rose to her feet, facing Theriere.
"I have heard
quite enough, thank you, Mr. Theriere," she said.
"You are
convinced then that I am your friend?" he asked.
"I am convin=
ced
that Mr. Divine is not," she replied non-committally.
She took a step
toward the door. Theriere stood looking at her. She was unquestionably very
good to look at. He could not remember ever having seen a more beautiful gi=
rl.
A great desire to seize her in his arms swept over the man. Theriere had not
often made any effort to harness his desires. What he wanted it had been his
custom to take--by force if necessary. He took a step toward Barbara Hardin=
g.
There was a sudden light in his eyes that the girl had not before seen ther=
e,
and she reached quickly toward the knob of the door.
Theriere was upon
her, and then, quickly, he mastered himself, for he recalled his coolly
thought-out plan based on what Divine had told him of that clause in the wi=
ll
of the girl's departed grandparent which stipulated that the man who shared=
the
bequest with her must be the choice of both herself and her father. He could
afford to bide his time, and play the chivalrous protector before he essayed
the role of lover.
Barbara had turne=
d a
half-frightened look toward him as he advanced--in doubt as to his intentio=
ns.
"Pardon me, =
Miss
Harding," he said; "the door is bolted--let me unlatch it for
you," and very gallantly he did so, swinging the portal wide that she
might pass out. "I feared interruption," he said, in explanation =
of the
bolt.
In silence they
returned to the upper deck. The intoxication of sudden passion now under
control, Theriere was again master of himself and ready to play the cold,
calculating, waiting game that he had determined upon. Part of his plan was=
to
see just enough of Miss Harding to insure a place in her mind at all times;=
but
not enough to suggest that he was forcing himself upon her. Rightly, he ass=
umed
that she would appreciate thoughtful deference to her comfort and safety un=
der
the harrowing conditions of her present existence more than a forced
companionship that might entail too open devotion on his part. And so he ra=
ised
his cap and left her, only urging her to call upon him at any time that he =
might
be of service to her.
Left alone the gi=
rl
became lost in unhappy reflections, and in the harrowing ordeal of attempti=
ng
to readjust herself to the knowledge that Larry Divine, her lifelong friend,
was the instigator of the atrocious villainy that had been perpetrated agai=
nst
her and her father. She found it almost equally difficult to believe that M=
r.
Theriere was so much more sinned against than sinning as he would have had =
her
believe. And yet, did his story not sound even more plausible than that of
Divine which she had accepted before Theriere had made it possible for her =
to know
the truth? Why, then, was it so difficult for her to believe the Frenchman?=
She
could not say, but in the inmost recesses of her heart she knew that she
mistrusted and feared the man.
As she stood lean=
ing
against the rail, buried deep in thought, Billy Byrne passed close behind h=
er.
At sight of her a sneer curled his lip. How he hated her! Not that she ever=
had
done aught to harm him, but rather because she represented to him in concre=
te
form all that he had learned to hate and loathe since early childhood.
Her soft, white s=
kin;
her shapely hands and well-cared-for nails; her trim figure and perfectly
fitting suit all taunted him with their superiority over him and his kind. =
He
knew that she looked down upon him as an inferior being. She was of the cla=
ss
that addressed those in his walk of life as "my man." Lord, how he
hated that appellation!
The intentness of=
his
gaze upon her back had the effect so often noted by the observant, and sudd=
enly
aroused from the lethargy of her misery the girl swung around to meet the m=
an's
eyes squarely upon her. Instantly she recognized him as the brute who had
killed Billy Mallory. If there had been hate in the mucker's eyes as he loo=
ked
at the girl, it was as nothing by comparison with the loathing and disgust
which sprang to hers as they rested upon his sullen face.
So deep was her
feeling of contempt for this man, that the sudden appearance of him before =
her
startled a single exclamation from her.
"Coward!&quo=
t;
came the one word, involuntarily, from her lips.
The man's scowl
deepened menacingly. He took a threatening step toward her.
"Wot's
dat?" he growled. "Don't get gay wit me, or I'll black dem lamps =
fer
yeh," and he raised a heavy fist as though to strike her.
The mucker had lo=
oked
to see the girl cower before his threatened blow--that would have been ample
atonement for her insult, and would have appealed greatly to his Kelly-gang
sense of humor. Many a time had he threatened women thus, for the keen
enjoyment of hearing their screams of fright and seeing them turn and flee =
in
terror. When they had held their ground and opposed him, as some upon the W=
est
Side had felt sufficiently muscular to do, the mucker had not hesitated to
"hand them one." Thus only might a man uphold his reputation for
bravery in the vicinage of Grand Avenue.
He had looked to =
see
this girl of the effete and effeminate upper class swoon with terror before
him; but to his intense astonishment she but stood erect and brave before h=
im,
her head high held, her eyes cold and level and unafraid. And then she spoke
again.
"Coward!&quo=
t;
she said.
Billy almost stru=
ck
her; but something held his hand. What, he could not understand. Could it be
that he feared this slender girl? And at this juncture, when the threat of =
his
attitude was the most apparent, Second Officer Theriere came upon the scene=
. At
a glance he took in the situation, and with a bound had sprung between Billy
Byrne and Barbara Harding.
"WHAT has th=
is
man said to you, Miss Harding?" cried Theriere. "Has he offered y=
ou
harm?"
"I do not th=
ink
that he would have dared strike me," replied the girl, "though he
threatened to do so. He is the coward who murdered poor Mr. Mallory upon the
Lotus. He might stoop to anything after that."
Theriere turned
angrily upon Byrne.
"Go below!&q=
uot;
he shouted. "I'll attend to you later. If Miss Harding were not here I=
'd
thrash you within an inch of your life now. And if I ever hear of your spea=
king
to her again, or offering her the slightest indignity I'll put a bullet thr=
ough
you so quick you won't know what has struck you."
"T'ell yeh
will!" sneered Billy Byrne. "I got your number, yeh big stiff; an'
yeh better not get gay wit me. Dey ain't no guy on board dis man's ship dat=
can
hand Billy Byrne dat kin' o' guff an' get away with it--see?" and befo=
re
Theriere knew what had happened a heavy fist had caught him upon the point =
of
the chin and lifted him clear off the deck to drop him unconscious at Miss
Harding's feet.
"Yeh see wot
happens to guys dat get gay wit me?" said the mucker to the girl, and =
then
stooping over the prostrate form of the mate Billy Byrne withdrew a huge
revolver from Theriere's hip pocket.
"I guess I'll
need dis gat in my business purty soon," he remarked.
Then he planted a
vicious kick in the face of the unconscious man and went his way to the
forecastle.
"Now maybe
she'll tink Billy Byrne's a coward," he thought, as he disappeared bel=
ow.
Barbara Harding s=
tood
speechless with shock at the brutality and ferocity of the unexpected attack
upon Theriere. Never in all her life had she dreamed that there could exist
upon the face of the earth a thing in human form so devoid of honor, and
chivalry, and fair play as the creature that she had just witnessed threate=
ning
a defenseless woman, and kicking an unconscious man in the face; but then
Barbara Harding had never lived between Grand Avenue and Lake Street, and H=
alsted
and Robey, where standards of masculine bravery are strange and fearful.
When she had
recovered her equanimity she hastened to the head of the cabin companionway=
and
called aloud for help. Instantly Skipper Simms and First Officer Ward rushe=
d on
deck, each carrying a revolver in readiness for the conflict with their crew
that these two worthies were always expecting.
Barbara pointed o=
ut
the still form of Theriere, quickly explaining what had occurred.
"It was the
fellow Byrne who did it," she said. "He has gone into the forecas=
tle
now, and he has a revolver that he took from Mr. Theriere after he had
fallen."
Several of the cr=
ew
had now congregated about the prostrate officer.
"Here you,&q=
uot;
cried Skipper Simms to a couple of them; "you take Mr. Theriere below =
to
his cabin, an' throw cold water in his face. Mr. Ward, get some brandy from=
my
locker, an' try an' bring him to. The rest of you arm yourselves with crowb=
ars
and axes, an' see that that son of a sea cook don't get out on deck again
alive. Hold him there 'til I get a couple of guns. Then we'll get him, damn
him!"
Skipper Simms
hastened below while two of the men were carrying Theriere to his cabin and=
Mr.
Ward was fetching the brandy. A moment later Barbara Harding saw the skipper
return to the upper deck with a rifle and two revolvers. The sailors whom he
had detailed to keep Byrne below were gathered about the hatchway leading to
the forecastle. Some of them were exchanging profane and pleasant badinage =
with
the prisoner.
"Yeh better =
come
up an' get killed easy-like;" one called down to the mucker. "We'=
re
apt to muss yeh all up down there in the dark with these here axes and
crowbars, an' then wen we send yeh home yer pore maw won't know her little =
boy
at all."
"Yeh come on
down here, an' try mussin' me up," yelled back Billy Byrne. "I can
lick de whole gang wit one han' tied behin' me--see?"
"De skipper's
gorn to get his barkers, Billy," cried Bony Sawyer. "Yeh better c=
ome
up an' stan' trial if he gives yeh the chanct."
"Stan'
nothin'," sneered Billy. "Swell chanct I'd have wit him an' Squint
Eye holdin' court over me. Not on yer life, Bony. I'm here, an' here I stays
till I croaks, but yeh better believe me, I'm goin' to croak a few before I
goes, so if any of you ginks are me frien's yeh better keep outen here so's=
yeh
won't get hurted. An' anudder ting I'm goin' to do afore I cashes in--I'm g=
oin'
to put a few of dem ginks in de cabin wise to where dey stands wit one anud=
der.
If I don't start something before I goes out me name's not Billy Byrne.&quo=
t;
At this juncture
Skipper Simms appeared with the three weapons he had gone to his cabin to
fetch. He handed one to Bony Sawyer, another to Red Sanders and a third to a
man by the name of Wison.
"Now, my
men," said Skipper Simms, "we will go below and bring Byrne up. B=
ring
him alive if you can--but bring him."
No one made a mov=
e to
enter the forecastle.
"Go on now, =
move
quickly," commanded Skipper Simms sharply.
"Thought he =
said
'we'," remarked one of the sailors.
Skipper Simms, li=
vid
with rage, turned to search out the offender from the several men behind hi=
m.
"Who was
that?" he roared. "Show me the blitherin' swab. Jes' show him to =
me,
I tell you, an I'll learn him. Now you," he yelled at the top of his
voice, turning again to the men he had ordered into the forecastle after Bi=
lly
Byrne, "you cowardly landlubbers you, get below there quick afore I ki=
ck
you below."
Still no one move=
d to
obey him. From white he went to red, and then back to white again. He fairly
frothed at the mouth as he jumped up and down, cursing the men, and
threatening. But all to no avail. They would not go.
"Why,
Skipper," spoke up Bony Sawyer, "it's sure death for any man as g=
oes
below there. It's easier, an' safer, to starve him out."
"Starve
nothin'," shrieked Skipper Simms. "Do you reckon I'm a-goin' to s=
it
quiet here for a week an' let any blanked wharf rat own that there fo'c's'le
just because I got a lot o' white-livered cowards aboard? No sir! You're
a-goin' down after that would-be bad man an' fetch him up dead or alive,&qu=
ot;
and with that he started menacingly toward the three who stood near the hat=
ch,
holding their firearms safely out of range of Billy Byrne below.
What would have
happened had Skipper Simms completed the threatening maneuver he had undert=
aken
can never be known, for at this moment Theriere pushed his way through the
circle of men who were interested spectators of the impending tragedy.
"What's up,
sir?" he asked of Simms. "Anything that I can help you with?"=
;
"Oh!"
exclaimed the skipper; "so you ain't dead after all, eh? Well that don=
't
change the looks of things a mite. We gotta get that man outa there an' the=
se
flea-bitten imitations of men ain't got the guts to go in after him." =
"He's got yo=
ur
gun, sir," spoke up Wison, "an' Gawd knows he be the one as'ud on=
'y
be too glad for the chanct to use it."
"Let me see =
if I
can't handle him, sir," said Theriere to Skipper Simms. "We don't
want to lose any men if we can help it."
The skipper was o=
nly
too glad to welcome this unexpected rescue from the predicament in which he=
had
placed himself. How Theriere was to accomplish the subjugation of the mutin=
ous
sailor he could not guess, nor did he care so long as it was done without r=
isk
to his own skin.
"Now if you'=
ll
go away, sir," said Theriere, "and order the men away I'll see wh=
at I
can do."
Skipper Simms did=
as
Theriere had requested, so that presently the officer stood alone beside the
hatch. Across the deck, amidships, the men had congregated to watch Therier=
e's
operations, while beyond them stood Barbara Harding held fascinated by the =
grim
tragedy that was unfolding before her upon this accursed vessel.
Theriere leaned o=
ver
the open hatch, in full view of the waiting Byrne, ready below. There was t=
he
instant report of a firearm and a bullet whizzed close past Theriere's head=
.
"Avast there,
Byrne!" he shouted. "It's I, Theriere. Don't shoot again, I want =
to
speak to you."
"No monkey
business now," growled the mucker in reply. "I won't miss again.&=
quot;
"I want to t=
alk
with you, Byrne," said Theriere in a low tone. "I'm coming down t=
here."
"No you ain'=
t,
cul," returned Byrne; "leastways yeh ain't a-comin' down here
alive."
"Yes I am,
Byrne," replied Theriere, "and you don't want to be foolish about=
it.
I'm unarmed. You can cover me with your gun until you have satisfied yourse=
lf
as to that. I'm the only man on the ship that can save your life--the only =
man
that has any reason to want to; but we've got to talk it over and we can't =
talk
this way where there's a chance of being overheard. I'll be on the square w=
ith
you if you will with me, and if we can't come to terms I'll come above again
and you won't be any worse off than you are now. Here I come," and wit=
hout
waiting for an acceptance of his proposition the second officer of the Half=
moon
slipped over the edge of the hatchway and disappeared from the sight of the=
watchers
above.
That he was a bra=
ve
man even Billy Byrne had to admit, and those above who knew nothing of the
relations existing between the second mate and the sailor, who had so recen=
tly
felled him, thought that his courage was little short of marvelous. Therier=
e's
stock went up by leaps and bounds in the estimation of the sailors of the
Halfmoon, for degraded though they were they could understand and appreciate
physical courage of this sort, while to Barbara Harding the man's act seemed
unparalleled in its utter disregard of the consequences of life and death to
himself that it entailed. She suddenly was sorry that she had entertained a=
ny
suspicions against Theriere--so brave a man could not be other than the sou=
l of
honor, she argued.
Once below Therie=
re
found himself covered by his own revolver in the hands of a very desperate =
and
a very unprincipled man. He smiled at Byrne as the latter eyed him
suspiciously.
"See here,
Byrne," said Theriere. "It would be foolish for me to say that I =
am
doing this for love of you. The fact is that I need you. We cannot succeed,
either one of us, alone. I think you made a fool play when you hit me today.
You know that our understanding was that I was to be even a little rougher =
with
you than usual, in order to avoid suspicion being attached to any seeming
familiarity between us, should we be caught conferring together. I had the
chance to bawl you out today, and I thought that you would understand that I
was but taking advantage of the opportunity which it afforded to make it pl=
ain
to Miss Harding that there could be nothing other than hatred between us--i=
t might
have come in pretty handy later to have her believe that.
"If I'd had =
any
idea that you really intended hitting me you'd have been a dead man before =
your
fist reached me, Byrne. You took me entirely by surprise; but that's all in=
the
past--I'm willing to let bygones be bygones, and help you out of the pretty
pickle you've got yourself into. Then we can go ahead with our work as thou=
gh
nothing had happened. What do you say?"
"I didn't kn=
ow
yeh was kiddin," replied the mucker, "or I wouldn't have hit yeh.=
Yeh
acted like yeh meant it."
"Very well, =
that
part's understood," said Theriere. "Now will you come out if I can
square the thing with the skipper so's you won't get more than a day or so =
in
irons--he'll have to give you something to save his own face; but I promise
that you'll get your food regularly and that you won't be beaten up the way=
you
were before when he had you below. If he won't agree to what I propose I gi=
ve
you my word to tell you so."
"Go ahead,&q=
uot;
said Billy Byrne; "I don't trust nobody wen I don't have to; but I'll =
be
dinged if I see any other way out of it."
Theriere returned =
to
the deck and seeking out the skipper drew him to one side.
"I can get h=
im
up peaceably if I can assure him that he'll only get a day or so in the coo=
ler,
with full rations and no beatings. I think, sir, that that will be the easi=
est
way out of it. We cannot spare a man now--if we want to get the fellow late=
r we
can always find some pretext."
"Very well, =
Mr.
Theriere," replied the skipper, "I'll leave the matter entirely in
your hands--you can do what you want with the fellow; it's you as had your =
face
punched."
Theriere returned
immediately to the forecastle, from which he presently emerged with the
erstwhile recalcitrant Byrne, and for two days the latter languished in dur=
ance
vile, and that was the end of the episode, though its effects were manifold.
For one thing it implanted in the heart of Theriere a personal hatred for t=
he
mucker, so that while heretofore his intention of ridding himself of the man
when he no longer needed him was due purely to a matter of policy, it was n=
ow
reinforced by a keen desire for personal revenge. The occurrence had also h=
ad
its influence upon Barbara Harding, in that it had shown her Mr. Theriere i=
n a
new light--one that reflected credit upon him. She had thought his magnanim=
ous
treatment of the sailor little short of heroic; and it had deepened the gir=
l's
horror of Billy Byrne until it now amounted to little short of an obsession=
. So
vivid an impression had his brutality made upon her that she would start fr=
om
deep slumber, dreaming that she was menaced by him.
After Billy was
released for duty following his imprisonment, he several times passed the g=
irl
upon deck. He noticed that she shrank from him in disgust and terror; but w=
hat
surprised him was that instead of the thrill of pride which he formerly wou=
ld
have felt at this acknowledgment of his toughness, for Billy prided himself=
on
being a tough, he now felt a singular resentment against the girl for her
attitude, so that he came to hate her even more than he had before hated.
Formerly he had hated her for the things she stood for, now he hated her fo=
r herself.
Theriere was often
with her now, and, less frequently, Divine; for at the second officer's
suggestion Barbara had not acquainted that gentleman with the fact that she=
was
aware of his duplicity.
"It is just =
as
well not to let him know," said Theriere. "It gives you an advant=
age
that would be wanting should he suspect the truth, so that now you are alwa=
ys
in a position to be warned in plenty of time against any ulterior suggestio=
n he
may make. Keep me posted as to all he tells you of his plans, and in this w=
ay
we can defeat him much more easily than as though you followed your natural
inclinations and refused to hold communication of any sort with him. It mig=
ht
be well, Miss Harding, even to encourage him in the hope that you will wed =
him
voluntarily. I think that that would throw him entirely off his guard, and =
pave
the way for your early release."
"Oh, I doubt=
if
I could do that, Mr. Theriere," exclaimed the girl. "You cannot
imagine how I loathe the man now that I know him in his true colors. For ye=
ars
he has importuned me to marry him, and though I never cared for him in that=
way
at all, and never could, I felt that he was a very good friend and that his
constancy demanded some return on my part--my friendship and sympathy at le=
ast;
but now I shiver whenever he is near me, just as I would were I to find a s=
nake
coiled close beside me. I cannot abide treachery."
"Nor I, Miss
Harding," agreed Theriere glibly. "The man deserves nothing but y=
our
contempt, though for policy's sake I hope that you will find it possible to
lead him on until his very treachery proves the means of your salvation, for
believe me, if he has been false to you how much more quickly will he be fa=
lse
to Simms and Ward! He would ditch them in a minute if the opportunity prese=
nted
itself for him to win you without their aid. I had thought it might be feas=
ible
to lead him into attempting to take the ship by force, and return you to San
Francisco, or, better still possibly, to the nearest civilized port.
"You might, =
with
propriety suggest this to him, telling him that you believe that I would st=
and
ready to assist in the undertaking. I can promise you the support of severa=
l of
the men--quite a sufficient number with Divine and myself, easily to take t=
he
Halfmoon away from her present officers."
"I will think
over your suggestion, Mr. Theriere," replied Barbara, "and I thank
you for the generous impulse that has prompted you to befriend me--heaven k=
nows
how badly I need a friend now among so many enemies. What is it, Mr. Therie=
re?
What is the matter?"
The officer had
turned his eyes casually toward the southeast as the girl spoke, and just n=
ow
he had given a sudden exclamation of surprise and alarm.
"That cloud,
Miss Harding," he answered. "We're in for a bad blow, and it'll b=
e on
us in a minute," and with that he started forward on a run, calling ba=
ck
over his shoulder, "you'd better go below at once."
THE storm that st=
ruck
the Halfmoon took her entirely unaware. It had sprung, apparently, out of a
perfectly clear sky. Both the lookout and the man at the wheel were ready to
take oath that they had scanned the horizon not a half-minute before Second
Mate Theriere had come racing forward bellowing for all hands on deck and
ordering a sailor below to report the menacing conditions to Captain Simms.=
Before that offic=
er
reached the deck Theriere had the entire crew aloft taking in sail; but tho=
ugh
they worked with the desperation of doomed men they were only partially
successful in their efforts.
The sky and sea h=
ad
assumed a sickly yellowish color, except for the mighty black cloud that ra=
ced
toward them, low over the water. The low moaning sound that had followed the
first appearance of the storm, gave place to a sullen roar, and then, of a
sudden, the thing struck the Halfmoon, ripping her remaining canvas from he=
r as
if it had been wrought from tissue paper, and with the flying canvas, spars,
and cordage went the mainmast, snapping ten feet above the deck, and crashi=
ng
over the starboard bow with a noise and jar that rose above the bellowing of
the typhoon.
Fully half the cr=
ew
of the Halfmoon either went down with the falling rigging or were crushed by
the crashing weight of the mast as it hurtled against the deck. Skipper Sim=
ms
rushed back and forth screaming out curses that no one heeded, and orders t=
hat
there was none to fill.
Theriere, on his =
own
responsibility, looked to the hatches. Ward with a handful of men armed with
axes attempted to chop away the wreckage, for the jagged butt of the fallen
mast was dashing against the ship's side with such vicious blows that it se=
emed
but a matter of seconds ere it would stave a hole in her.
With the utmost
difficulty a sea anchor was rigged and tumbled over the Halfmoon's pitching=
bow
into the angry sea, that was rising to more gigantic proportions with each
succeeding minute. This frail makeshift which at best could but keep the
vessel's bow into the wind, saving her from instant engulfment in the sea's
trough, seemed to Theriere but a sorry means of prolonging the agony of
suspense preceding the inevitable end. That nothing could save them was the
second officer's firm belief, nor was he alone in his conviction. Not only
Simms and Ward, but every experienced sailor on the ship felt that the life=
of
the Halfmoon was now but a matter of hours, possibly minutes, while those of
lesser experience were equally positive that each succeeding wave must mark=
the
termination of the lives of the vessel and her company.
The deck, washed =
now
almost continuously by hurtling tons of storm-mad water, as one mountainous
wave followed another the length of the ship, had become entirely impossibl=
e.
With difficulty the men were attempting to get below between waves. All
semblance of discipline had vanished. For the most part they were a pack of
howling, cursing, terror-ridden beasts, fighting at the hatches with those =
who
would have held them closed against the danger of each new assault of the s=
ea.
Ward and Skipper
Simms had been among the first to seek the precarious safety below deck.
Theriere alone of the officers had remained on duty until the last, and now=
he
was exerting his every faculty in the effort to save as many of the men as
possible without losing the ship in the doing of it. Only between waves was=
the
entrance to the main cabins negotiable, while the forecastle hatch had been
abandoned entirely after it had with difficulty been replaced following the
retreat of three of the crew to that part of the ship.
The mucker stood
beside Theriere as the latter beat back the men when the seas threatened. It
was the man's first experience of the kind. Never had he faced death in the
courage-blighting form which the grim harvester assumes when he calls unbri=
dled
Nature to do his ghastly bidding. The mucker saw the rough, brawling bullie=
s of
the forecastle reduced to white-faced, gibbering cowards, clawing and fight=
ing
to climb over one another toward the lesser danger of the cabins, while the
mate fought them off, except as he found it expedient to let them pass him;=
he
alone cool and fearless.
Byrne stood as one
apart from the dangers and hysteric strivings of his fellows. Once when
Theriere happened to glance in his direction the Frenchman mentally ascribed
the mucker's seeming lethargy to the paralysis of abject cowardice. "T=
he fellow
is in a blue funk," thought the second mate; "I did not misjudge
him--like all his kind he is a coward at heart."
Then a great wave
came, following unexpectedly close upon the heels of a lesser one. It took
Theriere off his guard, threw him down and hurtled him roughly across the d=
eck,
landing him in the scuppers, bleeding and stunned. The next wave would carry
him overboard.
Released from
surveillance the balance of the crew pushed and fought their way into the
cabin--only the mucker remained without, staring first at the prostrate for=
m of
the mate and then at the open cabin hatch. Had one been watching him he mig=
ht
reasonably have thought that the man's mind was in a muddle of confused
thoughts and fears; but such was far from the case. Billy was waiting to se=
e if
the mate would revive sufficiently to return across the deck before the next
wave swept the ship. It was very interesting--he wondered what odds O'Leary
would have laid against the man.
In another moment=
the
wave would come. Billy glanced at the open cabin hatch. That would never
do--the cabin would be flooded with tons of water should the next wave find=
the
hatch still open. Billy closed it. Then he looked again toward Theriere. The
man was just recovering consciousness--and the wave was coming.
Something stirred
within Billy Byrne. It gripped him and made him act quickly as though by
instinct to do something that no one, Billy himself least of all, would have
suspected that the Grand Avenue mucker would have been capable of.
Across the deck
Theriere was dragging himself painfully to his hands and knees, as though to
attempt the impossible feat of crawling back to the cabin hatch. The wave w=
as
almost upon Billy. In a moment it would engulf him, and then rush on across=
him
to tear Theriere from the deck and hurl him beyond the ship into the tumbli=
ng,
watery, chaos of the sea.
The mucker saw all
this, and in the instant he launched himself toward the man for whom he had=
no
use, whose kind he hated, reaching him as the great wave broke over them,
crushing them to the deck, choking and blinding them.
For a moment they
were buried in the swirling maelstrom, and then as the Halfmoon rose again,
shaking the watery enemy from her back, the two men were disclosed--Theriere
half over the ship's side--the mucker clinging to him with one hand, the ot=
her
clutching desperately at a huge cleat upon the gunwale.
Byrne dragged the
mate to the deck, and then slowly and with infinite difficulty across it to=
the
cabin hatch. Through it he pushed the man, tumbling after him and closing t=
he
aperture just as another wave swept the Halfmoon.
Theriere was
conscious and but little the worse for his experience, though badly bruised=
. He
looked at the mucker in astonishment as the two faced each other in the cab=
in.
"I don't know
why you did it," said Theriere.
"Neither do
I," replied Billy Byrne.
"I shall not
forget it, Byrne," said the officer.
"Yeh'd
better," answered Billy, turning away.
The mucker was
extremely puzzled to account for his act. He did not look upon it at all as=
a
piece of heroism; but rather as a "fool play" which he should be
ashamed of. The very idea! Saving the life of a gink who, despite his brutal
ways, belonged to the much-despised "highbrow" class. Billy was
peeved with himself.
Theriere, for his
part, was surprised at the unexpected heroism of the man he had long since
rated as a cowardly bully. He was fully determined to repay Byrne in so far=
as
he could the great debt he owed him. All thoughts of revenge for the mucker=
's
former assault upon him were dropped, and he now looked upon the man as a t=
rue
friend and ally.
For three days the
Halfmoon plunged helplessly upon the storm-wracked surface of the mad sea. =
No
soul aboard her entertained more than the faintest glimmer of a hope that t=
he
ship would ride out the storm; but during the third night the wind died dow=
n,
and by morning the sea had fallen sufficiently to make it safe for the men =
of
the Halfmoon to venture upon deck.
There they found =
the
brigantine clean-swept from stem to stern. To the north of them was land at=
a
league or two, perhaps. Had the storm continued during the night they would
have been dashed upon the coast. God-fearing men would have given thanks for
their miraculous rescue; but not so these. Instead, the fear of death remov=
ed,
they assumed their former bravado.
Skipper Simms boa=
sted
of the seamanship that had saved the Halfmoon--his own seamanship of course.
Ward was cursing the luck that had disabled the ship at so crucial a period=
of
her adventure, and revolving in his evil mind various possible schemes for
turning the misfortune to his own advantage. Billy Byrne, sitting upon the
corner of the galley table, hobnobbed with Blanco. These choice representat=
ives
of the ship's company were planning a raid on the skipper's brandy chest du=
ring
the disembarkation which the sight of land had rendered not improbable.
The Halfmoon, with
the wind down, wallowed heavily in the trough of the sea, but even so Barba=
ra
Harding, wearied with days of confinement in her stuffy cabin below, ventur=
ed
above deck for a breath of sweet, clean air.
Scarce had she
emerged from below than Theriere espied her, and hastened to her side.
"Well, Miss
Harding," he exclaimed, "it seems good to see you on deck again. I
can't tell you how sorry I have felt for you cooped up alone in your cabin
without a single woman for companionship, and all those frightful days of
danger, for there was scarce one of us that thought the old hooker would
weather so long and hard a blow. We were mighty fortunate to come through i=
t so
handily."
"Handily?&qu=
ot;
queried Barbara Harding, with a wry smile, glancing about the deck of the
Halfmoon. "I cannot see that we are either through it handily or throu=
gh
it at all. We have no masts, no canvas, no boats; and though I am not much =
of a
sailor, I can see that there is little likelihood of our effecting a landin=
g on
the shore ahead either with or without boats---it looks most forbidding. Th=
en
the wind has gone down, and when it comes up again it is possible that it w=
ill
carry us away from the land, or if it takes us toward it, dash us to pieces=
at
the foot of those frightful cliffs."
"I see you a=
re
too good a sailor by far to be cheered by any questionable hopes," lau=
ghed
Theriere; "but you must take the will into consideration--I only wishe=
d to
give you a ray of hope that might lighten your burden of apprehension. Howe=
ver,
honestly, I do think that we may find a way to make a safe landing if the s=
ea
continues to go down as it has in the past two hours. We are not more than =
a league
from shore, and with the jury mast and sail that the men are setting under =
Mr.
Ward now we can work in comparative safety with a light breeze, which we sh=
ould
have during the afternoon. There are few coasts, however rugged they may ap=
pear
at a distance, that do not offer some foothold for the wrecked mariner, and=
I
doubt not but that we shall find this no exception to the rule."
"I hope you =
are
right, Mr. Theriere," said the girl, "and yet I cannot but feel t=
hat
my position will be less safe on land than it has been upon the Halfmoon. O=
nce
free from the restraints of discipline which tradition, custom, and law enf=
orce
upon the high seas there is no telling what atrocities these men will commi=
t.
To be quite candid, Mr. Theriere, I dread a landing worse than I dreaded the
dangers of the storm through which we have just passed."
"I think you
have little to fear on that score, Miss Harding," said the Frenchman.
"I intend making it quite plain that I consider myself your protector =
once
we have left the Halfmoon, and I can count on several of the men to support=
me.
Even Mr. Divine will not dare do otherwise. Then we can set up a camp of our
own apart from Skipper Simms and his faction where you will be constantly
guarded until succor may be obtained."
Barbara Harding h=
ad
been watching the man's face as he spoke. The memory of his consideration a=
nd
respectful treatment of her during the trying weeks of her captivity had do=
ne
much to erase the intuitive feeling of distrust that had tinged her thought=
s of
him earlier in their acquaintance, while his heroic act in descending into =
the
forecastle in the face of the armed and desperate Byrne had thrown a glamou=
r of
romance about him that could not help but tend to fascinate a girl of Barba=
ra
Harding's type. Then there was the look she had seen in his eyes for a brief
instant when she had found herself locked in his cabin on the occasion that=
he
had revealed to her Larry Divine's duplicity. That expression no red-blooded
girl could mistake, and the fact that he had subdued his passion spoke
eloquently to the girl of the fineness and chivalry of his nature, so now it
was with a feeling of utter trustfulness that she gladly gave herself into =
the
keeping of Henri Theriere, Count de Cadenet, Second Officer of the Halfmoon=
.
"O Mr.
Theriere," she cried, "if you only can but arrange it so, how rel=
ieved
and almost happy I shall be. How can I ever repay you for all that you have
done for me?"
Again she saw the
light leap to the man's eyes--the light of a love that would not be denied =
much
longer other than through the agency of a mighty will. Love she thought it;=
but
the eye-light of love and lust are twin lights between which it takes much
worldly wisdom to differentiate, and Barbara Harding was not worldly-wise in
the ways of sin.
"Miss
Harding," said Theriere, in a voice that he evidently found it difficu=
lt
to control, "do not ask me now how you may repay me; I--;" but wh=
at
he would have said he checked, and with an effort of will that was almost
appreciable to the eye he took a fresh grip upon himself, and continued:
"I am amply repaid by being able to serve you, and thus to retrieve my=
self
in your estimation--I know that you have doubted me; that you have question=
ed
the integrity of my acts that helped to lead up to the unfortunate affair of
the Lotus. When you tell me that you no longer doubt--that you accept me as=
the
friend I would wish to be, I shall be more than amply repaid for anything w=
hich
it may have been my good fortune to have been able to accomplish for your c=
omfort
and safety."
"Then I may
partially repay you at once," exclaimed the girl with a smile, "f=
or I
can assure you that you possess my friendship to the fullest, and with it, =
of
course, my entire confidence. It is true that I doubted you at first--I dou=
bted
everyone connected with the Halfmoon. Why shouldn't I? But now I think that=
I
am able to draw a very clear line between my friends and my enemies. There =
is
but one upon the right side of that line--you, my friend," and with an
impulsive little gesture Barbara Harding extended her hand to Theriere.
It was with almos=
t a
sheepish expression that the Frenchman took the proffered fingers, for there
had been that in the frank avowal of confidence and friendship which smote =
upon
a chord of honor in the man's soul that had not vibrated in response to a
chivalrous impulse for so many long years that it had near atrophied from
disuse.
Then, of a sudden,
the second officer of the Halfmoon straightened to his full height. His head
went high, and he took the small hand of the girl in his own strong, brown =
one.
"Miss
Harding," he said, "I have led a hard, bitter life. I have not al=
ways
done those things of which I might be most proud: but there have been times
when I have remembered that I am the grandson of one of Napoleon's greatest
field marshals, and that I bear a name that has been honored by a mighty
nation. What you have just said to me recalls these facts most vividly to my
mind--I hope, Miss Harding, that you will never regret having spoken
them," and to the bottom of his heart the man meant what he said, at t=
he
moment; for inherent chivalry is as difficult to suppress or uproot as is
inherent viciousness.
The girl let her =
hand
rest in his for a moment, and as their eyes met she saw in his a truth and
honesty and cleanness which revealed what Theriere might have been had Fate
ordained his young manhood to different channels. And in that moment a ques=
tion
sprang, all unbidden and unforeseen to her mind; a question which caused he=
r to
withdraw her hand quickly from his, and which sent a slow crimson to her ch=
eek.
Billy Byrne,
slouching by, cast a bitter look of hatred upon the two. The fact that he h=
ad
saved Theriere's life had not increased his love for that gentleman. He was
still much puzzled to account for the strange idiocy that had prompted him =
to
that act; and two of his fellows had felt the weight of his mighty fist when
they had spoken words of rough praise for his heroism--Billy had thought th=
at
they were kidding him.
To Billy the knoc=
king
out of Theriere, and the subsequent kick which he had planted in the
unconscious man's face, were true indications of manliness. He gauged such
matters by standards purely Grand Avenuesque and now it enraged him to see =
that
the girl before whose very eyes he had demonstrated his superiority over
Theriere should so look with favor upon the officer.
It did not occur =
to
Billy that he would care to have the girl look with favor upon him. Such a
thought would have sent him into a berserker rage; but the fact remained th=
at Billy
felt a strong desire to cut out Theriere's heart when he saw him now in clo=
se
converse with Barbara Harding--just why he felt so Billy could not have sai=
d.
The truth of the matter is that Billy was far from introspective; in fact he
did very little thinking. His mind had never been trained to it, as his mus=
cles
had been trained to fighting. Billy reacted more quickly to instinct than to
the processes of reasoning, and on this account it was difficult for him to
explain any great number of his acts or moods--it is to be doubted, however,
that Billy Byrne had ever attempted to get at the bottom of his soul, if he
possessed one.
Be that as it may,
had Theriere known it he was very near death that moment when a summons from
Skipper Simms called him aft and saved his life. Then the mucker, unseen by=
the
officer, approached the girl. In his heart were rage and hatred, and as the
girl turned at the sound of his step behind her she saw them mirrored in his
dark, scowling face.
INSTANTLY Barbara
Harding looked into the face of the mucker she read her danger. Why the man
should hate her so she could not guess; but that he did was evidenced by the
malevolent expression of his surly countenance. For a moment he stood glari=
ng
at her, and then he spoke.
"I'm wise to=
wot
youse an' dat guy was chinnin' about," he growled, "an' I'm right
here to tell youse dat you don't wanta try an' put nothin' over on me, see?
Youse ain't a-goin' to double-cross Billy Byrne. I gotta good notion to han'
youse wot's comin' to you. If it hadn't been fer youse I wouldn't have been
here now on dis Gawd-forsaken wreck. Youse is de cause of all de trouble. W=
ot
youse ought to get is croaked an' den dere wouldn't be nothin' to bother an=
y of
us. You an' yer bunch of kale, dey give me a swift pain. Fer half a cent I'd
soak youse a wallop to de solar plexus dat would put youse to sleep fer de =
long
count, you--you--" but here words failed Billy.
To his surprise t=
he
girl showed not the slightest indication of fear. Her head was high, and her
level gaze never wavered from his own eyes. Presently a sneer of contempt
curled her lip.
"You
coward!" she said quietly. "To insult and threaten a woman! You a=
re nothing
but an insufferable bully, and a cowardly murderer. You murdered a man on t=
he
Lotus whose little finger held more true manhood, bravery, and worth than t=
he
whole of your great, hulking carcass. You are only fit to strike from behin=
d,
or when your victim is unsuspecting, as you did Mr. Theriere that other day=
. Do
you think I fear a THING such as you--a beast without honor that kicks an
unconscious man in the face? I know that you can kill me. I know that you a=
re
coward enough to do it because I am a defenseless woman; and though you may
kill me, you never can make me show fear for you. That is what you wish to
do--that is your idea of manliness. I had never imagined that such a thing =
as
you lived in the guise of man; but I have read you, Mr. Byrne, since I have=
had
occasion to notice you, and I know now that you are what is known in the gr=
eat
cities as a mucker. The term never meant much to me before, but I see now t=
hat
it fits your kind perfectly, for in it is all the loathing and contempt tha=
t a
real man--a gentleman--must feel for such as you."
As she spoke Billy
Byrne's eyes narrowed; but not with the cunning of premeditated attack. He =
was
thinking. For the first time in his life he was thinking of how he appeared=
in
the eyes of another. Never had any human being told Billy Byrne thus coolly=
and
succinctly what sort of person he seemed to them. In the heat of anger men =
of
his own stamp had applied vile epithets to him, describing him luridly as s=
uch
that by the simplest laws of nature he could not possibly be; but this girl=
had
spoken coolly, and her descriptions had been explicit--backed by illustrati=
ons.
She had given real reasons for her contempt, and somehow it had made that
contempt seem very tangible.
One who had known
Billy would have expected him to fly into a rage and attack the girl brutal=
ly
after her scathing diatribe. Billy did nothing of the sort. Barbara Harding=
's
words seemed to have taken all the fight out of him. He stood looking at her
for a moment--it was one of the strange contradictions of Billy Byrne's
personality that he could hold his eyes quite steady and level, meeting the
gaze of another unwaveringly--and in that moment something happened to Billy
Byrne's perceptive faculties. It was as though scales which had dimmed his =
mental
vision had partially dropped away, for suddenly he saw what he had not befo=
re
seen--a very beautiful girl, brave and unflinching before the brutal menace=
of
his attitude, and though the mucker thought that he still hated her, the
realization came to him that he must not raise a hand against her--that for=
the
life of him he could not, nor ever again against any other woman. Why this
change, Billy did not know, he simply knew that it was so, and with an ugly
grunt he turned his back upon her and walked away.
A slight breeze h=
ad
risen from the southwest since Theriere had left Barbara Harding and now all
hands were busily engaged in completing the jury rigging that the Halfmoon
might take advantage of the wind and make the shore that rose abruptly from=
the
bosom of the ocean but a league away.
Before the work w=
as
completed the wind increased rapidly, so that when the tiny bit of canvas w=
as
hoisted into position it bellied bravely, and the Halfmoon moved heavily
forward toward the land.
"We gotta ma=
ke a
mighty quick run of it," said Skipper Simms to Ward, "or we'll go=
to
pieces on them rocks afore ever we find a landing."
"That we wil=
l if
this wind rises much more," replied Ward; "and's far as I can see
there ain't no more chance to make a landing there than there would be on t=
he
side of a house."
And indeed as the
Halfmoon neared the towering cliffs it seemed utterly hopeless that aught e=
lse
than a fly could find a foothold upon that sheer and rocky face that rose
abruptly from the ocean's surface.
Some two hundred
yards from the shore it became evident that there was no landing to be made
directly before them, and so the course of the ship was altered to carry th=
em
along parallel to the shore in an effort to locate a cove, or beach where a
landing might safely be effected.
The wind, increas=
ing
steadily, was now whipping the sea into angry breakers that dashed resoundi=
ngly
against the rocky barrier of the island. To drift within reach of those
frightful destroyers would mean the instant annihilation of the Halfmoon and
all her company, yet this was precisely what the almost unmanageable hulk w=
as
doing at the wheel under the profane direction of Skipper Simms, while Ward=
and
Theriere with a handful of men altered the meager sail from time to time in=
an effort
to keep the ship off the rocks for a few moments longer.
The Halfmoon was
almost upon the cliff's base when a narrow opening showed some hundred fath=
oms
before her nose, an opening through which the sea ran in long, surging swee=
ps,
rolling back upon itself in angry breakers that filled the aperture with sw=
irling
water and high-flung spume. To have attempted to drive the ship into such a
place would have been the height of madness under ordinary circumstances. No
man knew what lay beyond, nor whether the opening carried sufficient water =
to float
the Halfmoon, though the long, powerful sweep of the sea as it entered the
opening denoted considerable depth.
Skipper Simms, se=
eing
the grim rocks rising close beside his vessel, realized that naught could k=
eep
her from them now. He saw death peering close to his face. He felt the icy
breath of the Grim Reaper upon his brow. A coward at heart, he lost every
vestige of his nerve at this crucial moment of his life. Leaping from the
wheelhouse to the deck he ran backward and forward shrieking at the top of =
his
lungs begging and entreating someone to save him, and offering fabulous rew=
ards
to the man who carried him safely to the shore.
The sight of their
captain in a blue funk had its effect upon the majority of the crew, so tha=
t in
a moment a pack of screaming, terror-ridden men had supplanted the bravos a=
nd
bullies of the Halfmoon.
From the cabin
companionway Barbara Harding looked upon the disgusting scene. Her lip curl=
ed
in scorn at the sight of these men weeping and moaning in their fright. She=
saw
Ward busy about one of the hatches. It was evident that he intended making a
futile attempt to utilize it as a means of escape after the Halfmoon struck,
for he was attaching ropes to it and dragging it toward the port side of the
ship, away from the shore. Larry Divine crouched beside the cabin and wept.=
When Simms gave up
the ship Barbara Harding saw the wheelmen, there had been two of them, dese=
rt
their post, and almost instantly the nose of the Halfmoon turned toward the
rocks; but scarcely had the men reached the deck than Theriere leaped to th=
eir
place at the wheel.
Unassisted he cou=
ld
do little with the heavy helm. Barbara saw that he alone of all the officers
and men of the brigantine was making an attempt to save the vessel. However
futile the effort might be, it at least bespoke the coolness and courage of=
the
man. With the sight of him there wrestling with death in a hopeless struggl=
e a
little wave of pride surged through the girl. Here indeed was a man! And he
loved her--that she knew. Whether or no she returned his love her place was
beside him now, to give what encouragement and physical aid lay in her powe=
r.
Quickly she ran to
the wheelhouse. Theriere saw her and smiled.
"There's no
hope, I'm afraid," he said; "but, by George, I intend to go down
fighting, and not like those miserable yellow curs."
Barbara did not
reply, but she grasped the spokes of the heavy wheel and tugged as he tugge=
d.
Theriere made no effort to dissuade her from the strenuous labor--every oun=
ce
of weight would help so much, and the man had a wild, mad idea that he was
attempting to put into effect.
"What do you
hope to do?" asked the girl. "Make that opening in the cliffs?&qu=
ot;
Theriere nodded. =
"Do you thin=
k me
crazy?" he asked.
"It is such a
chance as only a brave man would dare to take," she replied. "Do =
you
think that we can get her to take it?"
"I doubt
it," he answered. "With another man at the wheel we might, though=
."
Below them the cr=
ew
of the Halfmoon ran hither and thither along the deck on the side away from=
the
breakers. They fought with one another for useless bits of planking and
cordage. The giant figure of the black cook, Blanco, rose above the others.=
In
his hand was a huge butcher knife. When he saw a piece of wood he coveted in
the hands of another he rushed upon his helpless victim with wild, bestial
howls, menacing him with his gleaming weapon. Thus he was rapidly accumulat=
ing
the material for a life raft.
But there was a
single figure upon the deck that did not seem mad with terror. A huge fello=
w he
was who stood leaning against the capstan watching the wild antics of his
fellows with a certain wondering expression of incredulity, the while a
contemptuous smile curled his lips. As Barbara Harding chanced to look in h=
is
direction he also chanced to turn his eyes toward the wheelhouse. It was the
mucker.
The girl was
surprised that he, the greatest coward of them all, should be showing no si=
gns
of cowardice now--probably he was paralyzed with fright. The moment that the
man saw the two who were in the wheelhouse and the work that they were doin=
g he
sprang quickly toward them. At his approach the girl shrank closer to Theri=
ere.
What new outrage =
did
the fellow contemplate? Now he was beside her. The habitual dark scowl
blackened his expression. He laid a heavy hand on Barbara Harding's arm.
"Come out o'
dat," he bellowed. "Dat's no kind o' job fer a broiler."
And before either=
she
or Theriere could guess his intention the mucker had pushed Barbara aside a=
nd
taken her place at the wheel.
"Good for yo=
u,
Byrne!" cried Theriere. "I needed you badly."
"Why didn't =
yeh
say so den?" growled the man.
With the aid of
Byrne's Herculean muscles and great weight the bow of the Halfmoon commence=
d to
come slowly around so that presently she almost paralleled the cliffs again,
but now she was much closer in than when Skipper Simms had deserted her to =
her
fate--so close that Theriere had little hope of being able to carry out his
plan of taking her opposite the opening and then turning and running her be=
fore
the wind straight into the swirling waters of the inlet.
Now they were alm=
ost
opposite the aperture and between the giant cliffs that rose on either side=
of
the narrow entrance a sight was revealed that filled their hearts with rene=
wed
hope and rejoicing, for a tiny cove was seen to lie beyond the fissure--a c=
ove
with a long, wide, sandy beach up which the waves, broken at the entrance to
the little haven, rolled with much diminished violence.
"Can you hold
her alone for a second, Byrne?" asked Theriere. "We must make the
turn in another moment and I've got to let out sail. The instant that you s=
ee
me cut her loose put your helm hard to starboard. She'll come around easy
enough I imagine, and then hold her nose straight for that opening. It's one
chance in a thousand; but it's the only one. Are you game?"
"You know it,
cul--go to 't," was Billy Byrne's laconic rejoinder.
As Theriere left =
the
wheel Barbara Harding stepped to the mucker's side.
"Let me help
you," she said. "We need every hand that we can get for the next =
few
moments."
"Beat it,&qu=
ot;
growled the man. "I don't want no skirts in my way."
With a flush, the
girl drew back, and then turning watched Theriere where he stood ready to c=
ut
loose the sail at the proper instant. The vessel was now opposite the cleft=
in
the cliffs. Theriere had lashed a new sheet in position. Now he cut the old
one. The sail swung around until caught in position by the stout line. The
mucker threw the helm hard to starboard. The nose of the brigantine swung
quickly toward the rocks. The sail filled, and an instant later the ship was
dashing to what seemed her inevitable doom.
Skipper Simms, se=
eing
what Theriere had done after it was too late to prevent it, dashed madly ac=
ross
the deck toward his junior.
"You fool!&q=
uot;
he shrieked. "You fool! What are you doing? Driving us straight for the
rocks--murdering the whole lot of us!" and with that he sprang upon the
Frenchman with maniacal fury, bearing him to the deck beneath him.
Barbara Harding s=
aw
the attack of the fear-demented man, but she was powerless to prevent it. T=
he
mucker saw it too, and grinned--he hoped that it would be a good fight; the=
re
was nothing that he enjoyed more. He was sorry that he could not take a han=
d in
it, but the wheel demanded all his attention now, so that he was even force=
d to
take his eyes from the combatants that he might rivet them upon the narrow
entrance to the cove toward which the Halfmoon was now plowing her way at
constantly increasing speed.
The other members=
of
the ship's company, all unmindful of the battle that at another time would =
have
commanded their undivided attention, stood with eyes glued upon the wild
channel toward which the brigantine's nose was pointed. They saw now what
Skipper Simms had failed to see--the little cove beyond, and the chance for
safety that the bold stroke offered if it proved successful.
With steady muscl=
es
and giant sinews the mucker stood by the wheel--nursing the erratic wreck a=
s no
one might have supposed it was in him to do. Behind him Barbara Harding wat=
ched
first Theriere and Simms, and then Byrne and the swirling waters toward whi=
ch
he was heading the ship.
Even the strain of
the moment did not prevent her from wondering at the strange contradictions=
of
the burly young ruffian who could at one moment show such traits of cowardl=
iness
and the next rise so coolly to the highest pinnacles of courage. As she wat=
ched
him occasionally now she noted for the first time the leonine contour of his
head, and she was surprised to note that his features were regular and fine,
and then she recalled Billy Mallory and the cowardly kick that she had seen=
delivered
in the face of the unconscious Theriere--with a little shudder of disgust s=
he
turned away from the man at the wheel.
Theriere by this =
time
had managed to get on top of Skipper Simms, but that worthy still clung to =
him
with the desperation of a drowning man. The Halfmoon was rising on a great =
wave
that would bear her well into the maelstrom of the cove's entrance. The wind
had increased to the proportions of a gale, so that the brigantine was fair=
ly
racing either to her doom or her salvation--who could tell which?
Halfway through t=
he
entrance the wave dropped the ship, and with a mighty crash that threw Barb=
ara
Harding to her feet the vessel struck full amidships upon a sunken reef. Li=
ke a
thing of glass she broke in two with the terrific impact, and in another
instant the waters about her were filled with screaming men.
Barbara Harding f=
elt
herself hurtled from the deck as though shot from a catapult. The swirling
waters engulfed her. She knew that her end had come, only the most powerful=
of
swimmers might hope to win through that lashing hell of waters to the beach
beyond. For a girl to do it was too hopeless even to contemplate; but she
recalled Theriere's words of so short a time ago: "There's no hope, I'm
afraid; but, by George, I intend to go down fighting," and with the
recollection came a like resolve on her part--to go down fighting, and so s=
he
struck out against the powerful waters that swirled her hither and thither,=
now
perilously close to the rocky sides of the entrance, and now into the mad c=
haos
of the channel's center. Would to heaven that Theriere were near her, she t=
hought,
for if any could save her it would be he.
Since she had com=
e to
believe in the man's friendship and sincerity Barbara Harding had felt rene=
wed
hope of eventual salvation, and with the hope had come a desire to live whi=
ch
had almost been lacking for the greater part of her detention upon the
Halfmoon.
Bravely she battl=
ed
now against the awful odds of the mighty Pacific, but soon she felt her
strength waning. More and more ineffective became her puny efforts, and at =
last
she ceased almost entirely the futile struggle.
And then she felt=
a
strong hand grasp her arm, and with a sudden surge she was swung over a bro=
ad
shoulder. Quickly she grasped the rough shirt that covered the back of her
would-be rescuer, and then commenced a battle with the waves that for many
minutes, that seemed hours to the frightened girl, hung in the balance; but=
at
last the swimmer beneath her forged steadily and persistently toward the sa=
ndy
beach to flounder out at last with an unconscious burden in his mighty arms=
.
As the man stagge=
red
up out of reach of the water Barbara Harding opened her eyes to look in
astonishment into the face of the mucker.
ONLY four men of =
the
Halfmoon's crew were lost in the wreck of the vessel. All had been crowded =
in
the bow when the ship broke in two, and being far-flung by the forward part=
of
the brigantine as it lunged toward the cove on the wave following the one w=
hich
had dropped the craft upon the reef, with the exception of the four who had
perished beneath the wreckage they had been able to swim safely to the beac=
h.
Larry Divine, who=
had
sat weeping upon the deck of the doomed ship during the time that hope had =
been
at its lowest, had recovered his poise. Skipper Simms, subdued for the mome=
nt,
soon commenced to regain his bluster. He took Theriere to task for the loss=
of
the Halfmoon.
"An' ever we
make a civilized port," he shouted, "I'll prefer charges ag'in' y=
ou,
you swab you; a-losin' of the finest bark as ever weathered a storm. Ef it
hadn't o' been fer you a-mutinyin' agin' me I'd a-brought her through in sa=
fety
an' never lost a bloomin' soul."
"Stow it!&qu=
ot;
admonished Theriere at last; "your foolish bluster can't hide the bald
fact that you deserted your post in time of danger. We're ashore now, remem=
ber,
and there is no more ship for you to command, so were I you I'd be mighty
careful how I talked to my betters."
"What's
that!" screamed the skipper. "My betters! You frog-eatin' greaser
you, I'll teach you. Here, some of you, clap this swab into irons. I'll lea=
rn
him that I'm still captain of this here bunch."
Theriere laughed =
in
the man's face; but Ward and a couple of hands who had been shown favoritis=
m by
the skipper and first mate closed menacingly toward the second officer.
The Frenchman too=
k in
the situation at a glance. They were ashore now, where they didn't think th=
at
they needed him further and the process of elimination had commenced. Well,=
it
might as well come to a showdown now as later.
"Just a
moment," said Theriere, raising his hand. "You're not going to ta=
ke
me alive, and I have no idea that you want to anyhow, and if you start anyt=
hing
in the killing line some of you are going to Davy Jones' locker along with =
me.
The best thing for all concerned is to divide up this party now once and for
all."
As he finished
speaking he turned toward Billy Byrne.
"Are you and=
the
others with me, or against me?" he asked.
"I'm ag'in'
Simms," replied the mucker non-committally.
Bony Sawyer, Red
Sanders, Blanco, Wison, and two others drew in behind Billy Byrne.
"We all's wid
Billy," announced Blanco.
Divine and Barbara
Harding stood a little apart. Both were alarmed at the sudden, hostile turn
events had taken. Simms, Ward, and Theriere were the only members of the pa=
rty
armed. Each wore a revolver strapped about his hips. All were still dripping
from their recent plunge in the ocean.
Five men stood be=
hind
Skipper Simms and Ward, but there were two revolvers upon that side of the
argument. Suddenly Ward turned toward Divine.
"Are you arm=
ed,
Mr. Divine?" he asked.
Divine nodded
affirmatively.
"Then you'd
better come over with us--it looks like we might need you to help put down =
this
mutiny," said Ward.
Divine hesitated.=
He
did not know which side was more likely to be victorious, and he wanted to =
be
sure to be on the winning side. Suddenly an inspiration came to him.
"This is pur=
ely
a matter to be settled by the ship's officers," he said. "I am on=
ly a
prisoner, call me a passenger if you like--I have no interest whatever in t=
he
matter, and shall not take sides."
"Yes you
will," said Mr. Ward, in a low, but menacing tone. "You're in too
deep to try to ditch us now. If you don't stand by us we'll treat you as on=
e of
the mutineers when we're through with them, and you can come pretty near
a-guessin' what they'll get."
Divine was about =
to
reply, and the nature of his answer was suggested by the fact that he had
already taken a few steps in the direction of Simms' faction, when he was
stopped by the low voice of the girl behind him.
"Larry,"
she said, "I know all--your entire connection with this plot. If you h=
ave
a spark of honor or manhood left you will do what little you can to retrieve
the terrible wrong you have done me, and my father. You can never marry me.=
I
give you my word of honor that I shall take my own life if that is the only=
way
to thwart your plans in that direction, and so as the fortune can never be
yours it seems to me that the next best thing would be to try and save me f=
rom
the terrible predicament in which your cupidity has placed me. You can make=
the
start now, Larry, by walking over and placing yourself at Mr. Theriere's
disposal. He has promised to help and protect me."
A deep flush moun=
ted
to the man's neck and face. He did not turn about to face the girl he had so
grievously wronged--for the life of him he could not have met her eyes. Slo=
wly
he turned, and with gaze bent upon the ground walked quickly toward Therier=
e.
Ward was quick to
recognize the turn events had taken, and to see that it gave Theriere the
balance of power, with two guns and nine men in his party against their two
guns and seven men. It also was evident to him that to the other party the =
girl
would naturally gravitate since Divine, an old acquaintance, had cast his l=
ot
with it; nor had the growing intimacy between Miss Harding and Theriere been
lost upon him.
Ward knew that Si=
mms
was an arrant coward, nor was he himself overly keen for an upstanding,
man-to-man encounter such as must quickly follow any attempt upon his part =
to
uphold the authority of Simms, or their claim upon the custody of the girl.=
Intrigue and tric=
kery
were more to Mr. Ward's liking, and so he was quick to alter his plan of
campaign the instant that it became evident that Divine had elected to join
forces with the opposing faction.
"I reckon,&q=
uot;
he said, directing his remarks toward no one in particular, "that we've
all been rather hasty in this matter, being het up as we were with the stra=
in
of what we been through an' so it seems to me, takin' into consideration th=
at
Mr. Theriere really done his best to save the ship, an' that as a matter of
fact we was all mighty lucky to come out of it alive, that we'd better let
bygones be bygones, for the time bein' at least, an' all of us pitch in to =
save
what we can from the wreckage, hunt water, rig up a camp, an' get things so=
rt
o' shipshape here instid o' squabblin' amongst ourselves."
"Suit
yourself," said Theriere, "it's all the same to us," and his=
use
of the objective pronoun seemed definitely to establish the existence of his
faction as a separate and distinct party.
Simms, from years=
of
experience with his astute mate, was wont to acquiesce in anything that Ward
proposed, though he had not the brains always to appreciate the purposes th=
at
prompted Ward's suggestions. Now, therefore, he nodded his approval of Squi=
nt
Eye's proposal, feeling that whatever was in Ward's mind would be more like=
ly
to work out to Skipper Simms' interests than some unadvised act of Skipper
Simms himself.
"Supposin',&=
quot;
continued Ward, "that we let two o' your men an' two o' ourn under Mr.
Divine, shin up them cliffs back o' the cove an' search fer water an' a site
fer camp--the rest o' us'll have our hands full with the salvage."
"Good,"
agreed Theriere. "Miller, you and Swenson will accompany Mr. Divine.&q=
uot;
Ward detailed two=
of
his men, and the party of five began the difficult ascent of the cliffs, wh=
ile
far above them a little brown man with beady, black eyes set in narrow fles=
hy
slits watched them from behind a clump of bushes. Strange, medieval armor a=
nd
two wicked-looking swords gave him a most warlike appearance. His temples w=
ere
shaved, and a broad strip on the top of his head to just beyond the crown. =
His
remaining hair was drawn into an unbraided queue, tied tightly at the back,=
and
the queue then brought forward to the top of the forehead. His helmet lay in
the grass at his feet. At the nearer approach of the party to the cliff top=
the
watcher turned and melted into the forest at his back. He was Oda Yorimoto,
descendant of a powerful daimio of the Ashikaga Dynasty of shoguns who had =
fled
Japan with his faithful samurai nearly three hundred and fifty years before
upon the overthrow of the Ashikaga Dynasty.
Upon this
unfrequented and distant Japanese isle the exiles had retained all of their
medieval military savagery, to which had been added the aboriginal ferocity=
of
the head-hunting natives they had found there and with whom they had
intermarried. The little colony, far from making any advances in arts or
letters had, on the contrary, relapsed into primeval ignorance as deep as t=
hat
of the natives with whom they had cast their lot--only in their arms and ar=
mor,
their military training and discipline did they show any of the influence of
their civilized progenitors. They were cruel, crafty, resourceful wild men
trapped in the habiliments of a dead past, and armed with the keen weapons =
of
their forbears. They had not even the crude religion of the Malaysians they=
had
absorbed unless a highly exaggerated propensity for head-hunting might be
dignified by the name of religion. To the tender mercies of such as these w=
ere
the castaways of the Halfmoon likely to be consigned, for what might sixteen
men with but four revolvers among them accomplish against near a thousand
savage samurai?
Theriere, Ward,
Simms, and the remaining sailors at the beach busied themselves with the ta=
sk
of retrieving such of the wreckage and the salvage of the Halfmoon as the w=
aves
had deposited in the shallows of the beach. There were casks of fresh water,
kegs of biscuit, clothing, tinned meats, and a similar heterogeneous mass of
flotsam. This arduous labor consumed the best part of the afternoon, and it=
was
not until it had been completed that Divine and his party returned to the
beach.
They reported that
they had discovered a spring of fresh water some three miles east of the co=
ve
and about half a mile inland, but it was decided that no attempt be made to
transport the salvage of the party to the new camp site until the following
morning.
Theriere and Divi=
ne
erected a rude shelter for Barbara Harding close under the foot of the clif=
f,
as far from the water as possible, while above them Oda Yorimoto watched th=
eir
proceedings with beady, glittering eyes. This time a half-dozen of his fier=
ce
samurai crouched at his side. Besides their two swords these latter bore the
primitive spears of their mothers' savage tribe.
Oda Yorimoto watc=
hed
the white men upon the beach. Also, he watched the white girl--even more,
possibly, than he watched the men. He saw the shelter that was being built,=
and
when it was complete he saw the girl enter it, and he knew that it was for =
her
alone. Oda Yorimoto sucked in his lips and his eyes narrowed even more than
nature had intended that they should.
A fire burned bef=
ore
the rude domicile that Barbara Harding was to occupy, and another, larger f=
ire
roared a hundred yards to the west where the men were congregated about Bla=
nco,
who was attempting to evolve a meal from the miscellany of his larder that =
had
been cast up by the sea. There seemed now but little to indicate that the p=
arty
was divided into two bitter factions, but when the meal was over Theriere c=
alled
his men to a point midway between Barbara's shelter and the main camp fire.
Here he directed them to dispose themselves for the night as best they coul=
d,
building a fire of their own if they chose, for with the coming of darkness=
the
chill of the tropical night would render a fire more than acceptable.
All were thorough=
ly
tired and exhausted, so that darkness had scarce fallen ere the entire camp
seemed wrapped in slumber. And still Oda Yorimoto sat with his samurai upon=
the
cliff's summit, beady eyes fixed upon his intended prey.
For an hour he sat
thus in silence, until, assured that all were asleep before him, he arose a=
nd
with a few whispered instructions commenced the descent of the cliff toward=
the
cove below. Scarce had he started, however, with his men stringing in single
file behind him, than he came to a sudden halt, for below him in the camp t=
hat
lay between the girl's shelter and the westerly camp a figure had arisen
stealthily from among his fellows.
It was Theriere.
Cautiously he moved to a sleeper nearby whom he shook gently until he had
awakened him.
"Hush,
Byrne," cautioned the Frenchman. "It is I, Theriere. Help me awak=
en
the others--see that there is no noise."
"Wot's
doin'?" queried the mucker.
"We are goin=
g to
break camp, and occupy the new location before that bunch of pirates can be=
at
us to it," whispered Theriere in reply; "and," he added,
"we're going to take the salvage and the girl with us."
The mucker grinne=
d.
"Gee!" =
he
said. "Won't dey be a sore bunch in de mornin'?"
The work of awake=
ning
the balance of the party required but a few minutes and when the plan was
explained to them, all seemed delighted with the prospect of discomfiting
Skipper Simms and Squint Eye. It was decided that only the eatables be carr=
ied
away on the first trip, and that if a second trip was possible before dawn =
the
clothing, canvas, and cordage that had been taken from the water might then=
be
purloined.
Miller and Swenson
were detailed to bring up the rear with Miss Harding, assisting her up the
steep side of the cliff. Divine was to act as guide to the new camp, lendin=
g a
hand wherever necessary in the scaling of the heights with the loot.
Cautiously the pa=
rty,
with the exception of Divine, Miller, and Swenson, crept toward the little =
pile
of supplies that were heaped fifty or sixty feet from the sleeping members =
of
Simms' faction. The three left behind walked in silence to Barbara Harding's
shelter. Here Divine scratched at the piece of sail cloth which served as a
door until he had succeeded in awakening the sleeper within. And from above=
Oda
Yorimoto watched the activity in the little cove with intent and unwavering
eyes.
The girl, roused =
from
a fitful slumber, came to the doorway of her primitive abode, alarmed by th=
is
nocturnal summons.
"It is I,
Larry," whispered the man. "Are you dressed?"
"Yes,"
replied the girl, stepping out into the moonlight. "What do you want? =
What
has happened?"
"We are goin=
g to
take you away from Simms--Theriere and I," replied the man, "and
establish a safe camp of our own where they cannot molest you. Theriere and=
the
others have gone for the supplies now and as soon as they return we shall
commence the ascent of the cliffs. If
you have any further preparations to make, Barbara, please make haste, as we
must get away from here as quickly as possible. Should any of Simms' people
awaken there is sure to be a fight."
The girl turned b=
ack
into the shelter to gather together a handful of wraps that had been saved =
from
the wreck.
Down by the salva=
ge
Theriere, Byrne, Bony Sawyer, Red Sanders, Blanco, and Wison were selecting=
the
goods that they wished to carry with them. It was found that two trips woul=
d be
necessary to carry off the bulk of the rations, so Theriere sent the mucker=
to
summon Miller and Swenson.
"We'll carry=
all
that eight of us can to the top of the cliffs," he said "hide it
there and then come back for the balance. We may be able to get it later if=
we
are unable to make two trips to the camp tonight."
While they were
waiting for Byrne to return with the two recruits one of the sleepers in Si=
mms'
camp stirred. Instantly the five marauders dropped stealthily to the ground
behind the boxes and casks. Only Theriere kept his eyes above the level of =
the
top of their shelter that he might watch the movements of the enemy.
The figure sat up=
and
looked about. It was Ward. Slowly he arose and approached the pile of salva=
ge.
Theriere drew his revolver, holding it in readiness for an emergency. Should
the first mate look in the direction of Barbara Harding's shelter he must
certainly see the four figures waiting there in the moonlight. Theriere tur=
ned
his own head in the direction of the shelter that he might see how plainly =
the
men there were visible. To his delight he saw that no one was in sight. Eit=
her they
had seen Ward, or for the sake of greater safety from detection had moved to
the opposite side of the shelter.
Ward was quite cl=
ose
to the boxes upon the other side of which crouched the night raiders.
Theriere's finger found the trigger of his revolver. He was convinced that =
the
mate had been disturbed by the movement in camp and was investigating. The
Frenchman knew that the search would not end upon the opposite side of the
salvage--in a moment Ward would be upon them. He was sorry--not for Ward, b=
ut
because he had planned to carry the work out quietly and he hated to have to
muss things up with a killing, especially on Barbara's account.
Ward stopped at o=
ne
of the water casks. He tipped it up, filling a tin cup with water, took a l=
ong
drink, set the cup back on top of the cask, and, turning, retraced his step=
s to
his blanket. Theriere could have hugged himself. The man had suspected noth=
ing.
He merely had been thirsty and come over for a drink--in another moment he
would be fast asleep once more. Sure enough, before Byrne returned with Mil=
ler
and Swenson, Theriere could bear the snores of the first mate.
On the first trip=
to
the cliff top eight men carried heavy burdens, Divine alone remaining to gu=
ard
Barbara Harding. The second trip was made with equal dispatch and safety. No
sound or movement came from the camp of the enemy, other than that of sleep=
ing
men. On the second trip Divine and Theriere each carried a burden up the
cliffs, Miller and Swenson following with Barbara Harding, and as they came=
Oda
Yorimoto and his samurai slunk back into the shadows that their prey might =
pass
unobserving.
Theriere had the =
bulk
of the loot hidden in a rocky crevice just beyond the cliff's summit. Brush
torn from the mass of luxuriant tropical vegetation that covered the ground=
was
strewn over the cache. All had been accomplished in safety and without
detection. The camp beneath them still lay wrapped in silence.
The march toward =
the
new camp, under the guidance of Divine, was immediately undertaken. On the
return trip after the search for water Divine had discovered a well-marked
trail along the edge of the cliffs to a point opposite the spring, and anot=
her
leading from the main trail directly to the water. In his ignorance he had
thought these the runways of animals, whereas they were the age-old highway=
s of
the head-hunters.
Now they presente=
d a
comparatively quick and easy approach to the destination of the mutineers, =
but
so narrow a one as soon to convince Theriere that it was not feasible for h=
im
to move back and forth along the flank of his column. He had tried it once,=
but
it so greatly inconvenienced and retarded the heavily laden men that he
abandoned the effort, remaining near the center of the cavalcade until the =
new
camp was reached.
Here he found a
fair-sized space about a clear and plentiful spring of cold water. Only a f=
ew
low bushes dotted the grassy clearing which was almost completely surrounde=
d by
dense and impenetrable jungle. The men had deposited their burdens, and sti=
ll
Theriere stood waiting for the balance of his party--Miller and Swenson with
Barbara Harding.
But they did not
come, and when, in alarm, the entire party started back in search of them t=
hey
retraced their steps to the very brink of the declivity leading to the cove
before they could believe the testimony of their own perceptions--Barbara
Harding and the two sailors had disappeared.
WHEN Barbara Hard=
ing,
with Miller before and Swenson behind her, had taken up the march behind the
loot-laden party seven dusky, noiseless shadows had emerged from the forest=
to
follow close behind.
For half a mile t=
he
party moved along the narrow trail unmolested. Theriere had come back to
exchange a half-dozen words with the girl and had again moved forward toward
the head of the column. Miller was not more than twenty-five feet behind the
first man ahead of him, and Miss Harding and Swenson followed at intervals =
of
but three or four yards.
Suddenly, without
warning, Swenson and Miller fell, pierced with savage spears, and at the sa=
me
instant sinewy fingers gripped Barbara Harding, and a silencing hand was
clapped over her mouth. There had been no sound above the muffled tread of =
the
seamen. It had all been accomplished so quickly and so easily that the girl=
did
not comprehend what had befallen her for several minutes.
In the darkness of
the forest she could not clearly distinguish the forms or features of her
abductors, though she reasoned, as was only natural, that Skipper Simms' pa=
rty
had become aware of the plot against them and had taken this means of thwar=
ting
a part of it; but when her captors turned directly into the mazes of the
jungle, away from the coast, she began first to wonder and then to doubt, so
that presently when a small clearing let the moonlight full upon them she w=
as
not surprised to discover that none of the members of the Halfmoon's compan=
y was
among her guard.
Barbara Harding h=
ad
not circled the globe half a dozen times for nothing. There were few races =
or
nations with whose history, past and present, she was not fairly familiar, =
and
so the sight that greeted her eyes was well suited to fill her with
astonishment, for she found herself in the hands of what appeared to be a p=
arty
of Japanese warriors of the fifteenth or sixteenth century. She recognized =
the
medieval arms and armor, the ancient helmets, the hairdressing of the
two-sworded men of old Japan. At the belts of two of her captors dangled gr=
isly
trophies of the hunt. In the moonlight she saw that they were the heads of
Miller and Swenson.
The girl was
horrified. She had thought her lot before as bad as it could be, but to be =
in
the clutches of these strange, fierce warriors of a long-dead age was
unthinkably worse. That she could ever have wished to be back upon the Half=
moon
would have seemed, a few days since, incredible; yet that was precisely what
she longed for now.
On through the ni=
ght
marched the little, brown men--grim and silent--until at last they came to a
small village in a valley away from the coast--a valley that lay nestled hi=
gh among
lofty mountains. Here were cavelike dwellings burrowed half under ground, t=
he
upper walls and thatched roofs rising scarce four feet above the level.
Granaries on stilts were dotted here and there among the dwellings.
Into one of the
filthy dens Barbara Harding was dragged. She found a single room in which
several native and half-caste women were sleeping, about them stretched and
curled and perched a motley throng of dirty yellow children, dogs, pigs, and
chickens. It was the palace of Daimio Oda Yorimoto, Lord of Yoka, as his
ancestors had christened their new island home.
Once within the
warren the two samurai who had guarded Barbara upon the march turned and
withdrew--she was alone with Oda Yorimoto and his family. From the center of
the room depended a swinging shelf upon which a great pile of grinning skul=
ls
rested. At the back of the room was a door which Barbara had not at first
noticed--evidently there was another apartment to the dwelling.
The girl was given
little opportunity to examine her new prison, for scarce had the guards
withdrawn than Oda Yorimoto approached and grasped her by the arm.
"Come!"=
he
said, in Japanese that was sufficiently similar to modern Nippon to be easi=
ly
understood by Barbara Harding. With the word he drew her toward a sleeping =
mat
on a raised platform at one side of the room.
One of the women
awoke at the sound of the man's voice. She looked up at Barbara in sullen
hatred--otherwise she gave no indication that she saw anything unusual
transpiring. It was as though an exquisite American belle were a daily visi=
tor
at the Oda Yorimoto home.
"What do you
want of me?" cried the frightened girl, in Japanese.
Oda Yorimoto look=
ed
at her in astonishment. Where had this white girl learned to speak his tong=
ue?
"I am the da=
imio,
Oda Yorimoto," he said. "These are my wives. Now you are one of t=
hem.
Come!"
"Not yet--not
here!" cried the girl clutching at a straw. "Wait. Give me time to
think. If you do not harm me my father will reward you fabulously. Ten thou=
sand
koku he would gladly give to have me returned to him safely."
Oda Yorimoto but
shook his head.
"Twenty thou=
sand
koku!" cried the girl.
Still the daimio
shook his head negatively.
"A hundred
thousand--name your own price, if you will but not harm me."
"Silence!&qu=
ot;
growled the man. "What are even a million koku to me who only know the
word from the legends of my ancestors. We have no need for koku here, and h=
ad
we, my hills are full of the yellow metal which measures its value. No! you=
are
my woman. Come!"
"Not here! N=
ot
here!" pleaded the girl. "There is another room--away from all th=
ese
women," and she turned her eyes toward the door at the opposite side of
the chamber.
Oda Yorimoto shru=
gged
his shoulders. That would be easier than a fight, he argued, and so he led =
the
girl toward the doorway that she had indicated. Within the room all was dar=
k,
but the daimio moved as one accustomed to the place, and as he moved through
the blackness the girl at his side felt with stealthy fingers at the man's
belt.
At last Oda Yorim=
oto
reached the far side of the long chamber.
"Here!"=
he
said, and took her by the shoulders.
"Here!"
answered the girl in a low, tense voice, and at the instant that she spoke =
Oda
Yorimoto, Lord of Yoka, felt a quick tug at his belt, and before he guessed
what was to happen his own short sword had pierced his breast.
A single shriek b=
roke
from the lips of the daimio; but it was so high and shrill and like the shr=
iek
of a woman in mortal terror that the woman in the next room who heard it but
smiled a crooked, wicked smile of hate and turned once more upon her pallet=
to
sleep.
Again and again
Barbara Harding plunged the sword of the brown man into the still heart, un=
til
she knew beyond peradventure of a doubt that her enemy was forevermore powe=
rless
to injure her. Then she sank, exhausted and trembling, upon the dirt floor
beside the corpse.
When Theriere came to the realization th=
at
Barbara Harding was gone he jumped to the natural conclusion that Ward and
Simms had discovered the ruse that he had worked upon them just in time to
permit them to intercept Miller and Swenson with the girl, and carry her ba=
ck
to the main camp.
The others were p=
rone
to agree with him, though the mucker grumbled that "it listened
fishy." However, all hands returned cautiously down the face of the cl=
iff,
expecting momentarily to be attacked by the guards which they felt sure Ward
would post in expectation of a return of the mutineers, the moment they
discovered that the girl had been taken from them; but to the surprise of a=
ll
they reached the cove without molestation, and when they had crept cautious=
ly
to the vicinity of the sleepers they discovered that all were there, in
peaceful slumber, just as they had left them a few hours before.
Silently the party
retraced its steps up the cliff. Theriere and Billy Byrne brought up the re=
ar.
"What do you
make of it anyway, Byrne?" asked the Frenchman.
"If you wanta
get it straight, cul," replied the mucker, "I tink youse know a w=
hole
lot more about it dan you'd like to have de rest of us tink."
"What do you
mean, Byrne?" cried Theriere. "Out with it now!"
"Sure I'll o=
ut
wid it. You didn't tink I was bashful didja? Wot fer did you detail dem two
pikers, Miller and Swenson, to guard de skirt fer if it wasn't fer some spe=
cial
frame-up of yer own? Dey never been in our gang, and dats just wot you want=
ed
'em fer. It was easy to tip dem off to hike out wid de squab, and de first
chanct you get you'll hike after dem, while we hold de bag. Tought you'd
double-cross us easy, didn't yeh? Yeh cheap-skate!"
"Byrne,"
said Theriere, and it was easy to see that only through the strength of his
will-power did he keep his temper, "you may have cause to suspect the
motives of everyone connected with this outfit. I can't say that I blame yo=
u;
but I want you to remember what I say to you now. There was a time when I f=
ully
intended to 'double-cross' you, as you say--that was before you saved my li=
fe.
Since then I have been on the square with you not only in deed but in thoug=
ht
as well. I give you the word of a man whose word once meant something--I am
playing square with you now except in one thing, and I shall tell you what =
that
is at once. I do not know where Miss Harding is, or what has happened to he=
r,
and Miller, and Swenson. That is God's truth. Now for the one thing that I =
just
mentioned. Recently I changed my intentions relative to Miss Harding. I was
after the money the same as the rest--that I am free to admit; but now I do=
n't
give a rap for it, and I had intended taking advantage of the first opportu=
nity
to return Miss Harding to civilization unharmed and without the payment of a
penny to anyone. The reason for my change of heart is my own affair. In all
probability you wouldn't believe the sincerity or honesty of my motives sho=
uld I
disclose them. I am only telling you these things because you have accused =
me
of double dealing, and I do not want the man who saved my life at the risk =
of
his own to have the slightest grounds to doubt my honesty with him. I've be=
en a
fairly bad egg, Byrne, for a great many years; but, by George! I'm not enti=
rely
rotten yet."
Byrne was silent =
for
a few moments. He, too, had recently come to the conclusion that possibly he
was not entirely rotten either, and had in a vague and half-formed sort of =
way
wished for the opportunity to demonstrate the fact, so he was willing to
concede to another that which he craved for himself.
"Yeh listen =
all
right, cul," he said at last; "an' I'm willin' to take yeh at yer=
own
say-so until I learn different."
"Thanks,&quo=
t;
said Theriere tersely. "Now we can work together in the search for Miss
Harding; but where, in the name of all that's holy, are we to start?" =
"Why, where =
we
seen her last, of course," replied the mucker. "Right here on top=
of
dese bluffs."
"Then we can=
't
do anything until daylight," said the Frenchman.
"Not a ting,=
and
at daylight we'll most likely have a scrap on our hands from below," a=
nd
the mucker jerked his thumb in the direction of the cove.
"I think,&qu=
ot;
said Theriere, "that we had better spend an hour arming ourselves with
sticks and stones. We've a mighty good position up here. One that we can de=
fend
splendidly from an assault from below, and if we are prepared for them we c=
an
stave 'em off for a while if we need the time to search about up here for c=
lews
to Miss Harding's whereabouts."
And so the party =
set
to work to cut stout bludgeons from the trees about them, and pile loose
fragments of rock in handy places near the cliff top. Theriere even went so=
far
as to throw up a low breastwork across the top of the trail up which the en=
emy
must climb to reach the summit of the cliff. When they had completed their
preparations three men could have held the place against ten times their own
number.
Then they lay dow=
n to
sleep, leaving Blanco and Divine on guard, for it had been decided that the=
se
two, with Bony Sawyer, should be left behind on the morrow to hold the cliff
top while the others were searching for clews to the whereabouts of Barbara
Harding. They were to relieve each other at guard duty during the balance of
the night.
Scarce had the fi=
rst
suggestion of dawn lightened the eastern sky than Divine, who was again on
guard, awakened Theriere. In a moment the others were aroused, and a hasty =
raid
on the cached provisions made. The lack of water was keenly felt by all, bu=
t it
was too far to the spring to chance taking the time necessary to fetch the
much-craved fluid and those who were to forge into the jungle in search of
Barbara Harding hoped to find water farther inland, while it was decided to
dispatch Bony Sawyer to the spring for water for those who were to remain o=
n guard
at the cliff top.
A hurried breakfa=
st
was made on water-soaked ship's biscuit. Theriere and his searching party
stuffed their pockets full of them, and a moment later the search was on. F=
irst
the men traversed the trail toward the spring, looking for indications of t=
he
spot where Barbara Harding had ceased to follow them. The girl had worn
heelless buckskin shoes at the time she was taken from the Lotus, and these
left little or no spoor in the well-tramped earth of the narrow path; but a
careful and minute examination on the part of Theriere finally resulted in =
the
detection of a single small footprint a hundred yards from the point they h=
ad
struck the trail after ascending the cliffs. This far at least she had been=
with
them.
The men now spread
out upon either side of the track--Theriere and Red Sanders upon one side,
Byrne and Wison upon the other. Occasionally Theriere would return to the t=
rail
to search for further indications of the spoor they sought.
The party had
proceeded in this fashion for nearly half a mile when suddenly they were
attracted by a low exclamation from the mucker.
"Here!"=
he
called. "Here's Miller an' the Swede, an' they sure have mussed 'em up
turrible."
The others hasten=
ed
in the direction of his voice, to come to a horrified halt at the sides of =
the
headless trunks of the two sailors.
"Mon Dieu!&q=
uot;
exclaimed the Frenchman, reverting to his mother tongue as he never did exc=
ept
under the stress of great excitement.
"Who done
it?" queried Red Sanders, looking suspiciously at the mucker.
"Head-hunter=
s,"
said Theriere. "God! What an awful fate for that poor girl!"
Billy Byrne went
white.
"Yeh don't m=
ean
dat dey've lopped off her block?" he whispered in an awed voice. Somet=
hing
strange rose in the mucker's breast at the thought he had just voiced. He d=
id
not attempt to analyze the sensation; but it was far from joy at the sugges=
tion
that the woman he so hated had met a horrible and disgusting death at the h=
ands
of savages.
"I'm afraid =
not,
Byrne," said Theriere, in a voice that none there would have recognize=
d as
that of the harsh and masterful second officer of the Halfmoon.
"Yer afraid
not!" echoed Billy Byrne, in amazement.
"For her sak=
e I
hope that they did," said Theriere; "for such as she it would have
been a far less horrible fate than the one I fear they have reserved her
for."
"You
mean--" queried Byrne, and then he stopped, for the realization of just
what Theriere did mean swept over him quite suddenly.
There was no
particular reason why Billy Byrne should have felt toward women the finer
sentiments which are so cherished a possession of those men who have been
gently born and raised, even after they have learned that all women are not=
as
was the feminine ideal of their boyhood.
Billy's mother,
always foul-mouthed and quarrelsome, had been a veritable demon when drunk,=
and
drunk she had been whenever she could, by hook or crook, raise the price of
whiskey. Never, to Billy's recollection, had she spoken a word of endearmen=
t to
him; and so terribly had she abused him that even while he was yet a little
boy, scarce out of babyhood, he had learned to view her with a hatred as de=
ep-rooted
as is the affection of most little children for their mothers.
When he had come =
to
man's estate he had defended himself from the woman's brutal assaults as he
would have defended himself from another man--when she had struck, Billy had
struck back; the only thing to his credit being that he never had struck her
except in self-defense. Chastity in woman was to him a thing to joke of--he=
did
not believe that it existed; for he judged other women by the one he knew
best--his mother. And as he hated her, so he hated them all. He had doubly
hated Barbara Harding since she not only was a woman, but a woman of the cl=
ass he
loathed.
And so it was str=
ange
and inexplicable that the suggestion of the girl's probable fate should have
affected Billy Byrne as it did. He did not stop to reason about it at all--=
he
simply knew that he felt a mad and unreasoning rage against the creatures t=
hat
had borne the girl away. Outwardly Billy showed no indication of the turmoil
that raged within his breast.
"We gotta fi=
nd
her, bo," he said to Theriere. "We gotta find the skirt."
Ordinarily Billy =
would
have blustered about the terrible things he would do to the objects of his
wrath when once he had them in his power; but now he was strangely quiet--o=
nly
the firm set of his strong chin, and the steely glitter of his gray eyes ga=
ve
token of the iron resolution within.
Theriere, who had
been walking slowly to and fro about the dead men, now called the others to
him.
"Here's their
trail," he said. "If it's as plain as that all the way we won't be
long in overhauling them. Come along."
Before he had the
words half out of his mouth the mucker was forging ahead through the jungle
along the well-marked spoor of the samurai.
"Wot kind of=
men
do you suppose they are?" asked Red Sanders.
"Malaysian
head-hunters, unquestionably," replied Theriere.
Red Sanders shudd=
ered
inwardly. The appellation had a most gruesome sound.
"Come on!&qu=
ot;
cried Theriere, and started off after the mucker, who already was out of si=
ght
in the thick forest.
Red Sanders and W=
ison
took a few steps after the Frenchman. Theriere turned once to see that they
were following him, and then a turn in the trail hid them from his view. Red
Sanders stopped.
"Damme if I'm
goin' to get my coconut hacked off on any such wild-goose chase as this,&qu=
ot;
he said to Wison.
"The girl's
more'n likely dead long ago," said the other.
"Sure she
is," returned Red Sanders, "an' if we go buttin' into that there
thicket we'll be dead too. Ugh! Poor Miller. Poor Swenson. It's orful. Did =
you
see wot they done to 'em beside cuttin' off their heads?"
"Yes,"
whispered Wison, looking suddenly behind him.
Red Sanders gave a
little start, peering in the direction that his companion had looked.
"Wot was
it?" he whimpered. "Wot did you do that fer?"
"I thought I
seen something move there," replied Wison. "Fer Gawd's sake let's=
get
outen this," and without waiting for a word of assent from his compani=
on
the sailor turned and ran at breakneck speed along the little path toward t=
he
spot where Divine, Blanco, and Bony Sawyer were stationed. When they arrived
Bony was just on the point of setting out for the spring to fetch water, bu=
t at
sight of the frightened, breathless men he returned to hear their story.
"What's
up?" shouted Divine. "You men look as though you'd seen a ghost. =
Where
are the others?"
"They're all
murdered, and their heads cut off," cried Red Sanders. "We found =
the
bunch that got Miller, Swenson, and the girl. They'd killed 'em all and was
eatin' of 'em when we jumps 'em. Before we knew wot had happened about a
thousand more of the devils came runnin' up. They got us separated, and whe=
n we
seen Theriere and Byrne kilt we jest natch'rally beat it. Gawd, but it was
orful."
"Do you think
they will follow you?" asked Divine.
At the suggestion
every head turned toward the trail down which the two panic-stricken men had
just come. At the same moment a hoarse shout arose from the cove below and =
the
five looked down to see a scene of wild activity upon the beach. The defect=
ion
of Theriere's party had been discovered, as well as the absence of the girl=
and
the theft of the provisions.
Skipper Simms was
dancing about like a madman. His bellowed oaths rolled up the cliffs like
thunder. Presently Ward caught a glimpse of the men at the top of the cliff
above him.
"There they
are!" he cried.
Skipper Simms loo=
ked
up.
"The
swabs!" he shrieked. "A-stealin' of our grub, an' abductin' of th=
at there
pore girl. The swabs! Lemme to 'em, I say; jest lemme to 'em."
"We'd all be=
tter
go to 'em," said Ward. "We've got a fight on here sure. Gather up
some rocks, men, an' come along. Skipper, you're too fat to do any fightin'=
on
that there hillside, so you better stay here an' let one o' the men take yo=
ur
gun," for Ward knew so well the mettle of his superior that he much
preferred his absence to his presence in the face of real fighting, and with
the gun in the hands of a braver man it would be vastly more effective.
Ward himself was =
no
lover of a fight, but he saw now that starvation might stare them in the fa=
ce
with their food gone, and everything be lost with the loss of the girl. For
food and money a much more cowardly man than Bender Ward would fight to the
death.
Up the face of the
cliff they hurried, expecting momentarily to be either challenged or fired =
upon
by those above them. Divine and his party looked down with mixed emotions u=
pon
those who were ascending in so threatening a manner. They found themselves
truly between the devil and the deep sea.
Ward and his men =
were
halfway up the cliff, yet Divine had made no move to repel them. He glanced
timorously toward the dark forest behind from which he momentarily expected=
to
see the savage, snarling faces of the head-hunters appear.
"Surrender! =
You
swabs," called Ward from below, "or we'll string the last mother's
son of you to the yardarm."
For reply Blanco
hurled a heavy fragment of rock at the assaulters. It grazed perilously clo=
se
to Ward, against whom Blanco cherished a keen hatred. Instantly Ward's revo=
lver
barked, the bullet whistling close by Divine's head. L. Cortwrite Divine,
cotillion leader, ducked behind Theriere's breastwork, where he lay sprawled
upon his belly, trembling in terror.
Bony Sawyer and R=
ed
Sanders followed the example of their commander. Blanco and Wison alone made
any attempt to repel the assault. The big Negro ran to Divine's side and
snatched the terror-stricken man's revolver from his belt. Then turning he
fired at Ward. The bullet, missing its intended victim, pierced the heart o=
f a
sailor directly behind him, and as the man crumpled to the ground, rolling =
down
the steep declivity, his fellows sought cover.
Wison followed up=
the
advantage with a shower of well-aimed missiles, and then hostilities ceased
temporarily.
"Have they
gone?" queried Divine, with trembling lips, noticing the quiet that
followed the shot.
"Gone nothin=
',
yo big cowahd," replied Blanco. "Do yo done suppose dat two men is
a-gwine to stan' off five? Ef yo white-livered skunks 'ud git up an' fight =
we
might have a chanct. I'se a good min' to cut out yo cowahdly heart fer yo, =
das
wot I has--a-lyin' der on yo belly settin' dat kin' o' example to yo men!&q=
uot;
Divine's terror h=
ad
placed him beyond the reach of contumely or reproach.
"What's the =
use
of fighting them?" he whimpered. "We should never have left them.
It's all the fault of that fool Theriere. What can we do against the savage=
s of
this awful island if we divide our forces? They will pick us off a few at a
time just as they picked off Miller and Swenson, Theriere and Byrne. We oug=
ht
to tell Ward about it, and call this foolish battle off."
"Now you're
talkin'," cried Bony Sawyer. "I'm not a-goin' to squat up here any
longer with my friends a-shootin' at me from below an' a lot of wild heathen
creeping down on me from above to cut off my bloomin' head."
"Same
here!" chimed in Red Sanders.
Blanco looked tow=
ard
Wison. For his own part the Negro would not have been averse to returning to
the fold could the thing be accomplished without danger of reprisal on the =
part
of Skipper Simms and Ward; but he knew the men so well that he feared to tr=
ust
them even should they seemingly acquiesce to any such proposal. On the other
hand, he reasoned, it would be as much to their advantage to have the deser=
ters
return to them as it would to the deserters themselves, for when they had h=
eard
the story told by Red Sanders and Wison of the murder of the others of the
party they too would realize the necessity for maintaining the strength of =
the
little company to its fullest.
"I don't see
that we're goin' to gain nothin' by fightin' 'em," said Wison. "T=
here
ain't nothin' in it any more nohow for nobody since the girl's gorn. Let's
chuck it, an' see wot terms we can make with Squint Eye."
"Well,"
grumbled the Negro, "I can't fight 'em alone; What yo doin' dere,
Bony?"
During the
conversation Bony Sawyer had been busy with a stick and a piece of rag, and=
now
as he turned toward his companions once more they saw that he had rigged a
white flag of surrender. None interfered as he raised it above the edge of =
the
breastwork.
Immediately there=
was
a hail from below. It was Ward's voice.
"Surrenderin=
', eh?
Comin' to your senses, are you?" he shouted.
Divine, feeling t=
hat
immediate danger from bullets was past, raised his head above the edge of t=
he
earthwork.
"We have
something to communicate, Mr. Ward," he called.
"Spit it out,
then; I'm a-listenin'," called back the mate.
"Miss Hardin=
g,
Mr. Theriere, Byrne, Miller, and Swenson have been captured and killed by
native head-hunters," said Divine.
Ward's eyes went
wide, and he blew out his cheeks in surprise. Then his face went black with=
an
angry scowl.
"You see what
you done now, you blitherin' fools, you!" he cried, "with your fu=
nny
business? You gone an' killed the goose what laid the golden eggs. Thought
you'd get it all, didn't you? and now nobody won't get nothin', unless it is
the halter. Nice lot o' numbskulls you be, an' whimperin' 'round now expect=
in'
of us to take you back--well, I reckon not, not on your measly lives,"=
and
with that he raised his revolver to fire again at Divine.
The society man
toppled over backward into the pit behind the breastwork before Ward had a
chance to pull the trigger.
"Hol' on the=
re
mate!" cried Bony Sawyer; "there ain't no call now fer gettin'
excited. Wait until you hear all we gotta say. You can't blame us pore
sailormen. It was this here fool dude and that scoundrel Theriere that put =
us
up to it. They told us that you an' Skipper Simms was a-fixin' to double-cr=
oss
us all an' leave us here to starve on this Gawd-forsaken islan'. Theriere s=
aid
that he was with you when you planned it. That you wanted to git rid o' as =
many
of us as you could so that you'd have more of the ransom to divide. So all =
we
done was in self-defense, as it were.
"Why not let
bygones be bygones, an' all of us join forces ag'in' these murderin' heathe=
n?
There won't be any too many of us at best--Red an' Wison seen more'n two
thousan' of the man-eatin' devils. They're a-creepin' up on us from behin'
right this minute, an' you can lay to that; an' the chances are that they g=
ot
some special kind o' route into that there cove, an' maybe they're a-watchi=
n'
of you right now!"
Ward turned an
apprehensive glance to either side. There was logic in Bony's proposal. They
couldn't spare a man now. Later he could punish the offenders at his
leisure--when he didn't need them any further.
"Will you sw=
ear
on the Book to do your duty by Skipper Simms an' me if we take you back?&qu=
ot;
asked Ward.
"You bet,&qu=
ot;
answered Bony Sawyer.
The others nodded
their heads, and Divine sprang up and started down toward Ward.
"Hol' on
you!" commanded the mate. "This here arrangement don' include you=
--it's
jes' between Skipper Simms an' his sailors. You're a rank outsider, an' you
butts in an' starts a mutiny. Ef you come back you gotta stand trial fer
that--see?"
"You better<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> duck,
mister," advised Red
Sanders; "they'll hang=
you
sure."
Divine went white=
. To
face trial before two such men as Simms and Ward meant death, of that he was
positive. To flee into the forest meant death, almost equally certain, and =
much
more horrible. The man went to his knees, lifting supplicating hands to the
mate.
"For God's s=
ake,
Mr. Ward," he cried, "be merciful. I was led into this by Therier=
e.
He lied to me just as he did to the men. You can't kill me--it would be
murder--they'd hang you for it."
"We'll hang =
for
this muss you got us into anyway, if we're ever caught," growled the m=
ate.
"Ef you hadn't a-carried the girl off to be murdered we might have had
enough ransom money to have got clear some way, but now you gone and cooked=
the
whole goose fer the lot of us."
"You can col=
lect
ransom on me," cried Divine, clutching at a straw. "I'll pay a
hundred thousand myself the day you set me down in a civilized port, safe a=
nd
free."
Ward laughed in h=
is
face.
"You ain't g=
ot a
cent, you four-flusher," he cried. "Clinker put us next to that l=
ong
before we sailed from Frisco."
"Clinker
lies," cried Divine. "He doesn't know anything about it--I'm rich=
."
"Wot's de us=
e ob
chewin' de rag 'bout all dis," cried Blanco, seeing where he might squ=
are
himself with Ward and Simms easily. "Does yo' take back all us sailorm=
en,
Mr. Ward, an' promise not t' punish none o' us, ef we swear to stick by yo'=
all
in de future?"
"Yes,"
replied the mate.
Blanco took a step
toward Divine.
"Den yo come
along too as a prisoner, white man," and the burly black grasped Divin=
e by
the scruff of the neck and forced him before him down the steep trail toward
the cove, and so the mutineers returned to the command of Skipper Simms, an=
d L.
Cortwrite Divine went with them as a prisoner, charged with a crime the
punishment for which has been death since men sailed the seas.
FOR several minut=
es
Barbara Harding lay where she had collapsed after the keen short sword of t=
he
daimio had freed her from the menace of his lust.
She was in a
half-stupor that took cognizance only of a freezing terror and exhaustion.
Presently, however, she became aware of her contact with the corpse beside =
her,
and with a stifled cry she shrank away from it.
Slowly the girl
regained her self-control and with it came the realization of the extremity=
of
her danger. She rose to a sitting posture and turned her wide eyes toward t=
he
doorway to the adjoining room--the women and children seemed yet wrapped in
slumber. It was evident that the man's scream had not disturbed them.
Barbara gained her
feet and moved softly to the doorway. She wondered if she could cross the
intervening space to the outer exit without detection. Once in the open she
could flee to the jungle, and then there was a chance at least that she mig=
ht
find her way to the coast and Theriere.
She gripped the s=
hort
sword which she still held, and took a step into the larger room. One of the
women turned and half roused from sleep. The girl shrank back into the dark=
ness
of the chamber she had just quitted. The woman sat up and looked around. Th=
en
she rose and threw some sticks upon the fire that burned at one side of the
dwelling. She crossed to a shelf and took down a cooking utensil. Barbara s=
aw
that she was about to commence the preparation of breakfast.
All hope of escape
was thus ended, and the girl cautiously closed the door between the two roo=
ms.
Then she felt about the smaller apartment for some heavy object with which =
to
barricade herself; but her search was fruitless. Finally she bethought hers=
elf
of the corpse. That would hold the door against the accident of a child or =
dog
pushing it open--it would be better than nothing, but could she bring herse=
lf
to touch the loathsome thing?
The instinct of
self-preservation will work wonders even with a frail and delicate woman.
Barbara Harding steeled herself to the task, and after several moments of
effort she succeeded in rolling the dead man against the door. The scraping
sound of the body as she dragged it into position had sent cold shivers run=
ning
up her spine.
She had removed t=
he
man's long sword and armor before attempting to move him, and now she crouc=
hed
beside the corpse with both the swords beside her--she would sell her life
dearly. Theriere's words came back to her now as they had when she was
struggling in the water after the wreck of the Halfmoon: "but, by Geor=
ge,
I intend to go down fighting." Well, she could do no less.
She could hear the
movement of several persons in the next room now. The voices of women and
children came to her distinctly. Many of the words were Japanese, but others
were of a tongue with which she was not familiar.
Presently her own
chamber began to lighten. She looked over her shoulder and saw the first fa=
int
rays of dawn showing through a small aperture near the roof and at the oppo=
site
end of the room. She rose and moved quickly toward it. By standing on tiptoe
and pulling herself up a trifle with her hands upon the sill she was able to
raise her eyes above the bottom of the window frame.
Beyond she saw the
forest, not a hundred yards away; but when she attempted to crawl through t=
he
opening she discovered to her chagrin that it was too small to permit the
passage of her body. And then there came a knocking on the door she had just
quitted, and a woman's voice calling her lord and master to his morning mea=
l.
Barbara ran quick=
ly
across the chamber to the door, the long sword raised above her head in both
hands. Again the woman knocked, this time much louder, and raised her voice=
as
she called again upon Oda Yorimoto to come out.
The girl within w=
as
panic-stricken. What should she do? With but a little respite she might enl=
arge
the window sufficiently to permit her to escape into the forest, but the wo=
man
at the door evidently would not be denied. Suddenly an inspiration came to =
her.
It was a forlorn hope, but well worth putting to the test.
"Hush!"=
she
hissed through the closed door. "Oda Yorimoto sleeps. It is his wish t=
hat
he be not disturbed."
For a moment there
was silence beyond the door, and then the woman grunted, and Barbara heard =
her
turn back, muttering to herself. The girl breathed a deep sigh of relief--s=
he
had received a brief reprieve from death.
Again she turned =
to
the window, where, with the short sword, she commenced her labor of enlargi=
ng
it to permit the passage of her body. The work was necessarily slow because=
of
the fact that it must proceed with utter noiselessness.
For an hour she
worked, and then again came an interruption at the door. This time it was a
man.
"Oda Yorimoto
still sleeps," whispered the girl. "Go away and do not disturb hi=
m.
He will be very angry if you awaken him."
But the man would=
not
be put off so easily as had the woman. He still insisted.
"The daimio =
has
ordered that there shall be a great hunt today for the heads of the sei-yo-=
jin
who have landed upon Yoka," persisted the man. "He will be angry
indeed if we do not call him in time to accomplish the task today. Let me s=
peak
with him, woman. I do not believe that Oda Yorimoto still sleeps. Why shoul=
d I
believe one of the sei-yo-jin? It may be that you have bewitched the
daimio," and with that he pushed against the door.
The corpse gave a
little, and the man glued his eyes to the aperture. Barbara held the sword
behind her, and with her shoulder against the door attempted to reclose it.=
"Go away!&qu=
ot;
she cried. "I shall be killed if you awaken Oda Yorimoto, and, if you
enter, you, too, shall be killed."
The man stepped b=
ack
from the door, and Barbara could hear him in low converse with some of the
women of the household. A moment later he returned, and without a word of
warning threw his whole weight against the portal. The corpse slipped back
enough to permit the entrance of the man's body, and as he stumbled into the
room the long sword of the Lord of Yoka fell full and keen across the back =
of
his brown neck.
Without a sound he
lunged to the floor, dead; but the women without had caught a fleeting glim=
pse
of what had taken place within the little chamber, even before Barbara Hard=
ing
could slam the door again, and with shrieks of rage and fright they rushed =
into
the main street of the village shouting at the tops of their voices that Oda
Yorimoto and Hawa Nisho had been slain by the woman of the sei-yo-jin.
Instantly, the
village swarmed with samurai, women, children, and dogs. They rushed toward=
the
hut of Oda Yorimoto, filling the outer chamber where they jabbered excitedly
for several minutes, the warriors attempting to obtain a coherent story from
the moaning women of the daimio's household.
Barbara Harding
crouched close to the door, listening. She knew that the crucial moment was=
at
hand; that there were at best but a few moments for her to live. A silent
prayer rose from her parted lips. She placed the sharp point of Oda Yorimot=
o's
short sword against her breast, and waited--waited for the coming of the men
from the room beyond, snatching a few brief seconds from eternity ere she d=
rove
the weapon into her heart.
Theriere plunged through the jungle at a=
run
for several minutes before he caught sight of the mucker.
"Are you sti=
ll
on the trail?" he called to the man before him.
"Sure,"
replied Byrne. "It's dead easy. They must o' been at least a dozen of =
'em.
Even a mutt like me couldn't miss it."
"We want to =
go
carefully, Byrne," cautioned Theriere. "I've had experience with =
these
fellows before, and I can tell you that you never know when one of 'em is n=
ear
you till you feel a spear in your back, unless you're almighty watchful. We=
've
got to make all the haste we can, of course, but it won't help Miss Harding=
any
if we rush into an ambush and get our heads lopped off."
Byrne saw the wis=
dom
of his companion's advice and tried to profit by it; but something which se=
emed
to dominate him today carried him ahead at reckless, breakneck speed--the
flight of an eagle would have been all too slow to meet the requirements of=
his
unaccountable haste.
Once he found him=
self
wondering why he was risking his life to avenge or rescue this girl whom he
hated so. He tried to think that it was for the ransom--yes, that was it, t=
he
ransom. If he found her alive, and rescued her he should claim the lion's s=
hare
of the booty.
Theriere too wond=
ered
why Byrne, of all the other men upon the Halfmoon the last that he should h=
ave
expected to risk a thing for the sake of Miss Harding, should be the foremo=
st
in pursuit of her captors.
"I wonder how
far behind Sanders and Wison are," he remarked to Byrne after they had
been on the trail for the better part of an hour. "Hadn't we better wa=
it
for them to catch up with us? Four can do a whole lot more than two." =
"Not wen Bil=
ly
Byrne's one of de two," replied the mucker, and continued doggedly alo=
ng
the trail.
Another half-hour
brought them suddenly in sight of a native village, and Billy Byrne was for
dashing straight into the center of it and "cleaning it up," as he
put it, but Theriere put his foot down firmly on that proposition, and fina=
lly
Byrne saw that the other was right.
"The trail l=
eads
straight toward that place," said Theriere, "so I suppose here is
where they brought her, but which of the huts she's in now we ought to try =
to
determine before we make any attempt to rescue her. Well, by George! Now wh=
at
do you think of that?"
"Tink o'
wot?" asked the mucker. "Wot's eatin' yeh?"
"See those t=
hree
men down there in the village, Byrne?" asked the Frenchman. "They=
're
no more aboriginal headhunters than I am--they're Japs, man. There must be
something wrong with our trailing, for it's as certain as fate itself that =
Japs
are not head-hunters."
"There ain't
been nothin' fony about our trailin', bo," insisted Byrne, "an'
whether Japs are bean collectors or not here's where de ginks dat copped de
doll hiked fer, an if dey ain't dere now it's because dey went t'rough an' =
out
de odder side, see."
"Hush,
Byrne," whispered Theriere. "Drop down behind this bush. Someone =
is
coming along this other trail to the right of us," and as he spoke he =
dragged
the mucker down beside him.
For a moment they
crouched, breathless and expectant, and then the slim figure of an almost n=
ude
boy emerged from the foliage close beside and entered the trail toward the
village. Upon his head he bore a bundle of firewood.
When he was direc=
tly
opposite the watchers Theriere sprang suddenly upon him, clapping a silenci=
ng
hand over the boy's mouth. In Japanese he whispered a command for silence. =
"We shall not
harm you if you keep still," he said, "and answer our questions
truthfully. What village is that?"
"It is the c=
hief
city of Oda Yorimoto, Lord of Yoka," replied the youth. "I am Oda
Iseka, his son."
"And the lar=
ge
hut in the center of the village street is the palace of Oda Yorimoto?"
guessed Theriere shrewdly.
"It is."=
;
The Frenchman was=
not
unversed in the ways of orientals, and he guessed also that if the white gi=
rl
were still alive in the village she would be in no other hut than that of t=
he
most powerful chief; but he wished to verify his deductions if possible. He
knew that a direct question as to the whereabouts of the girl would call fo=
rth
either a clever oriental evasion or an equally clever oriental lie.
"Does Oda
Yorimoto intend slaying the white woman that was brought to his house last
night?" asked Theriere.
"How should =
the
son know the intentions of his father?" replied the boy.
"Is she still
alive?" continued Theriere.
"How should I
know, who was asleep when she was brought, and only heard the womenfolk this
morning whispering that Oda Yorimoto had brought home a new woman the night
before."
"Could you n=
ot
see her with your own eyes?" asked Theriere.
"My eyes can=
not
pass through the door of the little room behind, in which they still were w=
hen
I left to gather firewood a half hour since," retorted the youth.
"Wot's de Ch=
ink
sayin'?" asked Billy Byrne, impatient of the conversation, no word of
which was intelligible to him.
"He says, in
substance," replied Theriere, with a grin, "that Miss Harding is
still alive, and in the back room of that largest hut in the center of the
village street; but," and his face clouded, "Oda Yorimoto, the ch=
ief
of the tribe, is with her."
The mucker sprang=
to
his feet with an oath, and would have bolted for the village had not Therie=
re
laid a detaining hand upon his shoulder.
"It is too l=
ate,
my friend," he said sadly, "to make haste now. We may, if we are
cautious, be able to save her life, and later, possibly, avenge her wrong. =
Let
us act coolly, and after some manner of plan, so that we may work together,=
and
not throw our lives away uselessly. The chance is that neither of us will c=
ome
out of that village alive, but we must minimize that chance to the utmost i=
f we
are to serve Miss Harding."
"Well, wot's=
de
word?" asked the mucker, for he saw that Theriere was right.
"The jungle
approaches the village most closely on the opposite side--the side in rear =
of
the chief's hut," pointed out Theriere. "We must circle about unt=
il
we can reach that point undetected, then we may formulate further plans from
what our observations there develop."
"An' dis?&qu=
ot;
Byrne shoved a thumb at Oda Iseka.
"We'll take =
him
with us--it wouldn't be safe to let him go now."
"Why not cro=
ak
him?" suggested Byrne.
"Not unless =
we
have to," replied Theriere; "he's just a boy--we'll doubtless have
all the killing we want among the men before we get out of this."
"I never did
have no use fer Chinks," said the mucker, as though in extenuation of =
his
suggestion that they murder the youth. For some unaccountable reason he had
felt a sudden compunction because of his thoughtless remark. What in the wo=
rld
was coming over him, he wondered. He'd be wearing white pants and playing l=
awn
tennis presently if he continued to grow much softer and more unmanly.
So the three set =
out
through the jungle, following a trail which led around to the north of the
village. Theriere walked ahead with the boy's arm in his grasp. Byrne follo=
wed
closely behind. They reached their destination in the rear of Oda Yorimoto's
"palace" without interruption or detection. Here they reconnoiter=
ed
through the thick foliage.
"Dere's a li=
ttle
winder in de back of de house," said Byrne. "Dat must be where dem
guys cooped up de little broiler."
"Yes," =
said
Theriere, "it would be in the back room which the boy described. First
let's tie and gag this young heathen, and then we can proceed to business
without fear of alarm from him," and the Frenchman stripped a long, gr=
ass
rope from about the waist of his prisoner, with which he was securely truss=
ed
up, a piece of his loin cloth being forced into his mouth as a gag, and sec=
ured
there by another strip, torn from the same garment, which was passed around=
the
back of the boy's head.
"Rather
uncomfortable, I imagine," commented Theriere; "but not particula=
rly
painful or dangerous--and now to business!"
"I'm goin' to make a break fer dat winder," announced the mucker, "and youse sq= uat here in de tall grass wid yer gat an' pick off any fresh guys dat get gay in back here. Den, if I need youse you can come a-runnin' an' open up all over= de shop wid de artillery, or if I gets de lizzie outen de jug an' de Chinks pu= sh me too clost youse'll be here where yeh can pick 'em off easy-like." <= o:p>
"You'll be
taking all the risk that way, Byrne," objected Theriere, "and tha=
t's
not fair."
"One o' us is
pretty sure to get hurted," explained the mucker in defense of his pla=
n,
"an, if it's a croak it's a lot better dat it be me than youse, fer the
girl wouldn't be crazy about bein' lef' alone wid me--she ain't got no use =
fer
the likes o' me. Now youse are her kin, an' so youse stay here w'ere yeh can
help her after I git her out--I don't want nothing to do wid her anyhow. She
gives me a swift pain, and," he added as though it were an after-thoug=
ht,
"I ain't got no use fer dat ransom eider--youse can have dat, too.&quo=
t;
"Hold on,
Byrne," cried Theriere; "I have something to say, too. I do not s=
ee
how I can expect you to believe me; but under the circumstances, when one o=
f us
and maybe both are pretty sure to die before the day is much older, it woul=
dn't
be worth while lying. I do not want that damned ransom any more, either. I =
only
want to do what I can to right the wrong that I have helped to perpetrate
against Miss Harding. I--I--Byrne, I love her. I shall never tell her so, f=
or I
am not the sort of man a decent girl would care to marry; but I did want the
chance to make a clean breast to her of all my connection with the whole di=
rty
business, and get her forgiveness if I could; but first I wanted to prove m=
y repentance
by helping her to civilization in safety, and delivering her to her friends
without the payment of a cent of money. I may never be able to do that now;=
but
if I die in the attempt, and you don't, I wish that you would tell her what=
I
have just told you. Paint me as black as you can--you couldn't commence to =
make
me as black as I have been--but let her know that for love of her I turned
white at the last minute. Byrne, she is the best girl that you or I ever
saw--we're not fit to breathe the same air that she breathes. Now you can s=
ee
why I should like to go first."
"I t'ought y=
ouse
was soft on her," replied the mucker, "an' dat's de reason w'y yo=
use
otter not go first; but wot's de use o' chewin', les flip a coin to see w'i=
ch goes
an w'ich stays--got one?"
Theriere felt in =
his
trousers' pocket, fishing out a dime.
"Heads, you =
go;
tails, I go," he said and spun the silver piece in the air, catching i=
t in
the flat of his open palm.
"It's heads," said the mucker, grinning. "Gee! Wot's de racket?" <= o:p>
Both men turned
toward the village, where a jabbering mob of half-caste Japanese had sudden=
ly
appeared in the streets, hurrying toward the hut of Oda Yorimoto.
"Somepin doi=
n',
eh?" said the mucker. "Well, here goes--s'long!" And he broke
from the cover of the jungle and dashed across the clearing toward the rear=
of
Oda Yorimoto's hut.
BARBARA HARDING h=
eard
the samurai in the room beyond her prison advancing toward the door that
separated them from her. She pressed the point of the daimio's sword close =
to
her heart. A heavy knock fell upon the door and at the same instant the girl
was startled by a noise behind her--a noise at the little window at the far=
end
of the room.
Turning to face t=
his
new danger, she was startled into a little cry of surprise to see the head =
and
shoulders of the mucker framed in the broken square of the half-demolished
window.
The girl did not =
know
whether to feel renewed hope or utter despair. She could not forget the her=
oism
of her rescue by this brutal fellow when the Halfmoon had gone to pieces the
day before, nor could she banish from her mind his threats of violence towa=
rd
her, or his brutal treatment of Mallory and Theriere. And the question aros=
e in
her mind as to whether she would be any better off in his power than in the
clutches of the savage samurai.
Billy Byrne had h=
eard
the knock upon the door before which the girl knelt. He had seen the corpse=
s of
the dead men at her feet. He had observed the telltale position of the sword
which the girl held to her breast and he had read much of the story of the
impending tragedy at a glance.
"Cheer up,
kid!" he whispered. "I'll be wid youse in a minute, an' Theriere's
out here too, to help youse if I can't do it alone."
The girl turned
toward the door again.
"Wait,"=
she
cried to the samurai upon the other side, "until I move the dead men, =
then
you may come in, their bodies bar the door now."
All that kept the
warriors out was the fear that possibly Oda Yorimoto might not be dead after
all, and that should they force their way into the room without his permiss=
ion
some of them would suffer for their temerity. Naturally none of them was ke=
en
to lose his head for nothing, but the moment that the girl spoke of the dead
"men" they knew that Oda Yorimoto had been slain, too, and with o=
ne
accord they rushed the little door.
The girl threw all
her weight against her side, while the dead men, each to the extent of his =
own
weight, aided the woman who had killed them in her effort to repulse their
fellows; and behind the three Billy Byrne kicked and tore at the mud wall a=
bout
the window in a frantic effort to enlarge the aperture sufficiently to perm=
it
his huge bulk to pass through into the little room.
The mucker won to=
the
girl's side first, and snatching Oda Yorimoto's long sword from the floor he
threw his great weight against the door, and commanded the girl to make for=
the
window and escape to the forest as quickly as she could.
"Theriere is
waiting dere," he said. "He will see youse de moment yeh reach de
window, and den youse will be safe."
"But you!&qu=
ot;
cried the girl. "What of you?"
"Never yeh m=
ind
me," commanded Billy Byrne. "Youse jes' do as I tells yeh, see? N=
ow,
beat it," and he gave her a rough shove toward the window.
And then, between=
the
combined efforts of the samurai upon one side and Billy Byrne of Kelly's ga=
ng
upon the other the frail door burst from its rotten hinges and fell to one
side.
The first of the
samurai into the little room was cleft from crown to breast bone with the k=
een
edge of the sword of the Lord of Yoka wielded by the mighty arm of the muck=
er.
The second took the count with a left hook to the jaw, and then all that co=
uld
crowd through the little door swarmed upon the husky bruiser from Grand Ave=
nue.
Barbara Harding t=
ook
one look at the carnage behind her and then sprang to the window. At a short
distance she saw the jungle and at its edge what she was sure was the figur=
e of
a man crouching in the long grass.
"Mr.
Theriere!" she cried. "Quick! They are killing Byrne," and t=
hen she
turned back into the room, and with the short sword which she still grasped=
in
her hand sprang to the side of the mucker who was offering his life to save
her.
Byrne cast a
horrified glance at the figure fighting by his side.
"Fer de love=
o'
Mike! Beat it!" he cried. "Duck! Git out o' here!"
But the girl only
smiled up bravely into his face and kept her place beside him. The mucker t=
ried
to push her behind him with one hand while he fought with the other, but she
drew away from him to come up again a little farther from him.
The samurai were
pushing them closely now. Three men at a time were reaching for the mucker =
with
their long swords. He was bleeding from numerous wounds, but at his feet lay
two dead warriors, while a third crawled away with a mortal wound in his
abdomen.
Barbara Harding
devoted her energies to thrusting and cutting at those who tried to press p=
ast
the mucker, that they might take him from behind. The battle could not last
long, so unequal were the odds. She saw the room beyond filled with surging
warriors all trying to force their way within reach of the great white man =
who
battled like some demigod of old in the close, dark, evil warren of the dai=
mio.
She shot a side
glance at the man. He was wonderful! The fire of battle had transformed him=
. No
longer was he the sullen, sulky, hulking brute she had first known upon the
Halfmoon. Instead, huge, muscular, alert, he towered above his pygmy
antagonists, his gray eyes gleaming, a half-smile upon his strong lips.
She saw the long
sword, wielded awkwardly in his unaccustomed hands, beat down the weapons of
his skilled foemen by the very ferocity of its hurtling attack. She saw it =
pass
through a man's shoulder, cleaving bone and muscle as if they had been chee=
se,
until it stopped two-thirds across its victim's body, cutting him almost in
two.
She saw a samurai
leap past her champion's guard in an attempt to close upon him with a dagge=
r,
and when she had rushed forward to thwart the fellow's design she had seen
Byrne swing his mighty left to the warrior's face with a blow that might we=
ll
have felled an ox. Then another leaped into closer quarters and she saw Byr=
ne
at the same instant bury his sword in the body of a dark-visaged devil who
looked more Malay than Jap, and as the stricken man fell she saw the hilt o=
f the
mucker's blade wrenched from his grip by the dead body of his foe. The samu=
rai
who had closed upon Byrne at that instant found his enemy unarmed, and with=
a
howl of delight he struck full at the broad chest with his long, thin dagge=
r.
But Billy Byrne w=
as
not to be dispatched so easily. With his left forearm he struck up the hand
that wielded the menacing blade, and then catching the fellow by the should=
er
swung him around, grasped him about the waist and lifting him above his head
hurled him full in the faces of the swordsmen who were pressing through the
narrow doorway.
Almost simultaneo=
usly
a spear shot through a tiny opening in the ranks before Billy Byrne, and wi=
th a
little gasp of dismay the huge fellow pitched forward upon his face. At the
same instant a shot rang out behind Barbara Harding, and Theriere leaped pa=
st
her to stand across the body of the fallen mucker.
With the sound of=
the
shot a samurai sank to the floor, dead, and the others, unaccustomed to
firearms, drew back in dismay. Again Theriere fired point-blank into the
crowded room, and this time two men fell, struck by the same bullet. Once m=
ore
the warriors retreated, and with an exultant yell Theriere followed up his
advantage by charging menacingly upon them. They stood for a moment, then
wavered, turned and fled from the hut.
When Theriere tur=
ned
back toward Barbara Harding he found her kneeling beside the mucker.
"Is he
dead?" asked the Frenchman.
"No. Can we =
lift
him together and get him through that window?"
"It is the o=
nly
way," replied Theriere, "and we must try it."
They seized upon =
the
huge body and dragged it to the far end of the room, but despite their best
efforts the two were not able to lift the great, inert mass of flesh and bo=
ne
and muscle and pass it through the tiny opening.
"What shall =
we
do?" cried Theriere.
"We must stay
here with him," replied Barbara Harding. "I could never desert the
man who has fought so noble a fight for me while a breath of life remained =
in
him."
Theriere groaned.=
"Nor I,"=
; he
said; "but you--he has given his life to save yours. Should you render=
his
sacrifice of no avail now?"
"I cannot go
alone," she answered simply, "and I know that you will not leave =
him.
There is no other way--we must stay."
At this juncture =
the
mucker opened his eyes.
"Who hit
me?" he murmured. "Jes' show me de big stiff." Theriere coul=
d not
repress a smile. Barbara Harding again knelt beside the man.
"No one hit =
you,
Mr. Byrne," she said. "You were struck by a spear and are badly
wounded."
Billy Byrne opened
his eyes a little wider, turning them until they rested on the beautiful fa=
ce
of the girl so close to his.
"MR. Byrne!" he ejaculated in
disgust. "Forget it. Wot do youse tink I am, one of dose
paper-collar dudes?"
Then he sat up. B=
lood
was flowing from a wound in his chest, saturating his shirt, and running sl=
owly
to the earth floor. There were two flesh wounds upon his head--one above the
right eye and the other extending entirely across the left cheek from below=
the
eye to the lobe of the ear--but these he had received earlier in the fracas.
From crown to heel the man was a mass of blood. Through his crimson mask he
looked at the pile of bodies in the far end of the room, and a broad grin c=
racked
the dried blood about his mouth.
"Wot we done=
to
dem Chinks was sure a plenty, kiddo," he remarked to Miss Harding, and
then he came to his feet, seemingly as strong as ever, shaking himself like=
a
great bull. "But I guess it's lucky youse butted in when you did, old
pot," he added, turning toward Theriere; "dey jest about had me d=
own
fer de long count."
Barbara Harding w=
as
looking at the man in wide-eyed amazement. A moment before she had been
expecting him, momentarily, to breathe his last--now he was standing before=
her
talking as unconcernedly as though he had not received a scratch--he seemed
totally unaware of his wounds. At least he was entirely indifferent to them=
.
"You're pret=
ty
badly hurt, old man," said Theriere. "Do you feel able to make the
attempt to get to the jungle? The Japs will be back in a moment."
"Sure!"
cried Billy Byrne. "Come ahead," and he sprang for the window. &q=
uot;Pass
de kid up to me. Quick! Dey're comin' from in back."
Theriere lifted
Barbara Harding to the mucker who drew her through the opening. Then Billy
extended a hand to the Frenchman, and a moment later the three stood togeth=
er
outside the hut.
A dozen samurai w=
ere
running toward them from around the end of the "Palace." The jung=
le
lay a hundred yards across the clearing. There was no time to be lost.
"You go first
with Miss Harding," cried Theriere. "I'll cover our retreat with =
my
revolver, following close behind you."
The mucker caught=
the
girl in his arms, throwing her across his shoulder. The blood from his woun=
ds
smeared her hands and clothing.
"Hang tight,
kiddo," he cried, and started at a brisk trot toward the forest.
Theriere kept clo=
se
behind the two, reserving his fire until it could be effectively delivered.
With savage yells the samurai leaped after their escaping quarry. The nativ=
es
all carried the long, sharp spears of the aboriginal head-hunters. Their sw=
ords
swung in their harness, and their ancient armor clanked as they ran.
It was a strange,
weird picture that the oddly contrasted party presented as they raced across
the clearing of this forgotten isle toward a jungle as primitive as when
"the evening and the morning were the third day." An American gir=
l of
the highest social caste borne in the arms of that most vicious of all soci=
al
pariahs--the criminal mucker of the slums of a great city--and defending th=
em
with drawn revolver, a French count and soldier of fortune, while in their =
wake
streamed a yelling pack of half-caste demons clothed in the habiliments of =
sixteenth
century Japan, and wielding the barbarous spears of the savage head-hunting
aborigines whose fierce blood coursed in their veins with that of the
descendants of Taka-mi-musu-bi-no-kami.
Three-quarters of=
the
distance had been covered in safety before the samurai came within safe spe=
ar
range of the trio. Theriere, seeing the danger to the girl, dropped back a =
few
paces hoping to hold the brown warriors from her. The foremost of the pursu=
ers
raised his weapon aloft, carrying his spear hand back of his shoulder for t=
he
throw. Theriere's revolver spoke, and the man pitched forward, rolling over=
and
over before he came to rest.
A howl of rage we=
nt
up from the samurai, and a half-dozen spears leaped at long range toward
Theriere. One of the weapons transfixed his thigh, bringing him to earth. B=
yrne
was at the forest's edge as the Frenchman fell--it was the girl, though, who
witnessed the catastrophe.
"Stop!"=
she
cried. "Mr. Theriere is down."
The mucker halted,
and turned his head in the direction of the Frenchman, who had raised himse=
lf
to one elbow and was firing at the advancing enemy. He dropped the girl to =
her
feet.
"Wait
here!" he commanded and sprang back toward Theriere.
Before he reached=
him
another spear had caught the man full in the chest, toppling him, unconscio=
us,
to the earth. The samurai were rushing rapidly upon the wounded officer--it=
was
a question who would reach him first.
Theriere had been
nipped in the act of reloading his revolver. It lay beside him now, the
cylinder full of fresh cartridges. The mucker was first to his side, and
snatching the weapon from the ground fired coolly and rapidly at the advanc=
ing
Japanese. Four of them went down before that deadly fusillade; but the muck=
er
cursed beneath his breath because of his two misses.
Byrne's stand che=
cked
the brown men momentarily, and in the succeeding lull the man lifted the
unconscious Frenchman to his shoulder and bore him back to the forest. In t=
he
shelter of the jungle they laid him upon the ground. To the girl it seemed =
that
the frightful wound in his chest must prove fatal within a few moments.
Byrne, apparently
unmoved by the seriousness of Theriere's condition, removed the man's cartr=
idge
belt and buckled it about his own waist, replacing the six empty shells in =
the
revolver with six fresh ones. Presently he noticed the bound and gagged Oda
Iseka lying in the brush behind them where he and Theriere had left him. The
samurai were now sneaking cautiously toward their refuge. A sudden inspirat=
ion
came to the mucker.
"Didn't I he=
ar
youse chewin' de rag wit de Chinks wen I hit de dump over dere?" he as=
ked
of Barbara.
The girl, oddly,
understood him. She nodded her head, affirmatively.
"Youse savvy
deyre lingo den, eh?"
"A little.&q=
uot;
"Tell dis gazimbat to wise his pals to de fact dat I'll croak 'im, if dey don't beat = it, an' let us make our get-away. Theriere says as how he's kink when his ole m= an croaks, an' his ole man was de guy youse put to sleep in de chicken coop,&q= uot; explained the mucker lucidly; "so dis slob's kink hisself now." <= o:p>
Barbara Harding w=
as
quick to see the strength of the man's suggestion. Stepping to the edge of =
the
clearing in full view of the advancing enemy, with the mucker at her side,
revolver in hand, she called to them in the language of their forbears to
listen to her message. Then she explained that they held the son of Oda
Yorimoto prisoner, and that his life would be the price of any further atta=
ck
upon them.
The samurai confe=
rred
together for a moment, then one of them called out that they did not believe
her, that Oda Iseka, son of Oda Yorimoto, was safe in the village.
"Wait!"
replied the girl. "We will show him to you," and turning to Byrne=
she
asked him to fetch the youth.
When the white man
returned with the boy in his arms, a wail of mingled anguish and rage rose =
from
the natives.
"If you mole=
st
us no further we shall not harm him," cried Barbara, "and when we
leave your island we shall set him free; but renew your attack upon us and =
this
white man who holds him says that he will cut out his heart and feed it to =
the
fox," which was rather a bloodthirsty statement for so gentle a charac=
ter
as Barbara Harding; but she knew enough of the superstitious fears of the
ancient Japanese to feel confident that this threat would have considerable
weight with the subjects of the young Lord of Yoka.
Again the natives
conferred in whispers. Finally he who had acted as spokesman before turned
toward the strangers.
"We shall not
harm you," he said, "so long as you do not harm Oda Iseka; but we
shall watch you always until you leave the island, and if harm befalls him =
then
shall you never leave, for we shall kill you all."
Barbara translated
the man's words to the mucker.
"Do youse fa=
ll
fer dat?" he asked.
"I think they
will be careful to make no open assault upon us," replied the girl;
"but never for an instant must we cease our watchfulness for at the fi=
rst
opportunity I am sure that they will murder us."
They turned back =
to
Theriere now. The man still lay, unconscious and moaning, where Byrne had
deposited him. The mucker removed the gag from Oda Iseka's mouth.
"Which way is
water? Ask him," he said to Barbara.
The girl put the
question.
"He says that
straight up this ravine behind us there is a little spring," translated
the girl.
Byrne lifted Ther=
iere
in his arms, after loosening Oda Iseka's feet and tethering him to his own =
belt
with the same grass rope; then he motioned the youth up the ravine.
"Walk beside
me," he said to Barbara Harding, "an' keep yer lamps peeled behin=
d."
Thus, in silence,=
the
party commenced the ascent of the trail which soon became rough and
precipitous, while behind them, under cover of the brush, sneaked four trai=
ling
samurai.
After half an hou=
r of
the most arduous climbing the mucker commenced to feel the effects of loss =
of
blood from his many wounds. He coughed a little now from the exertion, and =
when
he did the blood spurted anew from the fresh wound in his breast.
Yet there was no
wavering or weakness apparent to the girl who marched beside him, and she
wondered at the physical endurance of the man. But when at last they came t=
o a
clear pool of water, half hidden by overhanging rocks and long masses of
depending mosses, in the midst of a natural grotto of enchanting loveliness,
and Oda Iseka signaled that their journey was at an end, Byrne laid Theriere
gently upon the flower-starred sward, and with a little, choking gasp
collapsed, unconscious, beside the Frenchman.
Barbara Harding w=
as
horror-stricken. She suddenly realized that she had commenced to feel that =
this
giant of the slums was invulnerable, and with the thought came another--tha=
t to
him she had come to look more than to Theriere for eventual rescue; and now,
here she found herself in the center of a savage island, surrounded as she =
felt
confident she was by skulking murderers, with only two dying white men and a
brown hostage as companions.
And now Oda Iseka
took in the situation, and with a grin of triumph raised his voice in a loud
halloo.
"Come quickl=
y,
my people!" he cried; "for both the white men are dying," and
from the jungle below them came an answering shout.
"We come, Oda
Iseka, Lord of Yoka! Your faithful samurai come!"
AT THE sound of t=
he
harsh voices so close upon her Barbara Harding was galvanized into instant
action. Springing to Byrne's side she whipped Theriere's revolver from his
belt, where it reposed about the fallen mucker's hips, and with it turned l=
ike
a tigress upon the youth.
"Quick!"
she cried. "Tell them to go back--that I shall kill you if they come
closer."
The boy shrank ba=
ck
in terror before the fiery eyes and menacing attitude of the white girl, and
then with the terror that animated him ringing plainly in his voice he scre=
amed
to his henchmen to halt.
Relieved for a mo=
ment
at least from immediate danger Barbara Harding turned her attention toward =
the
two unconscious men at her feet. From appearances it seemed that either mig=
ht
breathe his last at any moment, and as she looked at Theriere a wave of
compassion swept over her, and the tears welled to her eyes; yet it was to =
the
mucker that she first ministered--why, she could not for the life of her ha=
ve
explained.
She dashed cold w=
ater
from the spring upon his face. She bathed his wrists, and washed his wounds,
tearing strips from her skirt to bandage the horrid gash upon his breast in=
an
effort to stanch the flow of lifeblood that welled forth with the man's eve=
ry
breath.
And at last she w=
as
rewarded by seeing the flow of blood quelled and signs of returning
consciousness appear. The mucker opened his eyes. Close above him bent the
radiant vision of Barbara Harding's face. Upon his fevered forehead he felt=
the
soothing strokes of her cool, soft hand. He closed his eyes again to battle
with the effeminate realization that he enjoyed this strange, new
sensation--the sensation of being ministered to by a gentle woman--and, per=
ish
the thought, by a gentlewoman!
With an effort he
raised himself to one elbow, scowling at her.
"Gwan,"=
he
said; "I ain't no boob dude. Cut out de mush. Lemme be. Beat it!"=
Hurt, more than s=
he
would have cared to admit, Barbara Harding turned away from her ungrateful =
and
ungracious patient, to repeat her ministrations to the Frenchman. The mucker
read in her expression something of the wound his words had inflicted, and =
he
lay thinking upon the matter for some time, watching her deft, white finger=
s as
they worked over the scarce breathing Theriere.
He saw her wash t=
he
blood and dirt from the ghastly wound in the man's chest, and as he watched=
he
realized what a world of courage it must require for a woman of her stamp t=
o do
gruesome work of this sort. Never before would such a thought have occurred=
to
him. Neither would he have cared at all for the pain his recent words to the
girl might have inflicted. Instead he would have felt keen enjoyment of her=
discomfiture.
And now another
strange new emotion took possession of him. It was none other than a desire=
to
atone in some way for his words. What wonderful transformation was taking p=
lace
in the heart of the Kelly gangster?
"Say!" =
he
blurted out suddenly.
Barbara Harding
turned questioning eyes toward him. In them was the cold, haughty aloofness
again that had marked her cognizance of him upon the Halfmoon--the look that
had made his hate of her burn most fiercely. It took the mucker's breath aw=
ay
to witness it, and it made the speech he had contemplated more difficult th=
an
ever--nay, almost impossible. He coughed nervously, and the old dark, lower=
ing
scowl returned to his brow.
"Did you
speak?" asked Miss Harding, icily.
Billy Byrne clear=
ed
his throat, and then there blurted from his lips not the speech that he had
intended, but a sudden, hateful rush of words which seemed to emanate from
another personality, from one whom Billy Byrne once had been.
"Ain't dat b=
oob
croaked yet?" he growled.
The shock of that
brutal question brought Barbara Harding to her feet. In horror she looked d=
own
at the man who had spoken thus of a brave and noble comrade in the face of
death itself. Her eyes blazed angrily as hot, bitter words rushed to her li=
ps,
and then of a sudden she thought of Byrne's self-sacrificing heroism in
returning to Theriere's side in the face of the advancing samurai--of the c=
ool
courage he had displayed as he carried the unconscious man back to the
jungle--of the devotion, almost superhuman, that had sustained him as he
struggled, uncomplaining, up the steep mountain path with the burden of the=
Frenchman's
body the while his own lifeblood left a crimson trail behind him.
Such deeds and th=
ese
words were incompatible in the same individual. There could be but one
explanation--Byrne must be two men, with as totally different characters as
though they had possessed separate bodies. And who may say that her hypothe=
sis
was not correct--at least it seemed that Billy Byrne was undergoing a metam=
orphosis,
and at the instant there was still a question as to which personality shoul=
d eventually
dominate.
Byrne turned away
from the reproach which replaced the horror in the girl's eyes, and with a
tired sigh let his head fall upon his outstretched arm. The girl watched him
for a moment, a puzzled expression upon her face, and then returned to work
above Theriere.
The Frenchman's
respiration was scarcely appreciable, yet after a time he opened his eyes a=
nd
looked up wearily. At sight of the girl he smiled wanly, and tried to speak,
but a fit of coughing flecked his lips with bloody foam, and again he closed
his eyes. Fainter and fainter came his breathing, until it was with difficu=
lty
that the girl detected any movement of his breast whatever. She thought tha=
t he
was dying, and she was afraid. Wistfully she looked toward the mucker. The =
man
still lay with his head buried in his arm, but whether he were wrapped in
thought, in slumber, or in death the girl could not tell. At the final thou=
ght she
went white with terror.
Slowly she approa=
ched
the man, and leaning over placed her hand upon his shoulder.
"Mr.
Byrne!" she whispered.
The mucker turned=
his
face toward her. It looked tired and haggard.
"Wot is
it?" he asked, and his tone was softer than she had ever heard it.
"I think Mr.
Theriere is dying," she said, "and I--I-- Oh, I am so afraid.&quo=
t;
The man flushed to
the roots of his hair. All that he could think of were the ugly words he had
spoken a short time before--and now Theriere was dying! Byrne would have
laughed had anyone suggested that he entertained any other sentiment than
hatred toward the second officer of the Halfmoon--that is he would have
twenty-four hours before; but now, quite unexpectedly, he realized that he
didn't want Theriere to die, and then it dawned upon him that a new sentime=
nt
had been born within him--a sentiment to which he had been a stranger all h=
is
hard life--friendship.
He felt friendship
for Theriere! It was unthinkable, and yet the mucker knew that it was so.
Painfully he crawled over to the Frenchman's side.
"Theriere!&q=
uot;
he whispered in the man's ear.
The officer turned
his head wearily.
"Do youse kn=
ow
me, old pal?" asked the mucker, and Barbara Harding knew from the man's
voice that there were tears in his eyes; but what she did not know was that
they welled there in response to the words the mucker had just spoken--the
nearest approach to words of endearment that ever had passed his lips.
Theriere reached =
up
and took Byrne's hand. It was evident that he too had noted the unusual qua=
lity
of the mucker's voice.
"Yes, old
man," he said very faintly, and then "water, please."
Barbara Harding
brought him a drink, holding his head against her knee while he drank. The =
cool
liquid seemed to give him new strength for presently he spoke, quite strong=
ly.
"I'm going,
Byrne," he said; "but before I go I want to tell you that of all =
the
brave men I ever have known I have learned within the past few days to beli=
eve
that you are the bravest. A week ago I thought you were a coward--I ask your
forgiveness."
"Ferget
it," whispered Byrne, "fer a week ago I guess I was a coward. Dere
seems to be more'n one kind o' nerve--I'm jest a-learnin' of the right kind=
, I
guess."
"And,
Byrne," continued Theriere, "don't forget what I asked of you bef=
ore
we tossed up to see which should enter Oda Yorimoto's house."
"I'll not
ferget," said Billy.
"Good-bye,
Byrne," whispered Theriere. "Take good care of Miss Harding."=
;
"Good-bye, o=
ld
pal," said the mucker. His voice broke, and two big tears rolled down =
the
cheeks of "de toughest guy on de Wes' Side."
Barbara Harding
stepped to Theriere's side.
"Good-bye, my
friend," she said. "God will reward you for your friendship, your
bravery, and your devotion. There must be a special honor roll in heaven for
such noble men as you." Theriere smiled sadly.
"Byrne will =
tell
you all," he said, "except who I am--he does not know that."=
"Is there any
message, my friend," asked the girl, "that you would like to have=
me
deliver?"
Theriere remained
silent for a moment as though thinking.
"My name,&qu=
ot;
he said, "is Henri Theriere. I am the Count de Cadenet of France. Ther=
e is
no message, Miss Harding, other than you see fit to deliver to my relatives.
They lived in Paris the last I heard of them--my brother, Jacques, was a
deputy."
His voice had bec=
ome
so low and weak that the girl could scarce distinguish his words. He gasped
once or twice, and then tried to speak again. Barbara leaned closer, her ear
almost against his lips.
"Good-bye--d=
ear."
The words were almost inaudible, and then the body stiffened with a little
convulsive tremor, and Henri Theriere, Count de Cadenet, passed over into t=
he
keeping of his noble ancestors.
"He's
gone!" whispered the girl, dry-eyed but suffering. She had not loved t=
his
man, she realized, but she had learned to think of him as her one true frie=
nd
in their little world of scoundrels and murderers. She had cared for him ve=
ry
much--it was entirely possible that some day she might have come to return =
his
evident affection for her. She knew nothing of the seamy side of his hard l=
ife.
She had guessed nothing of the scoundrelly duplicity that had marked his fi=
rst
advances toward her. She thought of him only as a true, brave gentleman, an=
d in
that she was right, for whatever Henri Theriere might have been in the past=
the
last few days of his life had revealed him in the true colors that birth an=
d nature
had intended him to wear through a brilliant career. In his death he had at=
oned
for many sins.
And in those last=
few
days he had transferred, all unknown to himself or the other man, a measure=
of
the gentility and chivalry that were his birthright, for, unrealizing, Billy
Byrne was patterning himself after the man he had hated and had come to lov=
e.
After the girl's
announcement the mucker had continued to sit with bowed head staring at the
ground. Afternoon had deepened into evening, and now the brief twilight of =
the
tropics was upon them--in a few moments it would be dark.
Presently Byrne
looked up. His eyes wandered about the tiny clearing. Suddenly he staggered=
to
his feet. Barbara Harding sprang up, startled by the evident alarm in the m=
an's
attitude.
"What is
it?" she whispered. "What is the matter?"
"De Chink!&q=
uot;
he cried. "Where is de Chink?"
And, sure enough,=
Oda
Iseka had disappeared!
The youthful daim=
io
had taken advantage of the preoccupation of his captors during the last mom=
ents
of Theriere to gnaw in two the grass rope which bound him to the mucker, and
with hands still fast bound behind him had slunk into the jungle path that =
led
toward his village.
"They will be
upon us again now at any moment," whispered the girl. "What can we
do?"
"We better
duck," replied the mucker. "I hates to run away from a bunch of
Chinks, but I guess it's up to us to beat it."
"But poor Mr.
Theriere?" asked the girl.
"I'll have to
bury him close by," replied the mucker. "I don't tink I could pack
him very fer tonight--I don't feel jest quite fit agin yet. You wouldn't mi=
nd
much if I buried him here, would you?"
"There is no
other way, Mr. Byrne," replied the girl. "You mustn't think of tr=
ying
to carry him far. We have done all we can for poor Mr. Theriere--you have
almost given your life for him already--and it wouldn't do any good to carry
his dead body with us."
"I hates to =
tink
o' dem head-huntin' Chinks gettin' him," replied Byrne; "but mayb=
e I
kin hide his grave so's dey won't tumble to it."
"You are in =
no
condition to carry him at all," said the girl. "I doubt if you ca=
n go
far even without any burden."
The mucker grinne=
d.
"Youse don't
know me, miss," he said, and stooping he lifted the body of the French=
man
to his broad shoulder, and started up the hillside through the trackless
underbrush.
It would have bee=
n an
impossible feat for an ordinary man in the pink of condition, but the mucke=
r,
weak from pain and loss of blood, strode sturdily upward while the marveling
girl followed close behind him. A hundred yards above the spring they came =
upon
a little level spot, and here with the two swords of Oda Yorimoto which they
still carried they scooped a shallow grave in which they placed all that was
mortal of the Count de Cadenet.
Barbara Harding
whispered a short prayer above the new-made grave, while the mucker stood w=
ith
bowed head beside her. Then they turned to their flight again up the wild f=
ace
of the savage mountain. The moon came up at last to lighten the way for the=
m,
but it was a rough and dangerous climb at best. In many places they were fo=
rced
to walk hand in hand for considerable distances, and twice the mucker had
lifted the girl bodily in his arms to bear her across particularly dangerou=
s or
difficult stretches.
Shortly after midnight they struck a small mountain stream up which they followed until i= n a natural cul-de-sac they came upon its source and found their farther progre= ss barred by precipitous cliffs which rose above them, sheer and unscalable. <= o:p>
They had entered =
the
little amphitheater through a narrow, rocky pass in the bottom of which the
tiny stream flowed, and now, weak and tired, the mucker was forced to admit
that he could go no farther.
"Who'd o'
t'ought dat I was such a sissy?" he exclaimed disgustedly.
"I think that
you are very wonderful, Mr. Byrne," replied the girl. "Few men co=
uld
have gone through what you have today and been alive now."
The mucker made a
deprecatory gesture.
"I suppose we
gotta make de best of it," he said. "Anyhow, dis ought to make a
swell joint to defend."
Weak as he was he
searched about for some soft grasses which he threw in a pile beneath a stu=
nted
tree that grew well back in the hollow.
"Here's yer
downy," he said, with an attempt at jocularity. "Now you'd better=
hit
de hay, fer youse must be dead fagged."
"Thanks!&quo=
t;
replied the girl. "I AM nearly dead."
So tired was she =
that
she was asleep almost as soon as she had found a comfortable position in the
thick mat of grass, so that she gave no thought to the strange position in
which circumstance had placed her.
The sun was well =
up
the following morning before the girl awakened, and it was several minutes
before she could readjust herself to her strange surroundings. At first she
thought that she was alone, but finally she discerned a giant figure standi=
ng
at the opening which led from their mountain retreat.
It was the mucker,
and at sight of him there swept over the girl the terrible peril of her
position--alone in the savage mountains of a savage island with the murdere=
r of
Billy Mallory--the beast that had kicked the unconscious Theriere in the
face--the mucker who had insulted and threatened to strike her! She shudder=
ed
at the thought. And then she recalled the man's other side, and for the lif=
e of
her she could not tell whether to be afraid of him or not--it all depended =
upon
what mood governed him. It would be best to propitiate him. She called a
pleasant good morning.
Byrne turned. She=
was
shocked at the pallor of his haggard face.
"Good
morning," he said. "How did yeh sleep?"
"Oh, just
splendidly, and you?" she replied.
"So-so,"=
; he
answered.
She looked at him
searchingly as he approached her.
"Why I don't
believe that you have slept at all," she cried.
"I didn't fe=
el
very sleepy," he replied evasively.
"You sat up =
all
night on guard!" she exclaimed. "You know you did."
"De Chinks m=
ight
o' been shadowin' us--it wasn't safe to sleep," he admitted; "but
I'll tear off a few dis mornin' after we find a feed of some kind."
"What can we
find to eat here?" she asked.
"Dis crick is
full o' fish," he explained, "an' ef youse got a pin I guess we k=
in
rig up a scheme to hook a couple."
The girl found a =
pin
that he said would answer very nicely, and with a shoe lace for a line and a
big locust as bait the mucker set forth to angle in the little mountain
torrent. The fish, unwary, and hungry thus early in the morning proved easy
prey, and two casts brought forth two splendid specimens.
"I could eat=
a
dozen of dem minnows," announced the mucker, and he cast again and aga=
in,
until in twenty minutes he had a goodly mess of plump, shiny trout on the g=
rass
beside him.
With his pocketkn=
ife
he cleaned and scaled them, and then between two rocks he built a fire and
passing sticks through the bodies of his catch roasted them all. They had
neither salt, nor pepper, nor butter, nor any other viand than the fish, bu=
t it
seemed to the girl that never in her life had she tasted so palatable a mea=
l, nor
had it occurred to her until the odor of the cooking fish filled her nostri=
ls
that no food had passed her lips since the second day before--no wonder that
the two ate ravenously, enjoying every mouthful of their repast.
"An' now,&qu=
ot;
said Billy Byrne, "I tink I'll poun' my ear fer a few. You kin keep yer
lamps peeled fer de Chinks, an' de first fony noise youse hears, w'y be sur=
e to
wake me up," and with that he rolled over upon the grass, asleep almos=
t on
the instant.
The girl, to while
away the time, explored their rock-bound haven. She found that it had but a
single means of ingress, the narrow pass through which the brook found outl=
et.
Beyond the entrance she did not venture, but through it she saw, beneath, a
wooded slope, and twice deer passed quite close to her, stopping at the bro=
ok
to drink.
It was an ideal s=
pot,
one whose beauties appealed to her even under the harrowing conditions which
had forced her to seek its precarious safety. In another land and with
companions of her own kind she could well imagine the joy of a fortnight sp=
ent
in such a sylvan paradise.
The thought arous=
ed
another--how long would the mucker remain a safe companion? She seemed to be
continually falling from the frying pan into the fire. So far she had not b=
een
burned, but with returning strength, and the knowledge of their utter isola=
tion
could she expect this brutal thug to place any check upon his natural desir=
es?
Why there were few
men of her own station in life with whom she would have felt safe to spend a
fortnight alone upon a savage, uncivilized island! She glanced at the man w=
here
he lay stretched in deep slumber. What a huge fellow he was! How helpless w=
ould
she be were he to turn against her! Yet his very size; yes, and the brutali=
ty
she feared, were her only salvation against every other danger than he hims=
elf.
The man was physically a natural protector, for he was able to cope with od=
ds and
dangers to which an ordinary man would long since have succumbed. So she fo=
und
that she was both safer and less safe because the mucker was her companion.=
As she pondered t=
he
question her eyes roved toward the slope beyond the opening to the
amphitheater. With a start she came to her feet, shading her eyes with her =
hand
and peering intently at something that she could have sworn moved among the
trees far below. No, she could not be mistaken--it was the figure of a man.=
Swiftly she ran to
Byrne, shaking him roughly by the shoulder.
"Someone is
coming," she cried, in response to his sleepy query.
TOGETHER the girl=
and
the mucker approached the entrance to the amphitheater. From behind a shoul=
der
of rock they peered down into the forest below them. For several minutes
neither saw any cause for alarm.
"I guess you=
se
must o' been seein' things," said Byrne, drily.
"Yes," =
said
the girl, "and I see them again. Look! Quick! Down there--to the
right."
Byrne looked in t=
he
direction she indicated.
"Chinks,&quo=
t;
he commented. "Gee! Look at 'em comin'. Dere must be a hundred of
'em."
He turned a rueful
glance back into the amphitheater.
"I dunno as =
dis
place looks as good to me as it did," he remarked. "Dose yaps wid=
de
toad stabbers could hike up on top o' dese cliffs an' make it a case o' 'th=
ence
by carriages to Calvary' for ours in about two shakes."
"Yes," =
said
the girl, "I'm afraid it's a regular cul-de-sac."
"I dunno not=
hin'
about dat," replied the mucker; "but I do know dat if we wants to=
get
out o' here we gotta get a hump on ourselves good an' lively. Come ahead,&q=
uot;
and with his words he ran quickly through the entrance, and turning squarely
toward the right skirted the perpendicular cliffs that extended as far as t=
hey
could see to be lost to view in the forest that ran up to meet them from be=
low.
The trees and
underbrush hid them from the head-hunters. There had been danger of detecti=
on
but for the brief instant that they passed through the entrance of the holl=
ow,
but at the time they had chosen the enemy had been hidden in a clump of thi=
ck
brush far down the slope.
For hours the two=
fugitives
continued their flight, passing over the crest of a ridge and downward towa=
rd
another valley, until by a small brook they paused to rest, hopeful that th=
ey
had entirely eluded their pursuers.
Again Byrne fishe=
d,
and again they sat together at a one-course meal. As they ate the man found
himself looking at the girl more and more often. For several days the wonde=
r of
her beauty had been growing upon him, until now he found it difficult to ta=
ke
his eyes from her. Thrice she surprised him in the act of staring intently =
at
her, and each time he had dropped his eyes guiltily. At length the girl bec=
ame
nervous, and then terribly frightened--was it coming so soon?
The man had talked
but little during this meal, and for the life of her Barbara Harding could =
not
think of any topic with which to distract his attention from his thoughts. =
"Hadn't we
better be moving on?" she asked at last.
Byrne gave a litt=
le
start as though surprised in some questionable act.
"I suppose
so," he said; "this ain't no place to spend the night--it's too o=
pen.
We gotta find a sort o' hiding place if we can, dat a fellow kin barricade =
wit
something."
Again they took up
their seemingly hopeless march--an aimless wandering in search of they knew=
not
what. Away from one danger to possible dangers many fold more terrible.
Barbara's heart was very heavy, for again she feared and mistrusted the muc=
ker.
They followed down
the little brook now to where it emptied into a river and then down the val=
ley
beside the river which grew wider and more turbulent with every mile. Well =
past
mid-afternoon they came opposite a small, rocky island, and as Byrne's eyes
fell upon it an exclamation of gratification burst from his lips.
"Jest de place!" he cried. "We orter be able to hide dere forever." <= o:p>
"But how are=
we
to get there?" asked the girl, looking fearfully at the turbulent rive=
r.
"It ain't
deep," Byrne assured her. "Come ahead; I'll carry yeh acrost,&quo=
t; and
without waiting for a reply he gathered her in his arms and started down the
bank.
What with the
thoughts that had occupied his mind off and on during the afternoon the sud=
den
and close contact of the girl's warm young body close to his took Billy Byr=
ne's
breath away, and sent the hot blood coursing through his veins. It was with=
the
utmost difficulty that he restrained a mad desire to crush her to him and c=
over
her face with kisses.
And then the fatal
thought came to him--why should he restrain himself? What was this girl to =
him?
Had he not always hated her and her kind? Did she not look with loathing and
contempt upon him? And to whom did her life belong anyway but to him--had he
not saved it twice? What difference would it make? They'd never come out of
this savage world alive, and if he didn't take her some monkey-faced Chink
would get her.
They were in the
middle of the stream now. Byrne's arms already had commenced to tighten upon
the girl. With a sudden tug he strove to pull her face down to his; but she=
put
both hands upon his shoulders and held his lips at arms' length. And her wi=
de
eyes looked full into the glowing gray ones of the mucker. And each saw in =
the
other's something that held their looks for a full minute.
Barbara saw what =
she
had feared, but she saw too something else that gave her a quick, pulsing
hope--a look of honest love, or could she be mistaken? And the mucker saw t=
he
true eyes of the woman he loved without knowing that he loved her, and he s=
aw
the plea for pity and protection in them.
"Don't,"
whispered the girl. "Please don't, you frighten me."
A week ago Billy =
Byrne
would have laughed at such a plea. Doubtless, too, he would have struck the
girl in the face for her resistance. He did neither now, which spoke volumes
for the change that was taking place within him, but neither did he relax h=
is
hold upon her, or take his burning eyes from her frightened ones.
Thus he strode
through the turbulent, shallow river to clamber up the bank onto the island=
. In
his soul the battle still raged, but he had by no means relinquished his
intention to have his way with the girl. Fear, numb, freezing fear, was in =
the
girl's eyes now. The mucker read it there as plain as print, and had she not
said that she was frightened? That was what he had wanted to accomplish back
there upon the Halfmoon--to frighten her. He would have enjoyed the sight, =
but
he had not been able to accomplish the thing. Now she not only showed that =
she
was frightened--she had admitted it, and it gave the mucker no pleasure--on=
the
contrary it made him unaccountably uncomfortable.
And then came the
last straw--tears welled to those lovely eyes. A choking sob wracked the gi=
rl's
frame--"And just when I was learning to trust you so!" she cried.=
They had reached =
the
top of the bank, now, and the man, still holding her in his arms, stood upo=
n a
mat of jungle grass beneath a great tree. Slowly he lowered her to her feet.
The madness of desire still gripped him; but now there was another force at
work combating the evil that had predominated before.
Theriere's words =
came
back to him: "Good-bye, Byrne; take good care of Miss Harding," a=
nd
his admission to the Frenchman during that last conversation with the dying
man: "--a week ago I guess I was a coward. Dere seems to be more'n one
kind o' nerve--I'm just a-learnin' of the right kind, I guess."
He had been stand=
ing
with eyes upon the ground, his heavy hand still gripping the girl's arm. He
looked into her face again. She was waiting there, her great eyes upon his
filled with fear and questioning, like a prisoner before the bar awaiting t=
he
sentence of her judge.
As the man looked=
at
Barbara Harding standing there before him he saw her in a strange new light,
and a sudden realization of the truth flashed upon him. He saw that he could
not harm her now, or ever, for he loved her!
And with the
awakening there came to Billy Byrne the withering, numbing knowledge that h=
is
love must forever be a hopeless one--that this girl of the aristocracy could
never be for such as he.
Barbara Harding,
still looking questioningly at him, saw the change that came across his
countenance--she saw the swift pain that shot to the man's eyes, and she
wondered. His fingers released their grasp upon her arm. His hands fell lim=
ply
to his sides.
"Don't be
afraid," he said. "Please don't be afraid o' me. I couldn't hurt
youse if I tried."
A deep sigh of re=
lief
broke from the girl's lips--relief and joy; and she realized that its cause=
was
as much that the man had proved true to the new estimate she had recently
placed upon him as that the danger to herself had passed.
"Come,"
said Billy Byrne, "we'd better move in a bit out o' sight o' de mainla=
nd,
an' look fer a place to make camp. I reckon we'd orter rest here for a few =
days
till we git in shape ag'in. I know youse must be dead beat, an' I sure am, =
all
right, all right."
Together they sou=
ght
a favorable site for their new home, and it was as though the horrid specte=
r of
a few moments before had never risen to menace them, for the girl felt that=
a
great burden of apprehension had been lifted forever from her shoulders, and
though a dull ache gnawed at the mucker's heart, still he was happier than =
he
had ever been before--happy to be near the woman he loved.
With the long swo=
rd
of Oda Yorimoto, Billy Byrne cut saplings and bamboo and the fronds of fan
palms, and with long tough grasses bound them together into the semblance o=
f a
rude hut. Barbara gathered leaves and grasses with which she covered the fl=
oor.
"Number One,
Riverside Drive," said the mucker, with a grin, when the work was
completed; "an' now I'll go down on de river front an' build de Bowery=
."
"Oh, are you
from New York?" asked the girl.
"Not on yer
life," replied Billy Byrne. "I'm from good ol' Chi; but I been to=
Noo
York twict wit de Goose Island Kid, an' so I knows all about it. De roughne=
cks
belongs on de Bowery, so dat's wot we'll call my dump down by de river. You=
're
a highbrow, so youse gotta live on Riverside Drive, see?" and the muck=
er
laughed at his little pleasantry.
But the girl did =
not
laugh with him. Instead she looked troubled.
"Wouldn't you
rather be a 'highbrow' too?" she asked, "and live up on Riverside
Drive, right across the street from me?"
"I don't
belong," said the mucker gruffly.
"Wouldn't you
rather belong?" insisted the girl.
All his life Billy
had looked with contempt upon the hated, pusillanimous highbrows, and now t=
o be
asked if he would not rather be one! It was unthinkable, and yet, strange to
relate, he realized an odd longing to be like Theriere, and Billy Mallory; =
yes,
in some respects like Divine, even. He wanted to be more like the men that =
the
woman he loved knew best.
"It's too la=
te
fer me ever to belong, now," he said ruefully. "Yeh gotta be born=
ed
to it. Gee! Wouldn't I look funny in wite pants, an' one o' dem dinky, litt=
le
'Willie-off-de-yacht' lids?"
Even Barbara had =
to
laugh at the picture the man's words raised to her imagination.
"I didn't me=
an
that," she hastened to explain. "I didn't mean that you must
necessarily dress like them; but BE like them--act like them--talk like the=
m,
as Mr. Theriere did, you know. He was a gentleman."
"An' I'm
not," said Billy.
"Oh, I didn't
mean THAT," the girl hastened to explain.
"Well, wheth=
er
youse meant it or not, it's so," said the mucker. "I ain't no
gent--I'm a mucker. I have your word for it, you know--yeh said so that tim=
e on
de Halfmoon, an' I ain't fergot it; but youse was right--I am a mucker. I a=
in't
never learned how to be anything else. I ain't never wanted to be anything =
else
until today. Now, I'd like to be a gent; but it's too late."
"Won't you
try?" asked the girl. "For my sake?"
"Go to't,&qu=
ot;
returned the mucker cheerfully; "I'd even wear side whiskers fer
youse."
"Horrors!&qu= ot; exclaimed Barbara Harding. "I couldn't look at you if you did." <= o:p>
"Well, then,
tell me wot youse do want me to do."
Barbara discovered
that her task was to be a difficult one if she were to accomplish it without
wounding the man's feelings; but she determined to strike while the iron was
hot and risk offending him--why she should be interested in the regeneratio=
n of
Mr. Billy Byrne it never once occurred to her to ask herself. She hesitated=
a
moment before speaking.
"One of the
first things you must do, Mr. Byrne," she said, "is to learn to s=
peak
correctly. You mustn't say 'youse' for 'you,' or 'wot' for 'what'---you must
try to talk as I talk. No one in the world speaks any language faultlessly,=
but
there are certain more or less obvious irregularities of grammar and
pronunciation that are particularly distasteful to people of refinement, and
which are easy to guard against if one be careful."
"All right," said Billy Byrne, "youse--you kin pitch in an' learn me w= ot--whatever you want to an' I'll do me best to talk like a dude--fer your sake." <= o:p>
And so the mucker=
's
education commenced, and as there was little else for the two to do it
progressed rapidly, for once started the man grew keenly interested, spurre=
d on
by the evident pleasure which his self-appointed tutor took in his
progress--further it meant just so much more of close companionship with he=
r.
For three weeks t=
hey
never left the little island except to gather fruit which grew hard by on t=
he
adjacent mainland. Byrne's wounds had troubled him considerably--at times he
had been threatened with blood poisoning. His temperature had mounted once =
to
alarming heights, and for a whole night Barbara Harding had sat beside him
bathing his forehead and easing his sufferings as far as it lay within her
power to do; but at last the wonderful vitality of the man had saved him. He
was much weakened though and neither of them had thought it safe to attempt=
to
seek the coast until he had fully regained his old-time strength.
So far but little=
had
occurred to give them alarm. Twice they had seen natives on the
mainland--evidently hunting parties; but no sign of pursuit had developed.
Those whom they had seen had been pure-blood Malays--there had been no samu=
rai
among them; but their savage, warlike appearance had warned the two against
revealing their presence.
They had subsisted
upon fish and fruit principally since they had come to the island. Occasion=
ally
this diet had been relieved by messes of wild fowl and fox that Byrne had b=
een
successful in snaring with a primitive trap of his own invention; but lately
the prey had become wary, and even the fish seemed less plentiful. After two
days of fruit diet, Byrne announced his intention of undertaking a hunting =
trip
upon the mainland.
"A mess of
venison wouldn't taste half bad," he remarked.
"Yes,"
cried the girl, "I'm nearly famished for meat--it seems as though I co=
uld
almost eat it raw."
"I know that=
I
could," stated Billy. "Lord help the deer that gets within range =
of
this old gat of Theriere's, and you may not get even a mouthful--I'm that
hungry I'll probably eat it all, hoof, hide, and horns, before ever I get a=
ny
of it back here to you."
"You'd better
not," laughed the girl. "Good-bye and good luck; but please don't=
go
very far--I shall be terribly lonely and frightened while you are away.&quo=
t;
"Maybe you'd
better come along," suggested Billy.
"No, I shoul=
d be
in the way--you can't hunt deer with a gallery, and get any."
"Well, I'll =
stay
within hailing distance, and you can look for me back any time between now =
and
sundown. Good-bye," and he picked his way down the bank into the river,
while from behind a bush upon the mainland two wicked, black eyes watched h=
is
movements and those of the girl on the shore behind him while a long, sinew=
y,
brown hand closed more tightly upon a heavy war spear, and steel muscles te=
nsed
for the savage spring and the swift throw.
The girl watched
Billy Byrne forging his way through the swift rapids. What a mighty engine =
of
strength and endurance he was! What a man! Yes, brute! And strange to relate
Barbara Harding found herself admiring the very brutality that once had been
repellent to her. She saw him leap lightly to the opposite bank, and then s=
he
saw a quick movement in a bush close at his side. She did not know what man=
ner
of thing had caused it, but her intuition warned her that behind that
concealing screen lay mortal danger to the unconscious man.
"Billy!"
she cried, the unaccustomed name bursting from her lips involuntarily. &quo=
t;In
the bush at your left--look out!"
At the note of
warning in her voice Byrne had turned at her first word--it was all that sa=
ved
his life. He saw the half-naked savage and the out-shooting spear arm, and =
as
he would, instinctively, have ducked a right-for-the-head in the squared ci=
rcle
of his other days, he ducked now, side stepping to the right, and the heavy
weapon sped harmlessly over his shoulder.
The warrior, with=
a
growl of rage, drew his sharp parang, leaping to close quarters. Barbara
Harding saw Byrne whip Theriere's revolver from its holster, and snap it in=
the
face of the savage; but to her horror the cartridge failed to explode, and
before he could fire again the warrior was upon him.
The girl saw the
white man leap to one side to escape the furious cut aimed at him by his fo=
e,
and then she saw him turn with the agility of a panther and spring to close
quarters with the wild man. Byrne's left arm went around the Malay's neck, =
and
with his heavy right fist he rained blow after blow upon the brown face.
The savage dropped
his useless parang--clawing and biting at the mighty creature in whose powe=
r he
found himself; but never once did those terrific, relentless blows cease to
fall upon his unprotected face.
The sole witness =
to
this battle primeval stood spellbound at the sight of the fierce, brutal
ferocity of the white man, and the lion-like strength he exhibited. Slowly =
but
surely he was beating the face of his antagonist into an unrecognizable pul=
p--with
his bare hands he had met and was killing an armed warrior. It was incredib=
le!
Not even Theriere or Billy Mallory could have done such a thing. Billy Mall=
ory!
And she was gazing with admiration upon his murderer!
AFTER Byrne had
dropped the lifeless form of his enemy to the ground he turned and retraced=
his
steps toward the island, a broad grin upon his face as he climbed to the gi=
rl's
side.
"I guess I'd
better overhaul this gat," he said, "and stick around home. It is=
n't
safe to leave you alone here--I can see that pretty plainly. Gee, supposin'=
I'd
got out of sight before he showed himself!" And the man shuddered visi=
bly
at the thought.
The girl had not
spoken and the man looked up suddenly, attracted by her silence. He saw a l=
ook
of horror in her eyes, such as he had seen there once before when he had ki=
cked
the unconscious Theriere that time upon the Halfmoon.
"What's the
matter?" he asked, alarmed. "What have I done now? I had to croak=
the
stiff--he'd have got me sure if I hadn't, and then he'd have got you, too. I
had to do it for your sake--I'm sorry you saw it."
"It isn't
that," she said slowly. "That was very brave, and very wonderful.
It's Mr. Mallory I'm thinking of. O Billy! How could you do it?"
The man hung his
head.
"Please
don't," he begged. "I'd give my life to bring him back again, for
your sake. I know now that you loved him, and I've tried to do all I could =
to
atone for what I did to him; just as I tried to play white with Theriere wh=
en I
found that he loved you, and intended to be on the square with you. He was =
your
kind, and I hoped that by helping him to win you fairly it might help to wi=
pe
out what I had done to Mallory. I see that nothing ever can wipe that out. =
I've
got to go through life regretting it because you have taught me what a brut=
al,
cowardly thing I did. If it hadn't been for you I'd always have been proud =
of
it--but you and Theriere taught me to look at things in a different way tha=
n I
ever had learned to before. I'm not sorry for that--I'm glad, for if remors=
e is
a part of my punishment I'll take it gladly and welcome the chance to get a
little of what's coming to me. Only please don't look at me that way any
more--it's more than I can stand, from you."
It was the first =
time
that the man ever had opened his heart in any such whole-souled way to her,=
and
it touched the girl more than she would have cared to admit.
"It would be
silly to tell you that I ever can forget that terrible affair," she sa=
id;
"but somehow I feel that the man who did that was an entirely different
man from the man who has been so brave and chivalrous in his treatment of me
during the past few weeks."
"It was me t=
hat
did it, though," he said; "you can't get away from that. It'll al=
ways
stick in your memory, so that you can never think of Mr. Mallory without
thinking of the damned beast that murdered him--God! and I thought it smart=
!
"But you hav=
e no
idea how I was raised, Miss Harding," he went on. "Not that that's
any excuse for the thing I did; but it does make it seem a wonder that I ev=
er
could have made a start even at being decent. I never was well acquainted w=
ith
any human being that wasn't a thief, or a pickpocket, or a murderer--and th=
ey
were all beasts, each in his own particular way, only they weren't as decen=
t as
dumb beasts.
"I wasn't as
crafty as most of them, so I had to hold my own by brute force, and I did i=
t;
but, gad, how I accomplished it. The idea of fighting fair," he laughe=
d at
the thought, "was utterly unknown to me. If I'd ever have tried it I'd
have seen my finish in a hurry. No one fought fair in my gang, or in any ot=
her
gang that I ever ran up against. It was an honor to kill a man, and if you
accomplished it by kicking him to death when he was unconscious it detracted
nothing from the glory of your exploit--it was WHAT you did, not HOW you did
it, that counted.
"I could have
been decent, though, if I'd wanted to. Other fellows who were born and rais=
ed
near me were decent enough. They got good jobs and stuck to them, and lived
straight; but they made me sick--I looked down on them, and spent my time
hanging around saloon corners rushing the can and insulting women--I didn't
want to be decent--not until I met you, and learned to--to," he hesita=
ted,
stammering, and the red blood crept up his neck and across his face, "=
and
learned to want your respect."
It wasn't what he=
had
intended saying and the girl knew it. There sprang into her mind a sudden w=
ish
to hear Billy Byrne say the words that he had dared not say; but she prompt=
ly
checked the desire, and a moment later a qualm of self-disgust came over her
because of the weakness that had prompted her to entertain such a wish in
connection with a person of this man's station in life.
Days ran into wee=
ks,
and still the two remained upon their little island refuge. Byrne found fir=
st
one excuse and then another to delay the march to the sea. He knew that it =
must
be made sooner or later, and he knew, too, that its commencement would mark=
the
beginning of the end of his association with Miss Harding, and that after t=
hat
was ended life would be a dreary waste.
Either they would=
be
picked up by a passing vessel or murdered by the natives, but in the latter
event his separation from the woman he loved would be no more certain or
absolute than in her return to her own people, for Billy Byrne knew that he
"didn't belong" in any society that knew Miss Barbara Harding, an=
d he
feared that once they had regained civilization there would be a return on =
the
girl's part to the old haughty aloofness, and that again he would be to her
only a creature of a lower order, such as she and her kind addressed with a
patronizing air as, "my man."
He intended, of
course, to make every possible attempt to restore her to her home; but, he
argued, was it wrong to snatch a few golden hours of happiness in return for
his service, and as partial recompense for the lifetime of lonely misery th=
at
must be his when the woman he loved had passed out of his life forever? Bil=
ly
thought not, and so he tarried on upon "Manhattan Island," as Bar=
bara
had christened it, and he lived in the second finest residence in town upon=
the
opposite side of "Riverside Drive" from the palatial home of Miss
Harding.
Nearly two months=
had
passed before Billy's stock of excuses and delay ran out, and a definite da=
te
was set for the commencement of the journey.
"I
believe," Miss Harding had said, "that you do not wish to be resc=
ued at
all. Most of your reasons for postponing the trip have been trivial and
ridiculous--possibly you are afraid of the dangers that may lie before
us," she added, banteringly.
"I'm afraid
you've hit it off about right," he replied with a grin. "I don't =
want
to be rescued, and I am very much afraid of what lies before--me."
"Before
YOU?"
"I'm going to
lose you, any way you look at it, and--and--oh, can't you see that I love
you?" he blurted out, despite all his good intentions.
Barbara Harding
looked at him for a moment, and then she did the one thing that could have =
hurt
him most--she laughed.
The color mounted=
to
Billy Byrne's face, and then he went very white.
The girl started =
to
say something, and at the same instant there came faintly to them from the
mainland the sound of hoarse shouting, and of shots.
Byrne turned and
started on a run in the direction of the firing, the girl following closely
behind. At the island's edge he motioned her to stop.
"Wait here, =
it
will be safer," he said. "There may be white men there--those sho=
ts
sound like it, but again there may not. I want to find out before they see =
you,
whoever they are."
The sound of firi=
ng
had ceased now, but loud yelling was distinctly audible from down the river.
Byrne took a step down the bank toward the water.
"Wait!"
whispered the girl. "Here they come now, we can see them from here in a
moment," and she dragged the mucker down behind a bush.
In silence the two
watched the approaching party.
"They're the
Chinks," announced Byrne, who insisted on using this word to describe =
the
proud and haughty samurai.
"Yes, and th=
ere
are two white men with them," whispered Barbara Harding, a note of
suppressed excitement in her voice.
"Prisoners,&=
quot;
said Byrne. "Some of the precious bunch from the Halfmoon doubtless.&q=
uot;
The samurai were
moving straight up the edge of the river. In a few minutes they would pass
within a hundred feet of the island. Billy and the girl crouched low behind
their shelter.
"I don't
recognize them," said the man.
"Why--why--O=
Mr.
Byrne, it can't be possible!" cried the girl with suppressed excitemen=
t.
"Those two men are Captain Norris and Mr. Foster, mate of the Lotus!&q=
uot;
Byrne half rose to
his feet. The party was opposite their hiding place now.
"Sit
tight," he whispered. "I'm goin' to get 'em," and then, fier=
cely
"for your sake, because I love you--now laugh," and he was gone. =
He ran lightly do=
wn
the river bank unnoticed by the samurai who had already passed the island. =
In
one hand he bore the long war spear of the head-hunter he had slain. At his
belt hung the long sword of Oda Yorimoto, and in its holster reposed the
revolver of the Count de Cadenet.
Barbara Harding
watched him as be forded the river, and clambered up the opposite bank. She=
saw
him spring rapidly after the samurai and their prisoners. She saw his spear
hand go up, and then from the deep lungs of the man rose a savage yell that
would have done credit to a whole tribe of Apaches.
The warriors turn=
ed
in time to see the heavy spear flying toward them and then, as he dashed in=
to
their midst, Billy Byrne drew his revolver and fired to right and left. The=
two
prisoners took advantage of the consternation of their guards to grapple wi=
th
them and possess themselves of weapons.
There had been but
six samurai in the party, two had fallen before Byrne's initial onslaught, =
but
the other four, recovered from their first surprise, turned now to battle w=
ith
all the terrific ferocity of their kind.
Again, at a cruci=
al
moment, had Theriere's revolver missed fire, and in disgust Byrne discarded=
it,
falling back upon the long sword with which he was no match for the samurai.
Norris snatched Byrne's spear from the ground, and ran it through the body =
of
one of the Japs who was pressing Byrne too closely. Odds were even now--they
fought three against three.
Norris still clun=
g to
the spear--it was by far the most effective weapon against the long swords =
of the
samurai. With it he killed his antagonist and then rushed to the assistance=
of
Foster.
Barbara Harding f=
rom
the island saw that Byrne's foe was pressing him closely. The white man had=
no
chance against the superior swordsmanship of the samurai. She saw that the
mucker was trying to get past the Jap's guard and get his hands upon him, b=
ut
it was evident that the man was too crafty and skilled a fighter to permit =
of
that. There could be but one outcome to that duel unless Byrne had assistan=
ce,
and that mighty quickly. The girl grasped the short sword that she constant=
ly
wore now, and rushed into the river. She had never before crossed it except=
in Byrne's
arms. She found the current swift and strong. It almost swept her off her f=
eet
before she was halfway across, but she never for an instant thought of
abandoning her effort.
After what seemed=
an
eternity she floundered out upon the mainland, and when she reached the top=
of
the bank she saw to her delight that Byrne was still on his feet, fighting.
Foster and Norris were pushing their man back--they were in no danger.
Quickly she ran
toward Byrne and the samurai. She saw a wicked smile upon the brown face of=
the
little warrior, and then she saw his gleaming sword twist in a sudden feint,
and as Byrne lunged out awkwardly to parry the expected blow the keen edge
swerved and came down upon his head.
She was an instant
too late to save, but just in time to avenge--scarcely had the samurai's sw=
ord
touched the mucker than the point of Oda Yorimoto's short sword, wielded by=
the
fair hand of Barbara Harding, plunged into his heart. With a shriek he
collapsed beside the body of his victim.
Barbara Harding t=
hrew
herself beside Byrne. Apparently life was extinct. With a little cry of hor=
ror
the girl put her ear close to the man's lips. She could hear nothing.
"Come back! =
Come
back!" she wailed. "Forgive me that cruel laugh. O Billy! Billy! I
love you!" and the daughter of old Anthony Harding, multimillionaire a=
nd
scion of the oldest aristocracy that America boasts, took the head of the G=
rand
Avenue mucker in her arms and covered the white, bloody face with kisses--a=
nd
in the midst of it Billy Byrne opened his eyes.
She was caught in=
the
act. There was no escape, and as a crimson flush suffused her face Billy By=
rne
put his arms about her and drew her down until their lips met, and this time
she did not put her hands upon his shoulders and push him away. "I love
you, Billy," she said simply.
"Remember who
and what I am," he cautioned, fearful lest this great happiness be sto=
len
away from him because she had forgotten for the moment.
"I love you
Billy," she answered, "for what you ARE."
"Forever?&qu=
ot;
"Until death=
do
us part!"
And then Norris a=
nd
Foster, having dispatched their man, came running up.
"Is he badly
hurt, madam?" cried Captain Norris.
"I don't
know," replied Miss Harding; "I'm just trying to help him up, Cap=
tain
Norris," she laboriously explained in an effort to account for her arms
about Billy's neck.
Norris gave a sta=
rt
of surprise at hearing his name.
"Who are
you?" he cried. "How do you know me?" and as the girl turned=
her
face toward him, "Miss Harding! Thank God, Miss Harding, you are safe.=
"
"But where on
earth did you come from?" asked Barbara.
"It's a long
story, Miss Harding," replied the officer, "and the ending of it =
is
going to be pretty hard on you--you must try to bear up though."
"You don't m=
ean
that father is dead?" she asked, a look of terror coming to her eyes. =
"Not that--we
hope," replied Norris. "He has been taken prisoner by these half-=
breed
devils on the island. I doubt if they have killed him--we were going to his
rescue when we ourselves were captured. He and Mr. Mallory were taken three
days ago."
"Mallory!&qu=
ot;
shouted Billy Byrne, who had entirely recovered from the blow that had mere=
ly
served to stun him for a moment. "Is Mallory alive?"
"He was
yesterday," replied Norris; "these fellows from whom you so brave=
ly
rescued us told us that much."
"Thank
God!" whispered Billy Byrne.
"What made y=
ou
think he was dead?" inquired the officer, looking closely at Byrne as
though trying to place him.
Another man might
have attempted to evade the question but the new Billy Byrne was no coward =
in
any department of his moral or physical structure.
"Because I
thought that I had killed him," he replied, "the day that we took=
the
Lotus."
Captain Norris lo=
oked
at the speaker in undisguised horror.
"You!" =
he
cried. "You were one of those damned cut-throats! You the man that nea=
rly
killed poor Mr. Mallory! Miss Harding, has he offered you any indignities?&=
quot;
"Don't judge=
him
rashly, Captain Norris," said the girl. "But for him I should have
been dead and worse than dead long since. Some day I will tell you of his
heroism and his chivalry, and don't forget, Captain, that he has just saved=
you
and Mr. Foster from captivity and probable death."
"That's
right," exclaimed the officer, "and I want to thank him; but I do=
n't
understand about Mallory."
"Never mind about him now," said Billy Byrne. "If he's alive that's all that counts--I haven't got his blood on my hands. Go on with your story." <= o:p>
"Well, after
that gang of pirates left us," continued the captain, "we rigged =
an
extra wireless that they didn't know we had, and it wasn't long before we
raised the warship Alaska. Her commander put a crew on board the Lotus with
machinists and everything necessary to patch her up--coaled and provisioned=
her
and then lay by while we got her in running order. It didn't take near as l=
ong
as you would have imagined. Then we set out in company with the warship to
search for the 'Clarinda,' as your Captain Simms called her. We got on her
track through a pirate junk just north of Luzon--he said he'd heard from th=
e natives
of a little out-of-the-way island near Formosa that a brigantine had been
wrecked there in the recent typhoon, and his description of the vessel led =
us
to believe that it might be the 'Clarinda,' or Halfmoon.
"We made the
island, and after considerable search found the survivors. Each of 'em trie=
d to
lay the blame on the others, but finally they all agreed that a man by the =
name
of Theriere with a seaman called Byrne, had taken you into the interior, and
that they had believed you dead until a few days since they had captured on=
e of
the natives and learned that you had all escaped, and were wandering in some
part of the island unknown to them.
"Then we set=
out
with a company of marines to find you. Your father, impatient of the seeming
slowness of the officer in command, pushed ahead with Mr. Mallory, Mr. Post=
er,
and myself, and two of the men of the Lotus whom he had brought along with =
us.
"Three days =
ago
we were attacked and your father and Mr. Mallory taken prisoners. The rest =
of
us escaped, and endeavored to make our way back to the marines, but we beca=
me
confused and have been wandering aimlessly about the island ever since unti=
l we
were surprised by these natives a few moments ago. Both the seamen were kil=
led
in this last fight and Mr. Foster and myself taken prisoners--the rest you
know."
Byrne was on his =
feet
now. He found his sword and revolver and replaced them in his belt.
"You men stay
here on the island and take care of Miss Harding," he said. "If I
don't come back the marines will find you sooner or later, or you can make =
your
way to the coast, and work around toward the cove. Good-bye, Miss
Harding."
"Where are y=
ou
going?" cried the girl.
"To get your
father--and Mr. Mallory," said the mucker.
THROUGH the balan=
ce
of the day and all during the long night Billy Byrne swung along his lonely
way, retracing the familiar steps of the journey that had brought Barbara
Harding and himself to the little island in the turbulent river.
Just before dawn =
he
came to the edge of the clearing behind the dwelling of the late Oda Yorimo=
to.
Somewhere within the silent village he was sure that the two prisoners lay.=
During the long m=
arch
he had thrashed over again and again all that the success of his rash ventu=
re
would mean to him. Of all those who might conceivably stand between him and=
the
woman he loved--the woman who had just acknowledged that she loved him--the=
se
two men were the most to be feared.
Billy Byrne did n=
ot
for a moment believe that Anthony Harding would look with favor upon the Gr=
and
Avenue mucker as a prospective son-in-law. And then there was Mallory! He w=
as
sure that Barbara had loved this man, and now should he be restored to her =
as
from the grave there seemed little doubt but that the old love would be aro=
used
in the girl's breast. The truth of the matter was that Billy Byrne could not
conceive the truth of the testimony of his own ears--even now he scarce dar=
ed
believe that the wonderful Miss Harding loved him--him, the despised mucker=
!
But the depth of =
the
man's love for the girl, and the genuineness of his new-found character were
proven beyond question by the relentless severity with which he put away ev=
ery
thought of himself and the consequences to him in the matter he had underta=
ken.
FOR HER SAKE! had
become his slogan. What though the results sent him to a savage death, or t=
o a
life of lonely misery, or to the arms of his beloved! In the face of duty t=
he
result was all the same to Billy Byrne.
For a moment he s=
tood
looking at the moon-bathed village, listening for any sign of wakefulness or
life, then with all the stealth of an Indian, and with the trained wariness=
of
the thief that he had been, the mucker slunk noiselessly across the clearin=
g to
the shadows of the nearest hut.
He listened benea=
th
the window through which he and Barbara and Theriere had made their escape a
few weeks before. There was no sound from within. Cautiously he raised hims=
elf
to the sill, and a moment later dropped into the inky darkness of the inter=
ior.
With groping hand=
s he
felt about the room--it was unoccupied. Then he passed to the door at the f=
ar
end. Cautiously he opened it until a narrow crack gave him a view of the di=
mly
lighted chamber beyond. Within all seemed asleep. The mucker pushed the door
still further open and stepped within--so must he search every hut within t=
he
village until he had found those he sought?
They were not the=
re,
and on silent feet that disturbed not even the lightly slumbering curs the =
man
passed out by the front entrance into the street beyond.
Through a second =
and
third hut he made his precarious way. In the fourth a man stirred as Byrne
stood upon the opposite side of the room from the door--with a catlike bound
the mucker was beside him. Would the fellow awake? Billy scarce breathed. T=
he
samurai turned restlessly, and then, with a start, sat up with wide-open ey=
es.
At the same instant iron fingers closed upon his throat and the long sword =
of
his dead daimio passed through his heart.
Byrne held the co=
rpse
until he was positive that life was extinct, then he dropped it quietly back
upon its pallet, and departed to search the adjoining dwelling. Here he fou=
nd a
large front room, and a smaller chamber in the rear--an arrangement similar=
to
that in the daimio's house.
The front room
revealed no clue to the missing men. Within the smaller, rear room Byrne he=
ard
the subdued hum of whispered conversation just as he was about to open the
door. Like a graven image he stood in silence, his ear glued to the frail d=
oor.
For a moment he listened thus and then his heart gave a throb of exultation,
and he could have shouted aloud in thanksgiving--the men were conversing in
English!
Quietly Byrne pus=
hed
open the door far enough to admit his body. Those within ceased speaking
immediately. Byrne closed the door behind him, advancing until he felt one =
of
the occupants of the room. The man shrank from his touch.
"I guess we'=
re
done for, Mallory," said the man in a low tone; "they've come for
us."
"Sh-sh,"
warned the mucker. "Are you and Mallory alone?"
"Yes--for Go=
d's
sake who are you and where did you come from?" asked the surprised Mr.
Harding.
"Be still,&q=
uot;
admonished Byrne, feeling for the cords that he knew must bind the captive.=
He found them
presently and with his jackknife cut them asunder. Then he released Mallory=
.
"Follow
me," he said, "but go quietly. Take off your shoes if you have 'em
on, and hang 'em around your neck--tie the ends of the laces together."=
;
The men did as he=
bid
and a moment later he was leading them across the room, filled with sleeping
men, women, children, and domestic animals. At the far side stood a rack fi=
lled
with long swords. Byrne removed two without the faintest suspicion of a noi=
se.
He handed one to each of his companions, cautioning them to silence with a
gesture.
But neither Antho=
ny
Harding nor Billy Mallory had had second-story experience, and the former s=
truck
his weapon accidentally against the door frame with a resounding clatter th=
at
brought half the inmates of the room, wide-eyed, to sitting postures. The s=
ight
that met the natives' eyes had them on their feet, yelling like madmen, and
dashing toward their escaping prisoners, in an instant.
"Quick!"
shouted Billy Byrne. "Follow me!"
Down the village
street the three men ran, but the shouts of the natives had brought armed
samurai to every door with a celerity that was uncanny, and in another mome=
nt
the fugitives found themselves surrounded by a pack of howling warriors who=
cut
at them with long swords from every side, blocking their retreat and hemming
them in in every direction.
Byrne called to h=
is
companions to close in, back to back, and thus, the gangster in advance, the
three slowly fought their way toward the end of the narrow street and the
jungle beyond. The mucker fought with his long sword in one hand and Therie=
re's
revolver in the other--hewing a way toward freedom for the two men whom he =
knew
would take his love from him.
Beneath the brill=
iant
tropic moon that lighted the scene almost as brilliantly as might the sun
himself the battle waged, and though the odds were painfully uneven the whi=
te
men moved steadily, though slowly, toward the jungle. It was evident that t=
he
natives feared the giant white who led the three. Anthony Harding, familiar
with Japanese, could translate sufficient of their jargon to be sure of tha=
t,
had not the respectful distance most of them kept from Byrne been ample pro=
of.
Out of the village
street they came at last into the clearing. The warriors danced about them,
yelling threats and taunts the while they made occasional dashes to close
quarters that they might deliver a swift sword cut and retreat again before=
the
great white devil could get them with the sword that had been Oda Yorimoto'=
s,
or the strange fire stick that spoke in such a terrifying voice.
Fifty feet from t=
he
jungle Mallory went down with a spear through the calf of his leg. Byrne saw
him fall, and dropping back lifted the man to his feet, supporting him with=
one
arm as the two backed slowly in front of the onpressing natives.
The spears were
flying thick and fast now, for the samurai all were upon the same side of t=
he
enemy and there was no danger of injuring one of their own number with their
flying weapons as there had been when the host entirely surrounded the three
men, and when the whites at last entered the tall grasses of the jungle a
perfect shower of spears followed them.
With the volley B=
yrne
went down--he had been the principal target for the samurai and three of the
heavy shafts had pierced his body. Two were buried in his chest and one in =
his
abdomen.
Anthony Harding w=
as
horrified. Both his companions were down, and the savages were pressing clo=
sely
on toward their hiding place. Mallory sat upon the ground trying to tear the
spear from his leg. Finally he was successful. Byrne, still conscious, call=
ed
to Harding to pull the three shafts from him.
"What are we=
to
do?" cried the older man. "They will get us again as sure as
fate."
"They haven't
got us yet," said Billy. "Wait, I got a scheme. Can you walk,
Mallory?"
Mallory staggered=
to
his feet.
"I'll see,&q=
uot;
he said, and then: "Yes, I can make it."
"Good,"
exclaimed Byrne. "Now listen. Almost due north, across this range of h=
ills
behind us is a valley. In the center of the valley is a river. It is a good
fifteen-hour march for a well man--it will take Mallory and you longer. Fol=
low
down the river till you come to a little island--it should be the first one
from where you strike the river. On that island you will find Miss Harding,
Norris, and Foster. Now hurry."
"But you,
man!" exclaimed Mallory. "We can't leave you."
"Never!"
said Anthony Harding.
"You'll have=
to,
though," replied Billy. "That's part of the scheme. It won't work=
any
other way." He raised his revolver and fired a single shot in the
direction of the howling savages. "That's to let 'em know we're still
here," he said. "I'll keep that up, off and on, as long as I can.
It'll fool 'em into thinking that we're all here, and cover your escape.
See?"
"I won't do
it," said Mallory.
"Yes you
will," replied the mucker. "It's not any of us that counts--it's =
Miss
Harding. As many as can have got to get back to her just as quick as the
Lord'll let us. I can't, so you two'll have to. I'm done for--a blind man c=
ould
see that. It wouldn't do a bit of good for you two to hang around here and =
get
killed, waitin' for me to die; but it would do a lot of harm, for it might =
mean
that Miss Harding would be lost too."
"You say my
daughter is on this island you speak of, with Norris and Foster--is she qui=
te
safe and well?" asked Harding.
"Perfectly,&=
quot;
said Byrne; "and now beat it--you're wasting a lot of precious time.&q=
uot;
"For Barbara=
's
sake it looks like the only way," said Anthony Harding, "but it s=
eems
wicked and cowardly to desert a noble fellow like you, sir."
"It is
wicked," said Billy Mallory. "There must be some other way. By the
way, old man, who are you anyhow, and how did you happen to be here?" =
Byrne turned his =
face
upward so that the full moon lighted his features clearly.
"There is no
other way, Mallory," he said. "Now take a good look at me--don't =
you
recognize me?"
Mallory gazed
intently at the strong face looking into his. He shook his head.
"There is
something familiar about your face," he said; "but I cannot place
you. Nor does it make any difference who you are--you have risked your life=
to
save ours and I shall not leave you. Let Mr. Harding go--it is not necessary
for both to stay."
"You will bo=
th
go," insisted Byrne; "and you will find that it does make a big
difference who I am. I hadn't intended telling you, but I see there is no o=
ther
way. I'm the mucker that nearly killed you on board the Lotus, Mallory. I'm=
the
fellow that man-handled Miss Harding until even that beast of a Simms made =
me
quit, and Miss Harding has been alone with me on this island for weeks--now
go!"
He turned away so
that they could no longer see his face, with the mental anguish that he knew
must be writ large upon it, and commenced firing toward the natives once mo=
re.
Anthony Harding s=
tood
with white face and clinched hands during Byrne's recital of his identity. =
At
its close he took a threatening step toward the prostrate man, raising his =
long
sword, with a muffled oath. Billy Mallory sprang before him, catching his
upraised arm.
"Don't!"=
; he
whispered. "Think what we owe him now. Come!" and the two men tur=
ned
north into the jungle while Billy Byrne lay upon his belly in the tall grass
firing from time to time into the direction from which came an occasional
spear.
Anthony Harding a=
nd
Billy Mallory kept on in silence along their dismal way. The crack of the
mucker's revolver, growing fainter and fainter, as they drew away from the
scene of conflict, apprised the men that their rescuer still lived.
After a time the
distant reports ceased. The two walked on in silence for a few minutes.
"He's
gone," whispered Mallory.
Anthony Harding m=
ade
no response. They did not hear any further firing behind them. On and on th=
ey
trudged. Night turned to day. Day rolled slowly on into night once more. And
still they staggered on, footsore and weary. Mallory suffered excruciating
agony from his wound. There were times when it seemed that it would be
impossible for him to continue another yard; but then the thought that Barb=
ara
Harding was somewhere ahead of them, and that in a short time now they must=
be
with her once more kept him doggedly at his painful task.
They had reached =
the
river and were following slowly down its bank. The moon, full and gorgeous,
flooded the landscape with silvery light.
"Look!"
exclaimed Mallory. "The island!"
"Thank
God!" whispered Harding, fervently.
On the bank oppos=
ite
they stopped and hallooed. Almost instantly three figures rushed from the
interior of the island to the shore before them--two men and a woman.
"Barbara!&qu=
ot;
cried Anthony Harding. "O my daughter! My daughter!"
Norris and Foster
hastened through the river and brought the two men to the island. Barbara
Harding threw herself into her father's arms. A moment later she had grasped
Mallory's outstretched hands, and then she looked beyond them for another. =
"Mr.
Byrne?" she asked. "Where is Mr. Byrne?"
"He is
dead," said Anthony Harding.
The girl looked,
wide-eyed and uncomprehending, at her father for a full minute.
"Dead!"=
she
moaned, and fell unconscious at his feet.
BILLY BYRNE conti=
nued
to fire intermittently for half an hour after the two men had left him. The=
n he
fired several shots in quick succession, and dragging himself to his hands =
and
knees crawled laboriously and painfully back into the jungle in search of a
hiding place where he might die in peace.
He had progressed
some hundred yards when he felt the earth give way beneath him. He clutched
frantically about for support, but there was none, and with a sickening lun=
ge
he plunged downward into Stygian darkness.
His fall was a sh=
ort
one, and he brought up with a painful thud at the bottom of a deer pit--a
covered trap which the natives dig to catch their fleet-footed prey.
The pain of his
wounds after the fall was excruciating. His head whirled dizzily. He knew t=
hat
he was dying, and then all went black.
When consciousness
returned to the mucker it was daylight. The sky above shone through the rag=
ged
hole that his falling body had broken in the pit's covering the night befor=
e.
"Gee!"
muttered the mucker; "and I thought that I was dead!"
His wounds had ce=
ased
to bleed, but he was very weak and stiff and sore.
"I guess I'm=
too
tough to croak!" he thought.
He wondered if the
two men would reach Barbara in safety. He hoped so. Mallory loved her, and =
he
was sure that Barbara had loved Mallory. He wanted her to be happy. No thou=
ght
of jealousy entered his mind. Mallory was her kind. Mallory
"belonged." He didn't. He was a mucker. How would he have looked
training with her bunch. She would have been ashamed of him, and he couldn't
have stood that. No, it was better as it had turned out. He'd squared himse=
lf
for the beast he'd been to her, and he'd squared himself with Mallory, too.=
At
least they'd have only decent thoughts of him, dead; but alive, that would =
be
an entirely different thing. He would be in the way. He would be a constant
embarrassment to them all, for they would feel that they'd have to be nice =
to
him in return for what he had done for them. The thought made the mucker si=
ck.
"I'd rather
croak," he murmured.
But he didn't
"croak"--instead, he waxed stronger, and toward evening the pangs=
of
hunger and thirst drove him to consider means for escaping from his hiding
place, and searching for food and water.
He waited until a= fter dark, and then he crawled, with utmost difficulty, from the deep pit. He had heard nothing of the natives since the night before, and now, in the open, = there came to him but the faint sounds of the village life across the clearing. <= o:p>
Byrne dragged him=
self
toward the trail that led to the spring where poor Theriere had died. It to=
ok
him a long time to reach it, but at last he was successful. The clear, cold=
water
helped to revive and strengthen him. Then he sought food. Some wild fruit
partially satisfied him for the moment, and he commenced the laborious task=
of
retracing his steps toward "Manhattan Island."
The trail that he=
had
passed over in fifteen hours as he had hastened to the rescue of Anthony
Harding and Billy Mallory required the better part of three days now.
Occasionally he wondered why in the world he was traversing it anyway. Hadn=
't
he wanted to die, and leave Barbara free? But life is sweet, and the red bl=
ood
still flowed strong in the veins of the mucker.
"I can go my=
own
way," he thought, "and not bother her; but I'll be dinged if I wa=
nt
to croak in this God-forsaken hole--Grand Avenue for mine, when it comes to
passing in my checks. Gee! but I'd like to hear the rattle of the Lake Stre=
et
'L' and see the dolls coming down the station steps by Skidmore's when the
crowd comes home from the Loop at night."
Billy Byrne was
homesick. And then, too, his heart was very heavy and sad because of the gr=
eat
love he had found--a love which he realized was as hopeless as it was great=
. He
had the memory, though, of the girl's arms about his neck, and her dear lips
crushed to his for a brief instant, and her words--ah, those words! They wo=
uld
ring in Billy's head forever: "I love you, Billy, for what you ARE.&qu=
ot;
And a sudden reso=
lve
came into the mucker's mind as he whispered those words over and over again=
to
himself. "I can't have her," he said. "She isn't for the lik=
es
of me; but if I can't live with her, I can live for her--as she'd want me to
live, and, s'help me, those words'll keep me straight. If she ever hears of
Billy Byrne again it won't be anything to make her ashamed that she had her
arms around him, kissing him, and telling him that she loved him."
At the river's ed=
ge
across from the little island Billy came to a halt. He had reached the point
near midnight, and hesitated to cross over and disturb the party at that ho=
ur.
At last, however, he decided to cross quietly, and lie down near HER hut un=
til
morning.
The crossing was =
most
difficult, for he was very weak, but at last he came to the opposite bank a=
nd
drew himself up to lie panting for a few minutes on the sloping bank. Then =
he
crawled on again up to the top, and staggering to his feet made his way
cautiously toward the two huts. All was quiet. He assumed that the party was
asleep, and so he lay down near the rude shelter he had constructed for Bar=
bara
Harding, and fell asleep.
It was broad dayl=
ight
when he awoke--the sun was fully three hours high, and yet no one was stirr=
ing.
For the first time misgivings commenced to assail Billy's mind. Could it be
possible? He crossed over to his own hut and entered--it was deserted. Then=
he
ran to Barbara's--it, too, was unoccupied. They had gone!
All during the
painful trip from the village to the island Billy had momentarily expected =
to
meet a party of rescuers coming back for him. He had not been exactly
disappointed, but a queer little lump had risen to his throat as the days
passed and no help had come, and now this was the final blow. They had dese=
rted
him! Left him wounded and dying on this savage island without taking the
trouble to assure themselves that he really was dead! It was incredible!
"But was
it?" thought Billy. "Didn't I tell them that I was dying? I thoug=
ht
so myself, and there is no reason why they shouldn't have thought so too. I
suppose I shouldn't blame them, and I don't; but I wouldn't have left them =
that
way and not come back. They had a warship full of blue jackets and marines-=
-there
wouldn't have been much danger to them."
Presently it occu=
rred
to him that the party may have returned to the coast to get the marines, and
that even now they were searching for him. He hastened to return to the
mainland, and once more he took up his wearisome journey.
That night he rea=
ched
the coast. Early the next morning he commenced his search for the man-of-wa=
r.
By walking entirely around the island he should find her he felt sure.
Shortly after noo=
n he
scaled a high promontory which jutted out into the sea. From its summit he =
had
an unobstructed view of the broad Pacific. His heart leaped to his throat, =
for
there but a short distance out were a great battleship and a trim white
yacht--the Alaska and the Lotus! They were steaming slowly out to sea.
He was just in ti=
me!
Filled with happiness the mucker ran to the point of the promontory and
stripping off his shirt waved it high above his head, the while he shouted =
at
the top of his lungs; but the vessels kept on their course, giving no answe=
ring
signal.
For half an hour =
the
man continued his futile efforts to attract the attention of someone on boa=
rd
either craft, but to his dismay he saw them grow smaller and smaller until =
in a
few hours they passed over the rim of the world, disappearing from his view
forever.
Weak, wounded, and
despairing, Billy sank to the ground, burying his face in his arms, and the=
re
the moon found him when she rose, and he was still there when she passed fr=
om
the western sky.
For three months Billy Byrne lived his l=
onely
life upon the wild island. The trapping and fishing were good and there was=
a
plentiful supply of good water. He regained his lost strength, recovering
entirely from his wounds. The natives did not molest him, for he had stumbl=
ed
upon a section of the shore which they considered bewitched and to which no=
ne of
them would come under any circumstances.
One morning, at t=
he
beginning of his fourth month of solitude, the mucker saw a smudge of smoke
upon the horizon. Slowly it increased in volume and the speck beneath it
resolved itself into the hull of a steamer. Closer and closer to the island=
it
came.
Billy gathered
together a quantity of dry brush and lighted a signal fire on the lofty poi=
nt
from which he had seen the Alaska and the Lotus disappear. As it commenced =
to
blaze freely he threw fresh, green boughs upon it until a vertical column of
smoke arose high above the island.
In breathless
suspense Billy watched the movements of the steamer. At first it seemed that
she would pass without taking notice of his signal, but at last he saw that=
she
was changing her course and moving directly toward the island.
Close in she came,
for the sea was calm and the water deep, and when Billy was sure that those=
on
board saw him and his frantic waving, he hurried, stumbling and falling, do=
wn
the steep face of the cliff to the tiny beach at its foot.
Already a boat had
been lowered and was putting in for land. Billy waded out to the end of the
short shelving beach and waited.
The sight that met
the eyes of the rescuers was one that filled them with awe, for they saw be=
fore
them a huge, giant of a white man, half-naked except for a few tattered rag=
s,
who wore the long sword of an ancient samurai at his side, a modern revolve=
r at
his hip, and bore in his brawny hand the heavy war spear of a head-hunter. =
Long
black hair, and a huge beard covered the man's head and face, but clean gray
eyes shone from out of the tangle, and a broad grin welcomed them.
"Oh, you whi=
te
men!" shouted the mucker. "You certainly do look good to me."=
;
Six months later a big, smooth-faced gia=
nt in
ill-fitting sea togs strolled up Sixth Avenue. It was Billy Byrne--broke, b=
ut
happy; Grand Avenue was less than a thousand miles away!
"Gee!" =
he
murmured; "but it's good to be home again!"
There were places=
in
New York where Billy would find acquaintances. One in particular he recalle=
d--a
little, third-floor gymnasium not far distant from the Battery. Thither he
turned his steps now. As he entered the stuffy room in which two big fellow=
s,
stripped to the waist, were sparring, a stout, low-browed man sitting in a
back-tilted chair against one wall looked up inquiringly. Billy crossed ove=
r to
him, with outstretched hand.
"Howdy,
Professor!" he said.
"Yeh got me,
kid," replied Professor Cassidy, taking the proffered hand.
"I was up he=
re
with Larry Hilmore and the Goose Island Kid a year or so ago--my name's
Byrne," exclaimed Billy.
"Sure,"
said the professor; "I gotcha now. You're de guy 'at Larry was a telli=
n'
me about. He said you'd be a great heavy if you'd leave de booze alone.&quo=
t;
Billy smiled and
nodded.
"You don't l=
ook
much like a booze fighter now," remarked Cassidy.
"And I
ain't," said the mucker. "I've been on the wagon for most a year,=
and
I'm never comin' down."
"That's righ=
t,
kid," said the professor; "but wots the good word? Wot you doin' =
in
little ol' Noo York?"
"Lookin' for=
a
job," said Billy.
"Strip!"
commanded Professor Cassidy. "I'm lookin' for sparrin' partners for a =
gink
dat's goin' to clean up de Big Smoke--if he'll ever come back an' scrap.&qu=
ot;
"You're on," said Billy, commencing to divest himself of his outer clothing. <= o:p>
Stripped to the w=
aist
he displayed as wondrous a set of muscles as even Professor Cassidy had ever
seen. The man waxed enthusiastic over them.
"You sure ou=
ght
to have some wallop up your sleeve," he said, admiringly. He then
introduced Billy to the Harlem Hurricane, and Battling Dago Pete. "Pet=
e's
de guy I was tellin' you about," explained Professor Cassidy. "He=
's
got such a wallop dat I can't keep no sparrin' partners for him. The Hurric=
ane
here's de only bloke wit de guts to stay wit him--he's a fiend for punishme=
nt,
Hurricane is; he jest natchrly eats it.
"If you're b=
roke
I'll give you your keep as long as you stay wit Pete an' don't get cold fee=
t,
an' I'll fix up a mill for you now an' then so's you kin pull down a little
coin fer yourself. Are you game?"
"You know
it," said Billy.
"All to the =
good
then," said the professor gaily; "now you put on the mitts an' sp=
ell
Hurricane for a couple o' rounds."
Billy slipped his
huge hands into the tight-fitting gloves.
"It's been
more'n a year since I had these on," he said, "an' I may be a lit=
tle
slow an' stale at first; but after I get warmed up I'll do better."
Cassidy grinned a=
nd
winked at Hurricane. "He won't never get warmed up," Hurricane
confided; "Pete'll knock his block off in about two minutes," and=
the
men settled back to watch the fun with ill-concealed amusement written upon
their faces.
What happened wit=
hin
the next few minutes in the stuffy little room of Professor Cassidy's
third-floor "gymnasium" marks an epoch in the professor's life--he
still talks of it, and doubtless shall until the Great Referee counts him o=
ut
in the Last Round.
The two men sparr=
ed
for a moment, gaging one another. Then Battling Dago Pete swung a vicious l=
eft
that landed square on Billy's face. It was a blow that might have felled an=
ox;
but Billy only shook his head--it scarce seemed to jar him. Pete had half
lowered his hands as he recovered from the blow, so sure he was that it wou=
ld
finish his new sparring partner, and now before he could regain his guard t=
he
mucker tore into him like a whirlwind. That single blow to the face seemed =
to have
brought back to Billy Byrne all that he ever had known of the manly art of
self-defense.
Battling Dago Pete
landed a few more before the fight was over, but as any old fighter will te=
ll
you there is nothing more discouraging than to discover that your most
effective blows do not feeze your opponent, and only the knowledge of what a
defeat at the hands of a new sparring partner would mean to his future, kept
him plugging away at the hopeless task of attempting to knock out this moun=
tain
of bone and muscle.
For a few minutes
Billy Byrne played with his man, hitting him when and where he would. He
fought, crouching, much as Jeffries used to fight, and in his size and stre=
ngth
was much that reminded Cassidy of the fallen idol that in his heart of hear=
ts
he still worshiped.
And then, like a
panther, the mucker sprang in with a vicious left hook to the jaw, followed,
with lightning rapidity, by a right upper cut to the chin that lifted Battl=
ing
Dago Pete a foot from the floor to drop him, unconscious, against the foot =
of
the further wall.
It was a clean
knock-out, and when Cassidy and Hurricane got through ministering to the fa=
llen
man, and indications of returning consciousness were apparent, the professor
turned to Billy.
"Got any more
'hopes' lyin' around loose?" asked the mucker with a grin. "I gue=
ss
the big dinge's safe for a while yet."
"Not if you'=
ll
keep on stayin' away from the booze, kid," said Professor Cassidy,
"an' let me handle you."
"I gotcha
Steve," said Billy; "go to it; but first, stake me to a feed. The
front side of my stomach's wrapped around my back bone."
FOR three months
Billy met has-beens, and third- and fourth-rate fighters from New York and =
its
environs. He thrashed them all--usually by the knockout route and finally l=
ocal
sports commenced talking about him a bit, and he was matched up with
second-raters from other cities.
These men he clea=
ned
up as handily as he had the others, so that it was apparent to fight fandom
that the big, quiet "unknown" was a comer; and pretty soon Profes=
sor
Cassidy received an offer from another trainer-manager to match Billy again=
st a
real "hope" who stood in the forefront of hopedom.
This other manager
stated that he thought the mill would prove excellent practice for his man =
who
was having difficulty in finding opponents. Professor Cassidy thought so to=
o,
and grinned for two hours straight after reading the challenge.
The details of the
fight were quickly arranged. In accordance with the state regulations it wa=
s to
be a ten round, no decision bout--the weight of the gloves was prescribed by
law.
The name of the
"white hope" against whom Billy was to go was sufficient to draw a
fair house, and there were some there who had seen Billy in other fights and
looked for a good mill. When the "coming champion," as Billy's
opponent was introduced, stepped into the ring he received a hearty round of
applause, whereas there was but a scattered ripple of handclapping to greet=
the
mucker. It was the first time he ever had stepped into a ring with a first-=
rate
fighter, and as he saw the huge muscles of his antagonist and recalled the
stories he had heard of his prowess and science, Billy, for the first time =
in
his life, felt a tremor of nervousness.
His eyes wandered
across the ropes to the sea of faces turned up toward him, and all of a sud=
den
Billy Byrne went into a blue funk. Professor Cassidy, shrewd and experience=
d,
saw it even as soon as Billy realized it--he saw the fading of his high
hopes--he saw his castles in Spain tumbling in ruins about his ears--he saw=
his
huge giant lying prone within that squared circle as the hand of the referee
rose and fell in cadence to the ticking of seconds that would count his man
out.
"Here,"=
he
whispered, "take a swig o' this," and he pressed a bottle toward
Billy's lips.
Billy shook his h=
ead.
The stuff had kept him down all his life--he had sworn never to touch anoth=
er
drop of it, and he never would, whether he lost this and every other fight =
he
ever fought. He had sworn to leave it alone for HER sake! And then the gong
called him to the center of the ring.
Billy knew that he
was afraid--he thought that he was afraid of the big, trained fighter who f=
aced
him; but Cassidy knew that it was a plain case of stage fright that had gri=
pped
his man. He knew, too, that it would be enough to defeat Billy's every chan=
ce
for victory, and after the big "white hope" had felled Billy twic=
e in
the first minute of the first round Cassidy knew that it was all over but t=
he
shouting.
The fans, many of
them, were laughing, and yelling derogatory remarks at Billy.
"Stan' up an'
fight, yeh big stiff!" and "Back to de farm fer youse!" and
then, high above the others a shrill voice cried "Coward! Coward!"=
;
The word penetrat=
ed
Billy's hopeless, muddled brain. Coward! SHE had called him that once, and =
then
she had changed her mind. Theriere had thought him a coward, yet as he died=
he
had said that he was the bravest man he ever had known. Billy recalled the
yelling samurai with their keen swords and terrible spears. He saw the litt=
le
room in the "palace" of Oda Yorimoto, and again he faced the brown
devils who had hacked and hewed and stabbed at him that day as he fought to
save the woman he loved. Coward! What was there in this padded ring for a m=
an
to fear who had faced death as Billy had faced it, and without an instant's=
consciousness
of the meaning of the word fear? What was wrong with him, and then the shou=
ts
and curses and taunts of the crowd smote upon his ears, and he knew. It was=
the
crowd! Again the heavy fist of the "coming champion" brought Bill=
y to
the mat, and then, before further damage could be done him, the gong saved =
him.
It was a surprised
and chastened mucker that walked with bent head to his corner after the fir=
st
round. The "white hope" was grinning and confident, and so he
returned to the center of the ring for the second round. During the short
interval Billy had thrashed the whole thing out. The crowd had gotten on his
nerves. He was trying to fight the whole crowd instead of just one man--he
would do better in this round; but the first thing that happened after he f=
aced
his opponent sent the fans into delirious ecstasies of shouting and hooting=
.
Billy swung his r=
ight
for his foe's jaw--a terrible blow that would have ended the fight had it
landed--but the man side-stepped it, and Billy's momentum carried him spraw=
ling
upon his face. When he regained his feet the "white hope" was wai=
ting
for him, and Billy went down again to lie there, quite still, while the han=
d of
the referee marked the seconds: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Billy ope=
ned
his eyes. Seven. Billy sat up. Eight. The meaning of that monotonous count
finally percolated to the mucker's numbed perceptive faculties. He was being
counted out! Nine! Like a flash he was on his feet. He had forgotten the cr=
owd.
Rage--cool, calculating rage possessed him--not the feverish, hysterical va=
riety
that takes its victim's brains away.
They had been
counting out the man whom Barbara Harding had once loved!--the man she had
thought the bravest in the world!--they were making a monkey and a coward of
him! He'd show them!
The "white h=
ope"
was waiting for him. Billy was scarce off his knees before the man rushed at
him wickedly, a smile playing about his lips. It was to be the last of that
smile, however. Billy met the rush with his old familiar crouch, and stopped
his man with a straight to the body.
Cassidy saw it and
almost smiled. He didn't think that Billy could come back--but at least he =
was
fighting for a minute in his old form.
The surprised
"hope" rushed in to punish his presuming foe. The crowd was silen=
t.
Billy ducked beneath a vicious left swing and put a right to the side of the
"hope's" head that sent the man to his knees. Then came the gong.=
In the third round
Billy fought carefully. He had made up his mind that he would show this bun=
ch
of pikers that he knew how to box, so that none might say that he had won w=
ith
a lucky punch, for Billy intended to win.
The round was one
which might fill with delight the soul of the fan who knows the finer point=
s of
the game. And when it was over, while little damage had been done on either
side, it left no shadow of a doubt in the minds of those who knew that the
unknown fighter was the more skilful boxer.
Then came the fou=
rth
round. Of course there was no question in the minds of the majority of the
spectators as to who would win the fight. The stranger had merely shown one=
of
those sudden and ephemeral bursts of form that occasionally are witnessed in
every branch of sport; but he couldn't last against such a man as the
"white hope"!--they looked for a knock-out any minute now. Nor did
they look in vain.
Billy was quite
satisfied with the work he had done in the preceding round. Now he would sh=
ow
them another style of fighting! And he did. From the tap of the gong he rus=
hed
his opponent about the ring at will. He hit him when and where he pleased. =
The
man was absolutely helpless before him. With left and right hooks Billy roc=
ked
the "coming champion's" head from side to side. He landed upon the
swelling optics of his victim as he listed.
Thrice he rushed =
him
to the ropes, and once the man fell through them into the laps of the hooti=
ng
spectators--only now they were not hooting Billy. Until the gong Billy play=
ed
with his man as a cat might play with a mouse; yet not once had he landed a
knock-out blow.
"Why didn't =
you
finish him?" cried Professor Cassidy, as Billy returned to his corner
after the round. "You had 'im goin' man--why in the world didn't yeh
finish him?"
"I didn't wa=
nt
to," said Billy; "not in that round. I'm reserving the finish for=
the
fifth round, and if you want to win some money you can take the hunch!"=
;
"Do you mean
it?" asked Cassidy.
"Sure,"
said Billy. "You might make more by laying that I'd make him take the
count in the first minute of the round--you can place a hundred of mine on
that, if you will, please."
Cassidy took the
hunch, and a moment later as the two men faced each other he regretted his =
act,
for to his surprise the "white hope" came up for the fifth round
smiling and confident once more.
"Someone's b=
een
handin' him an earful," grumbled Cassidy, "an' it might be all he
needed to take 'im through the first minute of the round, and maybe the who=
le
round--I've seen that did lots o' times."
As the two men met
the "white hope" was the aggressor. He rushed in to close quarters
aiming a stinging blow at Billy's face, and then to Cassidy's chagrin and t=
he
crowd's wonder, the mucker lowered his guard and took the wallop full on the
jaw. The blow seemed never to jar him the least. The "hope" swung
again, and there stood Billy Byrne, like a huge bronze statue taking blow a=
fter
blow that would have put an ordinary man down for the count.
The fans saw and
appreciated the spectacular bravado of the act, and they went wild. Cheer on
cheer rose, hoarse and deafening, to the rafters. The "white hope"
lost his self-control and what little remained of his short temper, and
deliberately struck Billy a foul blow, but before the referee could interfe=
re
the mucker swung another just such blow as he had missed and fallen with in=
the
second round; but this time he did not miss--his mighty fist caught the
"coming champion" on the point of the chin, lifted him off his fe=
et
and landed him halfway through the ropes. There he lay while the referee to=
lled
off the count of ten, and as the official took Billy's hand in his and rais=
ed
it aloft in signal that he had won the fight the fickle crowd cheered and s=
creamed
in a delirium of joy.
Cassidy crawled
through the ropes and threw his arms around Billy.
"I knew youse
could do it, kid!" he screamed. "You're as good as made now, an' =
you're
de next champ, or I never seen one."
The following mor=
ning
the sporting sheets hailed "Sailor" Byrne as the greatest "w=
hite
hope" of them all. Flashlights of him filled a quarter of a page. There
were interviews with him. Interviews with the man he had defeated. Intervie=
ws
with Cassidy. Interviews with the referee. Interviews with everybody, and a=
ll
were agreed that he was the most likely heavy since Jeffries. Corbett admit=
ted
that, while in his prime he could doubtless have bested the new wonder, he =
would
have found him a tough customer.
Everyone said that
Byrne's future was assured. There was not a man in sight who could touch hi=
m,
and none who had seen him fight the night before but would have staked his =
last
dollar on him in a mill with the black champion.
Cassidy wired a
challenge to the Negro's manager, and received an answer that was most
favorable. The terms were, as usual, rather one-sided but Cassidy accepted
them, and it seemed before noon that a fight was assured.
Billy was more ne=
arly
happy again than he had been since the day he had renounced Barbara Harding=
to
the man he thought she loved. He read and re-read the accounts in the paper=
s,
and then searching for more references to himself off the sporting page he =
ran
upon the very name that had been constantly in his thoughts for all these
months--Harding.
Persistent rumor has it that the engagem=
ent of
the beautiful Miss Harding to Wm. J. Mallory has been broken. Miss Harding
could not be seen at her father's home up to a late hour last night. Mr.
Mallory refused to discuss the matter, but would not deny the rumor.
There was more, but that was all that Bi=
lly
Byrne read. The paper dropped from his hand. Battles and championships faded
from his thoughts. He sat with his eyes bent upon the floor, and his mind w=
as thousands
of miles away across the broad Pacific upon a little island in the midst of=
a
turbulent stream.
And far uptown
another sat with the same paper in her hand. Barbara Harding was glancing
through the sporting sheet in search of the scores of yesterday's woman's g=
olf
tournament. And as she searched her eyes suddenly became riveted upon the
picture of a giant man, and she forgot about tournaments and low scores.
Hastily she searched the heads and text until she came upon the name--"=
;'Sailor'
Byrne!"
Yes! It must be h=
e.
Greedily she read and re-read all that had been written about him. Yes, she,
Barbara Harding, scion of an aristocratic house--ultra-society girl, read a=
nd
re-read the accounts of a brutal prize fight.
A half hour later=
a
messenger boy found "Sailor" Byrne the center of an admiring thro=
ng
in Professor Cassidy's third-floor gymnasium. With worshiping eyes taking in
his new hero from head to foot the youth handed Byrne a note.
He stood staring =
at
the heavy weight until he had perused it.
"Any
answer?" he asked.
"No answer,
kid," replied Byrne, "that I can't take myself," and he toss=
ed a
dollar to the worshiping boy.
An hour later Bil=
ly
Byrne was ascending the broad, white steps that led to the entrance of Anth=
ony Harding's
New York house. The servant who answered his ring eyed him suspiciously, for
Billy Byrne still dressed like a teamster on holiday. He had no card!
"Tell Miss
Harding that Mr. Byrne has come," he said.
The servant left =
him
standing in the hallway, and started to ascend the great staircase, but hal=
fway
up he met Miss Harding coming down.
"Never mind,
Smith," she said. "I am expecting Mr. Byrne," and then seeing
that the fellow had not seated her visitor she added, "He is a very de=
ar
friend." Smith faded quickly from the scene.
"Billy!"
cried the girl, rushing toward him with out-stretched hands. "O Billy,=
we
thought you were dead. How long have you been here? Why haven't you been to=
see
me?"
Byrne hesitated. =
A great, mad hope=
had
been surging through his being since he had read of the broken engagement a=
nd
received the girl's note. And now in her eyes, in her whole attitude, he co=
uld
read, as unmistakably as though her lips had formed the words that he had n=
ot
hoped in vain.
But some strange =
influence
had seemed suddenly to come to work upon him. Even in the brief moment of h=
is
entrance into the magnificence of Anthony Harding's home he had felt a stra=
nge
little stricture of the throat--a choking, half-suffocating sensation.
The attitude of t=
he
servant, the splendor of the furnishings, the stateliness of the great hall,
and the apartments opening upon it--all had whispered to him that he did not
"belong."
And now Barbara,
clothed in some wondrous foreign creation, belied by her very appearance the
expression that suffused her eyes.
No, Billy Byrne, =
the
mucker, did not belong there. Nor ever could he belong, more than Barbara e=
ver
could have "belonged" on Grand Avenue. And Billy Byrne knew it no=
w.
His heart went cold. The bottom seemed suddenly to have dropped out of his
life.
Bravely he had
battled to forget this wonderful creature, or, rather, his hopeless love for
her--her he could never forget. But the note from her, and the sight of her=
had
but served to rekindle the old fire within his breast.
He thought quickl=
y.
His own life or happiness did not count. Nothing counted now but Barbara. He
had seen the lovelight in her eyes. He thanked God that he had realized wha=
t it
all would have meant, before he let her see that he had seen it.
"I've been b=
ack
several months," he said presently, in answer to her question; "b=
ut I
got sense enough to stay where I belong. Gee! Wouldn't I look great comin' =
up
here buttin' in, wit youse bunch of highlifes?"
Billy slapped his thigh resoundingly and
laughed in stentorian tones that caused the eyebrows of the sensitive Smith=
on
the floor above to elevate in shocked horror.
"Den dere wa=
s de
mills. I couldn't break away from me work, could I, to chase a bunch of
skirts?"
Barbara felt a qu=
alm
of keen disappointment that Billy had fallen again into the old dialect that
she had all but eradicated during those days upon distant "Manhattan
Island."
"I wouldn't =
o'
come up atal," he went on, "if I hadn't o' read in de poiper how
youse an' Mallory had busted. I t'ought I'd breeze in an' see wot de trouble
was."
His eyes had been
averted, mostly, as he talked. Now he swung suddenly upon her.
"He's on de
square, ain't he?" he demanded.
"Yes," =
said
Barbara. She was not quite sure whether to feel offended, or not. But the
memory of Billy's antecedents came to his rescue. Of course he didn't know =
that
it was such terribly bad form to broach such a subject to her, she thought.=
"Well,
then," continued the mucker, "wot's up? Mallory's de guy fer yous=
e.
Youse loved him or youse wouldn't have got engaged to him."
The statement was
almost an interrogation.
Barbara nodded
affirmatively.
"You see, Billy," she started, "I have always known Mr. Mallory, and always thought that I loved him until--until--" There was no answering light = in Billy's eyes--no encouragement for the words that were on her lips. She hal= ted lamely. "Then," she went on presently, "we became engaged af= ter we reached New York. We all thought you dead," she concluded simply. <= o:p>
"Do you thin=
k as
much of him now as you did when you promised to marry him?" he asked,
ignoring her reference to himself and all that it implied.
Barbara nodded. <= o:p>
"What is at =
the
bottom of this row?" persisted Billy. He had fallen back into the dece=
nt
pronunciation that Barbara had taught him, but neither noticed the change. =
For
a moment he had forgotten that he was playing a part. Then he recollected. =
"Nothing
much," replied the girl. "I couldn't rid myself of the feeling th=
at
they had murdered you, by leaving you back there alone and wounded. I began=
to
think 'coward' every time I saw Mr. Mallory. I couldn't marry him, feeling =
that
way toward him, and, Billy, I really never LOVED him as--as--" Again s=
he
stumbled, but the mucker made no attempt to grasp the opportunity opened be=
fore
him.
Instead he crossed
the library to the telephone. Running through the book he came presently up=
on
the number he sought. A moment later he had his connection.
"Is this
Mallory?" he asked.
"I'm
Byrne--Billy Byrne. De guy dat cracked your puss fer youse on de Lotus.&quo=
t;
"Dead, hell!=
Not
me. Say, I'm up here at Barbara's."
"Yes, dat's =
wot
I said. She wants youse to beat it up here's swift as youse kin beat it.&qu=
ot;
Barbara Harding
stepped forward. Her eyes were blazing.
"How dare
you?" she cried, attempting to seize the telephone from Billy's grasp.=
He turned his huge
frame between her and the instrument. "Git a move!" he shouted in=
to
the mouthpiece. "Good-bye!" and he hung up.
Then he turned ba=
ck
toward the angry girl.
"Look
here," he said. "Once youse was strong on de sob stuff wit me, te=
llin'
me how noble I was, an' all de different tings youse would do fer me to rep=
ay
all I done fer youse. Now youse got de chanct."
"What do you
mean?" asked the girl, puzzled. "What can I do for you?"
"Youse kin do
dis fer me. When Mallory gits here youse kin tell him dat de engagement is =
all
on again--see!"
In the wide eyes =
of
the girl Billy read a deeper hurt than he had dreamed of. He had thought th=
at
it would not be difficult for her to turn back from the vulgar mucker to the
polished gentleman. And when he saw that she was suffering, and guessed tha=
t it
was because he had tried to crush her love by brute force he could carry the
game no further.
"O
Barbara," he cried, "can't you see that Mallory is your kind--tha=
t HE
is a fit mate for you. I have learned since I came into this house a few mi=
nutes
ago the unbridgeable chasm that stretches between Billy Byrne, the mucker, =
and
such as you. Once I aspired; but now I know just as you must have always kn=
own,
that a single lifetime is far too short for a man to cover the distance from
Grand Avenue to Riverside Drive.
"I want you =
to
be happy, Barbara, just as I intend to be. Back there in Chicago there are
plenty of girls on Grand Avenue as straight and clean and fine as they make=
'em
on Riverside Drive. Girls of my own kind, they are, and I'm going back ther=
e to
find the one that God intended for me. You've taught me what a good girl ca=
n do
toward making a man of a beast. You've taught me pride and self-respect. Yo=
u've
taught me so much that I'd rather that I'd died back there beneath the spea=
rs
of Oda Iseka's warriors than live here beneath the sneers and contempt of
servants, and the pity and condescension of your friends.
"I want you =
to
be happy, Barbara, and so I want you to promise me that you'll marry Billy
Mallory. There isn't any man on earth quite good enough for you; but Mallory
comes nearer to it than anyone I know. I've heard 'em talking about him aro=
und
town since I came back--and there isn't a rotten story chalked up against h=
im
nowhere, and that's a lot more than you can say for ninety-nine of a hundred
New Yorkers that are talked about at all.
"And Mallory=
's a
man, too--the kind that every woman ought to have, only they ain't enough of
'em to go 'round. Do you remember how he stood up there on the deck of the
Lotus and fought fair against my dirty tricks? He's a man and a gentleman,
Barbara--the sort you can be proud of, and that's the sort you got to have.=
You
see I know you.
"And he foug=
ht
against those fellows of Yoka in the street of Oda Iseka's village like a m=
an
should fight. There ain't any yellow in him, Barbara, and he didn't leave me
until there seemed no other way, even in the face of the things I told them=
to
make them go. Don't harbor that against him--I only wonder that he didn't c=
roak
me; your dad wanted to, and Mallory wouldn't let him."
"They never =
told
me that," said Barbara.
The bell rang.
"Here he is
now," said Billy. "Good-bye--I'd rather not see him. Smith'll let=
me
out the servants' door. Guess that'll make him feel better. You'll do as I =
ask,
Barbara?"
He had paused at =
the
door, turning toward her as he asked the final question.
The girl stood fa=
cing
him. Her eyes were dim with unshed tears. Billy Byrne swam before them in a
hazy mist.
"You'll do a=
s I
ask, Barbara!" he repeated, but this time it was a command.
As Mallory entered
the room Barbara heard the door of the servants' entrance slam behind Billy
Byrne.
BILLY BYRNE squar=
ed
his broad shoulders and filled his deep lungs with the familiar medium whic=
h is
known as air in Chicago. He was standing upon the platform of a New York
Central train that was pulling into the La Salle Street Station, and though=
the
young man was far from happy something in the nature of content pervaded his
being, for he was coming home.
After something m=
ore
than a year of world wandering and strange adventure Billy Byrne was coming
back to the great West Side and Grand Avenue.
Now there is not =
much
upon either side or down the center of long and tortuous Grand Avenue to ar=
ouse
enthusiasm, nor was Billy particularly enthusiastic about that more or less
squalid thoroughfare.
The thing that
exalted Billy was the idea that he was coming back to SHOW THEM. He had lef=
t under
a cloud and with a reputation for genuine toughness and rowdyism that has s=
een
few parallels even in the ungentle district of his birth and upbringing.
A girl had changed
him. She was as far removed from Billy's sphere as the stars themselves; bu=
t Billy
had loved her and learned from her, and in trying to become more as he knew=
the
men of her class were he had sloughed off much of the uncouthness that had
always been a part of him, and all of the rowdyism. Billy Byrne was no long=
er
the mucker.
He had given her =
up
because he imagined the gulf between Grand Avenue and Riverside Drive to be
unbridgeable; but he still clung to the ideals she had awakened in him. He
still sought to be all that she might wish him to be, even though he realiz=
ed
that he never should see her again.
Grand Avenue woul=
d be
the easiest place to forget his sorrow--her he could never forget. And then,
his newly awakened pride urged him back to the haunts of his former life th=
at
he might, as he would put it himself, show them. He wanted the gang to see =
that
he, Billy Byrne, wasn't afraid to be decent. He wanted some of the neighbor=
s to
realize that he could work steadily and earn an honest living, and he looked
forward with delight to the pleasure and satisfaction of rubbing it in to s=
ome
of the saloon keepers and bartenders who had helped keep him drunk some fiv=
e days
out of seven, for Billy didn't drink any more.
But most of all he
wanted to vindicate himself in the eyes of the once-hated law. He wanted to
clear his record of the unjust charge of murder which had sent him scurrying
out of Chicago over a year before, that night that Patrolman Stanley Lasky =
of
the Lake Street Station had tipped him off that Sheehan had implicated him =
in
the murder of old man Schneider.
Now Billy Byrne h=
ad
not killed Schneider. He had been nowhere near the old fellow's saloon at t=
he
time of the holdup; but Sheehan, who had been arrested and charged with the
crime, was an old enemy of Billy's, and Sheehan had seen a chance to divert
some of the suspicion from himself and square accounts with Byrne at the sa=
me
time.
The new Billy Byr=
ne
was ready to accept at face value everything which seemed to belong in any =
way
to the environment of that exalted realm where dwelt the girl he loved. Law,
order, and justice appeared to Billy in a new light since he had rubbed elb=
ows
with the cultured and refined.
He no longer
distrusted or feared them. They would give him what he sought--a square dea=
l.
It seemed odd to
Billy that he should be seeking anything from the law or its minions. For y=
ears
he had waged a perpetual battle with both. Now he was coming back voluntari=
ly
to give himself up, with every conviction that he should be exonerated quic=
kly.
Billy, knowing his own innocence, realizing his own integrity, assumed that
others must immediately appreciate both.
"First,"
thought Billy, "I'll go take a look at little old Grand Ave., then I'll
give myself up. The trial may take a long time, an' if it does I want to see
some of the old bunch first."
So Billy entered =
an
"L" coach and leaning on the sill of an open window watched grimy
Chicago rattle past until the guard's "Granavenoo" announced the =
end
of his journey.
Maggie Shane was
sitting on the upper step of the long flight of stairs which lean precariou=
sly
against the scarred face of the frame residence upon the second floor front=
of
which the lares and penates of the Shane family are crowded into three
ill-smelling rooms.
It was Saturday a=
nd
Maggie was off. She sat there rather disconsolate for there was a dearth of
beaux for Maggie, none having arisen to fill the aching void left by the su=
dden
departure of "Coke" Sheehan since that worthy gentleman had sough=
t a
more salubrious clime--to the consternation of both Maggie Shane and Mr.
Sheehan's bondsmen.
Maggie scowled do=
wn
upon the frowsy street filled with frowsy women and frowsy children. She
scowled upon the street cars rumbling by with their frowsy loads. Occasiona=
lly
she varied the monotony by drawing out her chewing gum to wondrous lengths,
holding one end between a thumb and finger and the other between her teeth.=
Presently Maggie
spied a rather pleasing figure sauntering up the sidewalk upon her side of =
the
street. The man was too far away for her to recognize his features, but his
size and bearing and general appearance appealed to the lonesome Maggie. She
hoped it was someone she knew, or with whom she might easily become acquain=
ted,
for Maggie was bored to death.
She patted the ha=
ir
at the back of her head and righted the mop which hung over one eye. Then s=
he
rearranged her skirts and waited. As the man approached she saw that he was
better looking than she had even dared to hope, and that there was something
extremely familiar about his appearance. It was not, though, until he was
almost in front of the house that he looked up at the girl and she recogniz=
ed
him.
Then Maggie Shane
gasped and clutched the handrail at her side. An instant later the man was =
past
and continuing his way along the sidewalk.
Maggie Shane glar=
ed
after him for a minute, then she ran quickly down the stairs and into a gro=
cery
store a few doors west, where she asked if she might use the telephone.
"Gimme West
2063," she demanded of the operator, and a moment later: "Is this
Lake Street?"
"Well say, B=
illy
Byrne's back. I just see him."
"Yes an' nev=
er
mind who I am; but if youse guys want him he's walkin' west on Grand Avenoo
right now. I just this minute seen him near Lincoln," and she smashed =
the
receiver back into its hook.
Billy Byrne thoug=
ht
that he would look in on his mother, not that he expected to be welcomed ev=
en
though she might happen to be sober, or not that he cared to see her; but
Billy's whole manner of thought had altered within the year, and something =
now
seemed to tell him that it was his duty to do the thing he contemplated. Ma=
ybe
he might even be of help to her.
But when he reach=
ed
the gloomy neighborhood in which his childhood had been spent it was to lea=
rn
that his mother was dead and that another family occupied the tumble-down
cottage that had been his home.
If Billy Byrne fe=
lt
any sorrow because of his mother's death he did not reveal it outwardly. He
owed her nothing but for kicks and cuffs received, and for the surroundings=
and
influences that had started him upon a life of crime at an age when most bo=
ys
are just entering grammar school.
Really the man was
relieved that he had not had to see her, and it was with a lighter step tha=
t he
turned back to retrace his way along Grand Avenue. No one of the few he had=
met
who recognized him had seemed particularly delighted at his return. The who=
le
affair had been something of a disappointment. Therefore Billy determined t=
o go
at once to the Lake Street Station and learn the status of the Schneider mu=
rder
case. Possibly they had discovered the real murderer, and if that was the c=
ase
Billy would be permitted to go his way; but if not then he could give himse=
lf
up and ask for a trial, that he might be exonerated.
As he neared Wood
Street two men who had been watching his approach stepped into the doorway =
of a
saloon, and as he passed they stepped out again behind him. One upon either
side they seized him.
Billy turned to
remonstrate.
"Come easy n=
ow,
Byrne," admonished one of the men, "an' don't make no fuss."=
"Oh," s=
aid
Billy, "it's you, is it? Well, I was just goin' over to the station to
give myself up."
Both men laughed,
skeptically. "We'll just save you the trouble," said one of them.
"We'll take you over. You might lose your way if you tried to go
alone."
Billy went along =
in
silence the rest of the way to where the patrol waited at another corner. He
saw there was nothing to be gained by talking to these detectives; but he f=
ound
the lieutenant equally inclined to doubt his intentions. He, too, only laug=
hed
when Billy assured him that he was on his way to the station at the very
instant of arrest.
As the weeks drag=
ged
along, and Billy Byrne found no friendly interest in himself or his desire =
to
live on the square, and no belief in his protestations that he had had naug=
ht
to do with the killing of Schneider he began to have his doubts as to the
wisdom of his act.
He also commenced=
to
entertain some of his former opinions of the police, and of the law of which
they are supposed to be the guardians. A cell-mate told him that the papers=
had
scored the department heavily for their failure to apprehend the murderer of
the inoffensive old Schneider, and that public opinion had been so aroused =
that
a general police shakeup had followed.
The result was th=
at
the police were keen to fasten the guilt upon someone--they did not care wh=
om,
so long as it was someone who was in their custody.
"You may not=
o'
done it," ventured the cell-mate; "but they'll send you up for it=
, if
they can't hang you. They're goin' to try to get the death sentence. They
hain't got no love for you, Byrne. You caused 'em a lot o' throuble in your=
day
an' they haven't forgot it. I'd hate to be in your boots."
Billy Byrne shrug=
ged.
Where were his dreams of justice? They seemed to have faded back into the o=
ld
distrust and hatred. He shook himself and conjured in his mind the vision o=
f a
beautiful girl who had believed in him and trusted him--who had inculcated
within him a love for all that was finest and best in true manhood, for the
very things that he had most hated all the years of his life before she had
come into his existence to alter it and him.
And then Billy wo=
uld
believe again--believe that in the end justice would triumph and that it wo=
uld
all come out right, just the way he had pictured it.
With the coming of
the last day of the trial Billy found it more and more difficult to adhere =
to
his regard for law, order, and justice. The prosecution had shown conclusiv=
ely
that Billy was a hard customer. The police had brought witnesses who did not
hesitate to perjure themselves in their testimony--testimony which it seeme=
d to
Billy the densest of jurymen could plainly see had been framed up and learn=
ed
by rote until it was letter-perfect.
These witnesses c=
ould
recall with startling accuracy every detail that had occurred between seven=
teen
minutes after eight and twenty-one minutes past nine on the night of Septem=
ber
23 over a year before; but where they had been and what they had done ten
minutes earlier or ten minutes later, or where they were at nine o'clock in=
the
evening last Friday they couldn't for the lives of them remember.
And Billy was
practically without witnesses.
The result was a
foregone conclusion. Even Billy had to admit it, and when the prosecuting
attorney demanded the death penalty the prisoner had an uncanny sensation a=
s of
the tightening of a hempen rope about his neck.
As he waited for =
the
jury to return its verdict Billy sat in his cell trying to read a newspaper
which a kindly guard had given him. But his eyes persisted in boring through
the white paper and the black type to scenes that were not in any paper. He=
saw
a turbulent river tumbling through a savage world, and in the swirl of the
water lay a little island. And he saw a man there upon the island, and a gi=
rl.
The girl was teaching the man to speak the language of the cultured, and to
view life as people of refinement view it.
She taught him wh=
at
honor meant among her class, and that it was better to lose any other
possession rather than lose honor. Billy realized that it had been these
lessons that had spurred him on to the mad scheme that was to end now with =
the
verdict of "Guilty"--he had wished to vindicate his honor. A hard
laugh broke from his lips; but instantly he sobered and his face softened. =
It had been for h=
er
sake after all, and what mattered it if they did send him to the gallows? He
had not sacrificed his honor--he had done his best to assert it. He was
innocent. They could kill him but they couldn't make him guilty. A thousand
juries pronouncing him so could not make it true that he had killed Schneid=
er.
But it would be h=
ard,
after all his hopes, after all the plans he had made to live square, to SHOW
THEM. His eyes still boring through the paper suddenly found themselves
attracted by something in the text before them--a name, Harding.
Billy Byrne shook
himself and commenced to read:
The marriage of Barbara, daughter of Ant=
hony
Harding, the multimillionaire, to William Mallory will take place on the
twenty-fifth of June.
The article was dated New York. There was
more, but Billy did not read it. He had read enough. It is true that he had
urged her to marry Mallory; but now, in his lonesomeness and friendlessness=
, he
felt almost as though she had been untrue to him.
"Come along,
Byrne," a bailiff interrupted his thoughts, "the jury's reached a
verdict."
The judge was
emerging from his chambers as Billy was led into the courtroom. Presently t=
he
jury filed in and took their seats. The foreman handed the clerk a bit of
paper. Even before it was read Billy knew that he had been found guilty. He=
did
not care any longer, so he told himself. He hoped that the judge would send=
him
to the gallows. There was nothing more in life for him now anyway. He wante=
d to
die. But instead he was sentenced to life imprisonment in the penitentiary =
at Joliet.
This was infinite=
ly
worse than death. Billy Byrne was appalled at the thought of remaining for =
life
within the grim stone walls of a prison. Once more there swept over him all=
the
old, unreasoning hatred of the law and all that pertained to it. He would l=
ike
to close his steel fingers about the fat neck of the red-faced judge. The s=
mug
jurymen roused within him the lust to kill. Justice! Billy Byrne laughed al=
oud.
A bailiff rapped =
for
order. One of the jurymen leaned close to a neighbor and whispered. "A
hardened criminal," he said. "Society will be safer when he is be=
hind
the bars."
The next day they
took Billy aboard a train bound for Joliet. He was handcuffed to a deputy
sheriff. Billy was calm outwardly; but inwardly he was a raging volcano of
hate.
In a certain very beautiful home on Rive=
rside
Drive, New York City, a young lady, comfortably backed by downy pillows, sa=
t in
her bed and alternated her attention between coffee and rolls, and a morning
paper.
On the inside of =
the
main sheet a heading claimed her languid attention: CHICAGO MURDERER GIVEN =
LIFE
SENTENCE. Of late Chicago had aroused in Barbara Harding a greater proporti=
on
of interest than ever it had in the past, and so it was that she now permit=
ted
her eyes to wander casually down the printed column.
Murderer of harmless old saloon keeper is
finally brought to justice. The notorious West Side rowdy, "Billy"
Byrne, apprehended after more than a year as fugitive from justice, is sent=
to
Joliet for life.
Barbara Harding sat stony-eyed and cold =
for
what seemed many minutes. Then with a stifled sob she turned and buried her
face in the pillows.
The train bearing
Billy Byrne and the deputy sheriff toward Joliet had covered perhaps half t=
he
distance between Chicago and Billy's permanent destination when it occurred=
to
the deputy sheriff that he should like to go into the smoker and enjoy a ci=
gar.
Now, from the mom=
ent
that he had been sentenced Billy Byrne's mind had been centered upon one
thought--escape. He knew that there probably would be not the slightest cha=
nce
for escape; but nevertheless the idea was always uppermost in his thoughts.=
His whole being
revolted, not alone against the injustice which had sent him into life
imprisonment, but at the thought of the long years of awful monotony which =
lay
ahead of him.
He could not endu=
re
them. He would not! The deputy sheriff rose, and motioning his prisoner ahe=
ad
of him, started for the smoker. It was two cars ahead. The train was
vestibuled. The first platform they crossed was tightly enclosed; but at the
second Billy saw that a careless porter had left one of the doors open. The
train was slowing down for some reason--it was going, perhaps, twenty miles=
an
hour.
Billy was the fir=
st
upon the platform. He was the first to see the open door. It meant one of t=
wo
things--a chance to escape, or, death. Even the latter was to be preferred =
to
life imprisonment.
Billy did not
hesitate an instant. Even before the deputy sheriff realized that the door =
was
open, his prisoner had leaped from the moving train dragging his guard after
him.
BYRNE had no time=
to
pick any particular spot to jump for. When he did jump he might have been
directly over a picket fence, or a bottomless pit--he did not know. Nor did=
he
care.
As it happened he=
was
over neither. The platform chanced to be passing across a culvert at the
instant. Beneath the culvert was a slimy pool. Into this the two men plunge=
d,
alighting unharmed.
Byrne was the fir=
st
to regain his feet. He dragged the deputy sheriff to his knees, and before =
that
frightened and astonished officer of the law could gather his wits together=
he
had been relieved of his revolver and found himself looking into its cold a=
nd
business-like muzzle.
Then Billy Byrne
waded ashore, prodding the deputy sheriff in the ribs with cold steel, and
warning him to silence. Above the pool stood a little wood, thick with tang=
led
wildwood. Into this Byrne forced his prisoner.
When they had come
deep enough into the concealment of the foliage to make discovery from the
outside improbable Byrne halted.
"Now say yer
prayers," he commanded. "I'm a-going to croak yeh."
The deputy sheriff
looked up at him in wild-eyed terror.
"My God!&quo=
t;
he cried. "I ain't done nothin' to you, Byrne. Haven't I always been y=
our
friend? What've I ever done to you? For God's sake Byrne you ain't goin' to
murder me, are you? They'll get you, sure."
Billy Byrne let a
rather unpleasant smile curl his lips.
"No," he
said, "youse ain't done nothin' to me; but you stand for the law, damn=
it,
and I'm going to croak everything I meet that stands for the law. They want=
ed
to send me up for life--me, an innocent man. Your kind done it--the cops. Y=
ou
ain't no cop; but you're just as rotten. Now say yer prayers."
He leveled the
revolver at his victim's head. The deputy sheriff slumped to his knees and
tried to embrace Billy Byrne's legs as he pleaded for his life.
"Cut it out,=
you
poor boob," admonished Billy. "You've gotta die and if you was ha=
lf a
man you'd wanna die like one."
The deputy sheriff
slipped to the ground. His terror had overcome him, leaving him in happy
unconsciousness. Byrne stood looking down upon the man for a moment. His wr=
ist
was chained to that of the other, and the pull of the deputy's body was
irritating.
Byrne stooped and
placed the muzzle of the revolver back of the man's ear. "Justice!&quo=
t;
he muttered, scornfully, and his finger tightened upon the trigger.
Then, conjured fr=
om
nothing, there rose between himself and the unconscious man beside him the
figure of a beautiful girl. Her face was brave and smiling, and in her eyes=
was
trust and pride--whole worlds of them. Trust and pride in Billy Byrne.
Billy closed his =
eyes
tight as though in physical pain. He brushed his hand quickly across his fa=
ce.
"Gawd!"=
he
muttered. "I can't do it--but I came awful close to it."
Dropping the revo=
lver
into his side pocket he kneeled beside the deputy sheriff and commenced to =
go
through the man's clothes. After a moment he came upon what he sought--a key
ring confining several keys.
Billy found the o=
ne
he wished and presently he was free. He still stood looking at the deputy
sheriff.
"I ought to
croak you," he murmured. "I'll never make my get-away if I don't;=
but
SHE won't let me--God bless her."
Suddenly a thought
came to Billy Byrne. If he could have a start he might escape. It wouldn't =
hurt
the man any to stay here for a few hours, or even for a day. Billy removed =
the
deputy's coat and tore it into strips. With these he bound the man to a tre=
e.
Then he fastened a gag in his mouth.
During the operat=
ion the
deputy regained consciousness. He looked questioningly at Billy.
"I decided n=
ot
to croak you," explained the young man. "I'm just a-goin' to leave
you here for a while. They'll be lookin' all along the right o' way in a few
hours--it won't be long afore they find you. Now so long, and take care of
yerself, bo," and Billy Byrne had gone.
A mistake that pr=
oved
fortunate for Billy Byrne caused the penitentiary authorities to expect him=
and
his guard by a later train, so no suspicion was aroused when they failed to
come upon the train they really had started upon. This gave Billy a good two
hours' start that he would not otherwise have had--an opportunity of which =
he
made good use.
Wherefore it was =
that
by the time the authorities awoke to the fact that something had happened B=
illy
Byrne was fifty miles west of Joliet, bowling along aboard a fast Santa Fe
freight. Shortly after night had fallen the train crossed the Mississippi.
Billy Byrne was hungry and thirsty, and as the train slowed down and came t=
o a
stop out in the midst of a dark solitude of silent, sweet-smelling country,
Billy opened the door of his box car and dropped lightly to the ground.
So far no one had
seen Billy since he had passed from the ken of the trussed deputy sheriff, =
and
as Billy had no desire to be seen he slipped over the edge of the embankment
into a dry ditch, where he squatted upon his haunches waiting for the train=
to
depart. The stop out there in the dark night was one of those mysterious st=
ops
which trains are prone to make, unexplained and doubtless unexplainable by =
any
other than a higher intelligence which directs the movements of men and rol=
ling
stock. There was no town, and not even a switch light. Presently two stacca=
to
blasts broke from the engine's whistle, there was a progressive jerking at =
coupling
pins, which started up at the big locomotive and ran rapidly down the lengt=
h of
the train, there was the squeaking of brake shoes against wheels, and the t=
rain
moved slowly forward again upon its long journey toward the coast, gaining
momentum moment by moment until finally the way-car rolled rapidly past the
hidden fugitive and the freight rumbled away to be swallowed up in the
darkness.
When it had gone
Billy rose and climbed back upon the track, along which he plodded in the w=
ake
of the departing train. Somewhere a road would presently cut across the tra=
ck,
and along the road there would be farmhouses or a village where food and dr=
ink
might be found.
Billy was pennile=
ss,
yet he had no doubt but that he should eat when he had discovered food. He =
was
thinking of this as he walked briskly toward the west, and what he thought =
of
induced a doubt in his mind as to whether it was, after all, going to be so
easy to steal food.
"Shaw!"=
he
exclaimed, half aloud, "she wouldn't think it wrong for a guy to swipe=
a
little grub when he was starvin'. It ain't like I was goin' to stick a guy =
up
for his roll. Sure she wouldn't see nothin' wrong for me to get something to
eat. I ain't got no money. They took it all away from me, an' I got a right=
to
live--but, somehow, I hate to do it. I wisht there was some other way. Gee,=
but
she's made a sissy out o' me! Funny how a feller can change. Why I almost l=
ike
bein' a sissy," and Billy Byrne grinned at the almost inconceivable id=
ea.
Before Billy came=
to
a road he saw a light down in a little depression at one side of the track.=
It
was not such a light as a lamp shining beyond a window makes. It rose and f=
ell,
winking and flaring close to the ground.
It looked much li=
ke a
camp fire, and as Billy drew nearer he saw that such it was, and he heard a
voice, too. Billy approached more carefully. He must be careful always to s=
ee
before being seen. The little fire burned upon the bank of a stream which t=
he
track bridged upon a concrete arch.
Billy dropped once
more from the right of way, and climbed a fence into a thin wood. Through t=
his
he approached the camp fire with small chance of being observed. As he near=
ed
it the voice resolved itself into articulate words, and presently Billy lea=
ned
against a tree close behind the speaker and listened.
There was but a
single figure beside the small fire--that of a man squatting upon his haunc=
hes
roasting something above the flames. At one edge of the fire was an empty t=
in
can from which steam arose, and an aroma that was now and again wafted to
Billy's nostrils.
Coffee! My, how g=
ood
it smelled. Billy's mouth watered. But the voice--that interested Billy alm=
ost
as much as the preparations for the coming meal.
We'll dance a merry saraband from here =
to
drowsy Samarcand. Along the sea,
across the land, the birds are flying South, And you, my sweet Penelope, out there
somewhere you wait for me, With=
buds
of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.
The words took hold of Billy somewhere a=
nd
made him forget his hunger. Like a sweet incense which induces pleasant
daydreams they were wafted in upon him through the rich, mellow voice of the
solitary camper, and the lilt of the meter entered his blood.
But the voice. It=
was
the voice of such as Billy Byrne always had loathed and ridiculed until he =
had
sat at the feet of Barbara Harding and learned many things, including love.=
It
was the voice of culture and refinement. Billy strained his eyes through the
darkness to have a closer look at the man. The light of the camp fire fell =
upon
frayed and bagging clothes, and upon the back of a head covered by a shapel=
ess,
and disreputable soft hat.
Obviously the man=
was
a hobo. The coffee boiling in a discarded tin can would have been proof
positive of this without other evidence; but there seemed plenty more. Yes,=
the
man was a hobo. Billy continued to stand listening.
The mountains are all hid in mist, the =
valley
is like amethyst, The poplar leav=
es
they turn and twist, oh, silver, silver green! Out there somewhere along the sea a shi=
p is
waiting patiently, While up the b=
each
the bubbles slip with white afloat between.
"Gee!" thought Billy Byrne;
"but that's great stuff. I wonder where he gets it. It makes me want to
hike until I find that place he's singin' about."
Billy's thoughts =
were
interrupted by a sound in the wood to one side of him. As he turned his eye=
s in
the direction of the slight noise which had attracted him he saw two men st=
ep
quietly out and cross toward the man at the camp fire.
These, too, were
evidently hobos. Doubtless pals of the poetical one. The latter did not hear
them until they were directly behind him. Then he turned slowly and rose as
they halted beside his fire.
"Evenin',
bo," said one of the newcomers.
"Good evenin=
g,
gentlemen," replied the camper, "welcome to my humble home. Have =
you
dined?"
"Naw,"
replied the first speaker, "we ain't; but we're goin' to. Now can the
chatter an' duck. There ain't enough fer one here, let alone three. Beat
it!" and the man, who was big and burly, assumed a menacing attitude a=
nd
took a truculent step nearer the solitary camper.
The latter was sh=
ort
and slender. The larger man looked as though he might have eaten him at a
single mouthful; but the camper did not flinch.
"You pain
me," he said. "You induce within me a severe and highly localized
pain, and furthermore I don't like your whiskers."
With which appare=
ntly
irrelevant remark he seized the matted beard of the larger tramp and struck=
the
fellow a quick, sharp blow in the face. Instantly the fellow's companion was
upon him; but the camper retained his death grip upon the beard of the now
yelling bully and continued to rain blow after blow upon head and face.
Billy Byrne was an
interested spectator. He enjoyed a good fight as he enjoyed little else; but
presently when the first tramp succeeded in tangling his legs about the leg=
s of
his chastiser and dragging him to the ground, and the second tramp seized a
heavy stick and ran forward to dash the man's brains out, Billy thought it =
time
to interfere.
Stepping forward =
he
called aloud as he came: "Cut it out, boes! You can't pull off any rou=
gh
stuff like that with this here sweet singer. Can it! Can it!" as the
second tramp raised his stick to strike the now prostrate camper.
As he spoke Billy
Byrne broke into a run, and as the stick fell he reached the man's side and
swung a blow to the tramp's jaw that sent the fellow spinning backward to t=
he
river's brim, where he tottered drunkenly for a moment and then plunged
backward into the shallow water.
Then Billy seized=
the
other attacker by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet.
"Do you want
some, too, you big stiff?" he inquired.
The man spluttered
and tried to break away, striking at Billy as he did so; but a sudden punch,
such a punch as Billy Byrne had once handed the surprised Harlem Hurricane,
removed from the mind of the tramp the last vestige of any thought he might
have harbored to do the newcomer bodily injury, and with it removed all else
from the man's mind, temporarily.
As the fellow
slumped, unconscious, to the ground, the camper rose to his feet.
"Some wallop=
you
have concealed in your sleeve, my friend," he said; "place it
there!" and he extended a slender, shapely hand.
Billy took it and
shook it.
"It don't get under the ribs like those verses of yours, though, bo," he returned. <= o:p>
"It seems to
have insinuated itself beneath this guy's thick skull," replied the
poetical one, "and it's a cinch my verses, nor any other would ever get
there."
The tramp who had
plumbed the depths of the creek's foot of water and two feet of soft mud was
crawling ashore.
"Whadda YOU =
want
now?" inquired Billy Byrne. "A piece o' soap?"
"I'll get yo=
use
yet," spluttered the moist one through his watery whiskers.
"Ferget
it," admonished Billy, "an' hit the trail." He pointed towar=
d the
railroad right of way. "An' you, too, John L," he added turning to
the other victim of his artistic execution, who was now sitting up. "H=
ike!"
Mumbling and grow=
ling
the two unwashed shuffled away, and were presently lost to view along the
vanishing track.
The solitary camp=
er
had returned to his culinary effort, as unruffled and unconcerned, apparent=
ly,
as though naught had occurred to disturb his peaceful solitude.
"Sit down,&q=
uot;
he said after a moment, looking up at Billy, "and have a bite to eat w=
ith
me. Take that leather easy chair. The Louis Quatorze is too small and
spindle-legged for comfort." He waved his hand invitingly toward the s=
ward
beside the fire.
For a moment he w=
as
entirely absorbed in the roasting fowl impaled upon a sharp stick which he =
held
in his right hand. Then he presently broke again into verse.
Around the world and back again; we saw=
it
all. The mist and rain
In England and the hot old plain from
Needles to Berdoo. We kept a-ramb=
ling all
the time. I rustled grub, he rustl=
ed
rhyme-- Blind-baggage, hoof it, =
ride
or climb--we always put it through.
"You're a good sort," he broke=
off,
suddenly. "There ain't many boes that would have done as much for a
fellow."
"It was two
against one," replied Billy, "an' I don't like them odds. Besides=
I
like your poetry. Where d'ye get it--make it up?"
"Lord, no,&q=
uot;
laughed the other. "If I could do that I wouldn't be pan-handling. A g=
uy
by the name of Henry Herbert Knibbs did them. Great, ain't they?"
"They sure i=
s.
They get me right where I live," and then, after a pause; "sure y=
ou
got enough fer two, bo?"
"I have enou=
gh
for you, old top," replied the host, "even if I only had half as =
much
as I have. Here, take first crack at the ambrosia. Sorry I have but a single
cup; but James has broken the others. James is very careless. Sometimes I
almost feel that I shall have to let him go."
"Who's
James?" asked Billy.
"James? Oh,
James is my man," replied the other.
Billy looked up at
his companion quizzically, then he tasted the dark, thick concoction in the=
tin
can.
"This is
coffee," he announced. "I thought you said it was ambrose." =
"I only wish=
ed
to see if you would recognize it, my friend," replied the poetical one
politely. "I am highly complimented that you can guess what it is from=
its
taste."
For several minut=
es
the two ate in silence, passing the tin can back and forth, and
slicing--hacking would be more nearly correct--pieces of meat from the
half-roasted fowl. It was Billy who broke the silence.
"I think,&qu= ot; said he, "that you been stringin' me--'bout James and ambrose." <= o:p>
The other laughed
good-naturedly.
"You are not
offended, I hope," said he. "This is a sad old world, you know, a=
nd
we're all looking for amusement. If a guy has no money to buy it with, he h=
as
to manufacture it."
"Sure, I ain=
't
sore," Billy assured him. "Say, spiel that part again 'bout Penel=
ope
with the kisses on her mouth, an' you can kid me till the cows come home.&q=
uot;
The camper by the
creek did as Billy asked him, while the latter sat with his eyes upon the f=
ire
seeing in the sputtering little flames the oval face of her who was Penelop=
e to
him.
When the verse was
completed he reached forth his hand and took the tin can in his strong fing=
ers,
raising it before his face.
"Here's to--=
to
his Knibbs!" he said, and drank, passing the battered thing over to his
new friend.
"Yes," =
said
the other; "here's to his Knibbs, and--Penelope!"
"Drink
hearty," returned Billy Byrne.
The poetical one =
drew
a sack of tobacco from his hip pocket and a rumpled package of papers from =
the
pocket of his shirt, extending both toward Billy.
"Want the
makings?" he asked.
"I ain't stu=
ck
on sponging," said Billy; "but maybe I can get even some day, and=
I
sure do want a smoke. You see I was frisked. I ain't got nothin'--they didn=
't
leave me a sou markee."
Billy reached acr=
oss
one end of the fire for the tobacco and cigarette papers. As he did so the
movement bared his wrist, and as the firelight fell upon it the marks of the
steel bracelet showed vividly. In the fall from the train the metal had bit=
ten
into the flesh.
His companion's e=
yes
happened to fall upon the telltale mark. There was an almost imperceptible
raising of the man's eyebrows; but he said nothing to indicate that he had
noticed anything out of the ordinary.
The two smoked on=
for
many minutes without indulging in conversation. The camper quoted snatches =
from
Service and Kipling, then he came back to Knibbs, who was evidently his
favorite. Billy listened and thought.
"Goin' anywh=
eres
in particular?" he asked during a momentary lull in the recitation.
"Oh, south or
west," replied the other. "Nowhere in particular--any place suits=
me
just so it isn't north or east."
"That's
me," said Billy.
"Let's travel
double, then," said the poetical one. "My name's Bridge."
"And mine's
Billy. Here, shake," and Byrne extended his hand.
"Until one o=
f us
gets wearied of the other's company," said Bridge.
"You're
on," replied Billy. "Let's turn in."
"Good,"
exclaimed Bridge. "I wonder what's keeping James. He should have been =
here
long since to turn down my bed and fix my bath."
Billy grinned and
rolled over on his side, his head uphill and his feet toward the fire. A co=
uple
of feet away Bridge paralleled him, and in five minutes both were breathing
deeply in healthy slumber.
"'WE KEPT
a-rambling all the time. I rustled grub, he rustled rhyme,'" quoted Bi=
lly
Byrne, sitting up and stretching himself.
His companion rou=
sed
and came to one elbow. The sun was topping the scant wood behind them, glin=
ting
on the surface of the little creek. A robin hopped about the sward quite cl=
ose
to them, and from the branch of a tree a hundred yards away came the sweet
piping of a song bird. Farther off were the distance-subdued noises of an
awakening farm. The lowing of cows, the crowing of a rooster, the yelping o=
f a
happy dog just released from a night of captivity.
Bridge yawned and
stretched. Billy rose to his feet and shook himself.
"This is the
life," said Bridge. "Where you going?"
"To rustle
grub," replied Billy. "That's my part o' the sketch."
The other laughed.
"Go to it," he said. "I hate it. That's the part that has co=
me
nearest making me turn respectable than any other. I hate to ask for a
hand-out."
Billy shrugged. H=
e'd
done worse things than that in his life, and off he trudged, whistling. He =
felt
happier than he had for many a day. He never had guessed that the country in
the morning could be so beautiful.
Behind him his
companion collected the material for a fire, washed himself in the creek, a=
nd
set the tin can, filled with water, at the edge of the kindling, and waited.
There was nothing to cook, so it was useless to light the fire. As he sat
there, thinking, his mind reverted to the red mark upon Billy's wrist, and =
he
made a wry face.
Billy approached =
the
farmhouse from which the sounds of awakening still emanated. The farmer saw=
him
coming, and ceasing his activities about the barnyard, leaned across a gate=
and
eyed him, none too hospitably.
"I wanna get
something to eat," explained Billy.
"Got any mon=
ey
to pay for it with?" asked the farmer quickly.
"No," s=
aid
Billy; "but me partner an' me are hungry, an' we gotta eat."
The farmer extend=
ed a
gnarled forefinger and pointed toward the rear of the house. Billy looked in
the direction thus indicated and espied a woodpile. He grinned good natured=
ly.
Without a word he
crossed to the corded wood, picked up an ax which was stuck in a chopping
block, and, shedding his coat, went to work. The farmer resumed his chores.
Half an hour later he stopped on his way in to breakfast and eyed the growi=
ng
pile that lay beside Billy.
"You don't h=
ev
to chop all the wood in the county to get a meal from Jed Watson," he
said.
"I wanna get
enough for me partner, too," explained Billy.
"Well, yew've
chopped enough fer two meals, son," replied the farmer, and turning to=
ward
the kitchen door, he called: "Here, Maw, fix this boy up with suthin'
t'eat--enough fer a couple of meals fer two on 'em."
As Billy walked a=
way
toward his camp, his arms laden with milk, butter, eggs, a loaf of bread and
some cold meat, he grinned rather contentedly.
"A year or so
ago," he mused, "I'd a stuck 'em up fer this, an' thought I was
smart. Funny how a feller'll change--an' all fer a skirt. A skirt that belo=
ngs
to somebody else now, too. Hell! what's the difference, anyhow? She'd be gl=
ad
if she knew, an' it makes me feel better to act like she'd want. That old
farmer guy, now. Who'd ever have taken him fer havin' a heart at all? Wen I
seen him first I thought he'd like to sic the dog on me, an' there he comes
along an' tells 'Maw' to pass me a hand-out like this! Gee! it's a funny wo=
rld.
She used to say that most everybody was decent if you went at 'em right, an=
' I
guess she knew. She knew most everything, anyway. Lord, I wish she'd been b=
orn
on Grand Ave., or I on Riverside Drive!"
As Billy walked u=
p to
his waiting companion, who had touched a match to the firewood as he sighted
the numerous packages in the forager's arms, he was repeating, over and ove=
r,
as though the words held him in the thrall of fascination: "There ain'=
t no
sweet Penelope somewhere that's longing much for me."
Bridge eyed the
packages as Billy deposited them carefully and one at a time upon the grass
beside the fire. The milk was in a clean little graniteware pail, the eggs =
had
been placed in a paper bag, while the other articles were wrapped in pieces=
of
newspaper.
As the opening of
each revealed its contents, fresh, clean, and inviting, Bridge closed one e=
ye
and cocked the other up at Billy.
"Did he die
hard?" he inquired.
"Did who die
hard?" demanded the other.
"Why the dog=
, of
course."
"He ain't de=
ad
as I know of," replied Billy.
"You don't m=
ean
to say, my friend, that they let you get away with all this without sicing =
the
dog on you," said Bridge.
Billy laughed and
explained, and the other was relieved--the red mark around Billy's wrist
persisted in remaining uppermost in Bridge's mind.
When they had eat=
en
they lay back upon the grass and smoked some more of Bridge's tobacco.
"Well,"
inquired Bridge, "what's doing now?"
"Let's be
hikin'," said Billy.
Bridge rose and
stretched. "'My feet are tired and need a change. Come on! It's up to
you!'" he quoted.
Billy gathered
together the food they had not yet eaten, and made two equal-sized packages=
of
it. He handed one to Bridge.
"We'll divide
the pack," he explained, "and here, drink the rest o' this milk, I
want the pail."
"What are you
going to do with the pail?" asked Bridge.
"Return
it," said Billy. "'Maw' just loaned it to me."
Bridge elevated h=
is
eyebrows a trifle. He had been mistaken, after all. At the farmhouse the
farmer's wife greeted them kindly, thanked Billy for returning her pail--wh=
ich,
if the truth were known, she had not expected to see again--and gave them e=
ach
a handful of thick, light, golden-brown cookies, the tops of which were
encrusted with sugar.
As they walked aw=
ay
Bridge sighed. "Nothing on earth like a good woman," he said.
"'Maw,' or
'Penelope'?" asked Billy.
"Either, or
both," replied Bridge. "I have no Penelope, but I did have a migh=
ty
fine 'maw'."
Billy made no rep=
ly.
He was thinking of the slovenly, blear-eyed woman who had brought him into =
the
world. The memory was far from pleasant. He tried to shake it off.
"'Bridge,'&q=
uot;
he said, quite suddenly, and apropos of nothing, in an effort to change the
subject. "That's an odd name. I've heard of Bridges and Bridger; but I
never heard Bridge before."
"Just a name=
a
fellow gave me once up on the Yukon," explained Bridge. "I used to
use a few words he'd never heard before, so he called me 'The Unabridged,'
which was too long. The fellows shortened it to 'Bridge' and it stuck. It h=
as
always stuck, and now I haven't any other. I even think of myself, now, as
Bridge. Funny, ain't it?"
"Yes,"
agreed Billy, and that was the end of it. He never thought of asking his
companion's true name, any more than Bridge would have questioned him as to
his, or of his past. The ethics of the roadside fire and the empty tomato t=
in
do not countenance such impertinences.
For several days =
the
two continued their leisurely way toward Kansas City. Once they rode a few
miles on a freight train, but for the most part they were content to plod
joyously along the dusty highways. Billy continued to "rustle grub,&qu=
ot;
while Bridge relieved the monotony by an occasional burst of poetry.
"You know so
much of that stuff," said Billy as they were smoking by their camp fire
one evening, "that I'd think you'd be able to make some up yourself.&q=
uot;
"I've
tried," admitted Bridge; "but there always seems to be something =
lacking
in my stuff--it don't get under your belt--the divine afflatus is not there=
. I
may start out all right, but I always end up where I didn't expect to go, a=
nd
where nobody wants to be."
"'Member any=
of
it?" asked Billy.
"There was o=
ne I
wrote about a lake where I camped once," said Bridge, reminiscently;
"but I can only recall one stanza."
"Let's have
it," urged Billy. "I bet it has Knibbs hangin' to the ropes."=
;
Bridge cleared his
throat, and recited:
Silver are the ripples, Solemn are the dunes, Happy are the fishes, For they are full of prunes.
He looked up at Billy, a smile twitching=
at
the corners of his mouth. "How's that?" he asked.
Billy scratched h=
is
head.
"It's all ri=
ght
but the last line," said Billy, candidly. "There is something wro=
ng
with that last line."
"Yes,"
agreed Bridge, "there is."
"I guess Kni=
bbs
is safe for another round at least," said Billy.
Bridge was eying =
his
companion, noting the broad shoulders, the deep chest, the mighty forearm a=
nd
biceps which the other's light cotton shirt could not conceal.
"It is none =
of
my business," he said presently; "but from your general appearanc=
e,
from bits of idiom you occasionally drop, and from the way you handled those
two boes the night we met I should rather surmise that at some time or other
you had been less than a thousand miles from the w.k. roped arena."
"I seen a pr=
ize
fight once," admitted Billy.
It was the day be=
fore
they were due to arrive in Kansas City that Billy earned a hand-out from a
restaurant keeper in a small town by doing some odd jobs for the man. The f=
ood
he gave Billy was wrapped in an old copy of the Kansas City Star. When Billy
reached camp he tossed the package to Bridge, who, in addition to his honor=
able
post as poet laureate, was also cook. Then Billy walked down to the stream,
near-by, that he might wash away the grime and sweat of honest toil from his
hands and face.
As Bridge unwrapp=
ed
the package and the paper unfolded beneath his eyes an article caught his
attention--just casually at first; but presently to the exclusion of all el=
se.
As he read his eyebrows alternated between a position of considerable eleva=
tion
to that of a deep frown. Occasionally he nodded knowingly. Finally he glanc=
ed
up at Billy who was just rising from his ablutions. Hastily Bridge tore from
the paper the article that had attracted his interest, folded it, and stuff=
ed
it into one of his pockets--he had not had time to finish the reading and h=
e wanted
to save the article for a later opportunity for careful perusal.
That evening Brid=
ge
sat for a long time scrutinizing Billy through half-closed lids, and often =
he
found his eyes wandering to the red ring about the other's wrist; but whate=
ver
may have been within his thoughts he kept to himself.
It was noon when =
the
two sauntered into Kansas City. Billy had a dollar in his pocket--a whole
dollar. He had earned it assisting an automobilist out of a ditch.
"We'll have a
swell feed," he had confided to Bridge, "an' sleep in a bed just =
to
learn how much nicer it is sleepin' out under the black sky and the shiny
little stars."
"You're a
profligate, Billy," said Bridge.
"I dunno what
that means," said Billy; "but if it's something I shouldn't be I
probably am."
The two went to a=
rooming-house
of which Bridge knew, where they could get a clean room with a double bed f=
or
fifty cents. It was rather a high price to pay, of course, but Bridge was m=
ore
or less fastidious, and he admitted to Billy that he'd rather sleep in the
clean dirt of the roadside than in the breed of dirt one finds in an unclean
bed.
At the end of the
hall was a washroom, and toward this Bridge made his way, after removing his
coat and throwing it across the foot of the bed. After he had left the room
Billy chanced to notice a folded bit of newspaper on the floor beneath Brid=
ge's
coat. He picked it up to lay it on the little table which answered the purp=
ose
of a dresser when a single word caught his attention. It was a name: Schnei=
der.
Billy unfolded the
clipping and as his eyes took in the heading a strange expression entered
them--a hard, cold gleam such as had not touched them since the day that he
abandoned the deputy sheriff in the woods midway between Chicago and Joliet=
.
This is what Billy
read:
Billy Byrne, sentenced to life imprisonm=
ent in
Joliet penitentiary for the murder of Schneider, the old West Side saloon
keeper, hurled himself from the train that was bearing him to Joliet yester=
day,
dragging with him the deputy sheriff to whom he was handcuffed.
The deputy was fo=
und
a few hours later bound and gagged, lying in the woods along the Santa Fe, =
not
far from Lemont. He was uninjured. He says that Byrne got a good start, and
doubtless took advantage of it to return to Chicago, where a man of his sta=
mp
could find more numerous and safer retreats than elsewhere.
There was much more--a detailed account =
of the
crime for the commission of which Billy had been sentenced, a full and comp=
lete
description of Billy, a record of his long years of transgression, and, at
last, the mention of a five-hundred-dollar reward that the authorities had
offered for information that would lead to his arrest.
When Billy had
concluded the reading he refolded the paper and placed it in a pocket of the
coat hanging upon the foot of the bed. A moment later Bridge entered the ro=
om.
Billy caught himself looking often at his companion, and always there came =
to
his mind the termination of the article he had found in Bridge's pocket--the
mention of the five-hundred-dollar reward.
"Five hundred
dollars," thought Billy, "is a lot o' coin. I just wonder now,&qu=
ot;
and he let his eyes wander to his companion as though he might read upon his
face the purpose which lay in the man's heart. "He don't look it; but =
five
hundred dollars is a lot o' coin--fer a bo, and wotinell did he have that
article hid in his clothes fer? That's wot I'd like to know. I guess it's u=
p to
me to blow."
All the recently
acquired content which had been Billy's since he had come upon the poetic
Bridge and the two had made their carefree, leisurely way along shaded coun=
try
roadsides, or paused beside cool brooklets that meandered lazily through
sweet-smelling meadows, was dissipated in the instant that he had realized =
the
nature of the article his companion had been carrying and hiding from him. =
For days no thoug=
ht
of pursuit or capture had arisen to perplex him. He had seemed such a tiny
thing out there amidst the vastness of rolling hills, of woods, and plain t=
hat
there had been induced within him an unconscious assurance that no one could
find him even though they might seek for him.
The idea of meeti=
ng a
plain clothes man from detective headquarters around the next bend of a
peaceful Missouri road was so preposterous and incongruous that Billy had f=
ound
it impossible to give the matter serious thought.
He never before h=
ad
been in the country districts of his native land. To him the United States =
was
all like Chicago or New York or Milwaukee, the three cities with which he w=
as
most familiar. His experience of unurban localities had been gained amidst =
the
primeval jungles of far-away Yoka. There had been no detective sergeants
there--unquestionably there could be none here. Detective sergeants were
indigenous to the soil that grew corner saloons and poolrooms, and to none =
other--as
well expect to discover one of Oda Yorimoto's samurai hiding behind a fire =
plug
on Michigan Boulevard, as to look for one of those others along a farm-bord=
ered
road.
But here in Kansas
City, amidst the noises and odors that meant a large city, it was different.
Here the next man he met might be looking for him, or if not then the very
first policeman they encountered could arrest him upon a word from Bridge--=
and
Bridge would get five hundred dollars. Just then Bridge burst forth into
poetry:
In a
flannel shirt from earth's clean dirt, Here, pal, is my calloused hand! Oh, I love each day as a rover may,
"Say," he interrupted himself;
"what's the matter with going out now and wrapping ourselves around th=
at
swell feed you were speaking of?"
Billy rose. It di=
dn't
seem possible that Bridge could be going to double-cross him.
In a
flannel shirt from earth's clean dirt, Here, pal, is my calloused hand!
Billy repeated the lines half aloud. They
renewed his confidence in Bridge, somehow.
"Like
them?" asked the latter.
"Yes," =
said
Billy; "s'more of Knibbs?"
"No, Service.
Come on, let's go and dine. How about the Midland?" and he grinned at =
his
little joke as he led the way toward the street.
It was late
afternoon. The sun already had set; but it still was too light for lamps.
Bridge led the way toward a certain eating-place of which he knew where a m=
an
might dine well and from a clean platter for two bits. Billy had been keepi=
ng
his eyes open for detectives. They had passed no uniformed police--that wou=
ld
be the crucial test, thought he--unless Bridge intended tipping off
headquarters on the quiet and having the pinch made at night after Billy had
gone to bed.
As they reached t=
he
little restaurant, which was in a basement, Bridge motioned Billy down ahea=
d of
him. Just for an instant he, himself, paused at the head of the stairs and
looked about. As he did so a man stepped from the shadow of a doorway upon =
the
opposite side of the street.
If Bridge saw him=
he
apparently gave no sign, for he turned slowly and with deliberate steps
followed Billy down into the eating-place.
AS THEY entered t=
he
place Billy, who was ahead, sought a table; but as he was about to hang up =
his
cap and seat himself Bridge touched his elbow.
"Let's go to=
the
washroom and clean up a bit," he said, in a voice that might be heard =
by
those nearest.
"Why, we just
washed before we left our room," expostulated Billy.
"Shut up and
follow me," Bridge whispered into his ear.
Immediately Billy=
was
all suspicion. His hand flew to the pocket in which the gun of the deputy
sheriff still rested. They would never take him alive, of that Billy was
positive. He wouldn't go back to life imprisonment, not after he had tasted=
the
sweet freedom of the wide spaces--such a freedom as the trammeled city cann=
ot
offer.
Bridge saw the
movement.
"Cut it,&quo=
t;
he whispered, "and follow me, as I tell you. I just saw a Chicago dick
across the street. He may not have seen you, but it looked almighty like it.
He'll be down here in about two seconds now. Come on--we'll beat it through=
the
rear--I know the way."
Billy Byrne heave=
d a
great sigh of relief. Suddenly he was almost reconciled to the thought of
capture, for in the instant he had realized that it had not been so much his
freedom that he had dreaded to lose as his faith in the companion in whom he
had believed.
Without sign of h=
aste
the two walked the length of the room and disappeared through the doorway
leading into the washroom. Before them was a window opening upon a squalid =
back
yard. The building stood upon a hillside, so that while the entrance to the
eating-place was below the level of the street in front, its rear was flush
with the ground.
Bridge motioned B=
illy
to climb through the window while he shot the bolt upon the inside of the d=
oor
leading back into the restaurant. A moment later he followed the fugitive, =
and
then took the lead.
Down narrow, dirty
alleys, and through litter-piled back yards he made his way, while Billy
followed at his heels. Dusk was gathering, and before they had gone far
darkness came.
They neither paus=
ed
nor spoke until they had left the business portion of the city behind and w=
ere
well out of the zone of bright lights. Bridge was the first to break the
silence.
"I suppose y=
ou
wonder how I knew," he said.
"No,"
replied Billy. "I seen that clipping you got in your pocket--it fell o=
ut
on the floor when you took your coat off in the room this afternoon to go a=
nd
wash."
"Oh," s=
aid
Bridge, "I see. Well, as far as I'm concerned that's the end of it--we
won't mention it again, old man. I don't need to tell you that I'm for
you."
"No, not aft=
er
tonight," Billy assured him.
They went on again
for some little time without speaking, then Billy said:
"I got two things to tell you. The first is that after I seen that newspaper article in your clothes I thought you was figurin' on double-crossin' me an' claimin' = the five hun. I ought to of known better. The other is that I didn't kill Schneider. I wasn't near his place that night--an' that's straight." <= o:p>
"I'm glad you
told me both," said Bridge. "I think we'll understand each other
better after this--we're each runnin' away from something. We'll run togeth=
er,
eh?" and he extended his hand. "In flannel shirt from earth's cle=
an
dirt, here, pal, is my calloused hand!" he quoted, laughing.
Billy took the
other's hand. He noticed that Bridge hadn't said what HE was running away f=
rom.
Billy wondered; but asked no questions.
South they went a=
fter
they had left the city behind, out into the sweet and silent darkness of the
country. During the night they crossed the line into Kansas, and morning fo=
und
them in a beautiful, hilly country to which all thoughts of cities, crime, =
and
police seemed so utterly foreign that Billy could scarce believe that only a
few hours before a Chicago detective had been less than a hundred feet from
him.
The new sun burst
upon them as they topped a grassy hill. The dew-bespangled blades scintilla=
ted
beneath the gorgeous rays which would presently sweep them away again into =
the
nothingness from which they had sprung.
Bridge halted and
stretched himself. He threw his head back and let the warm sun beat down up=
on
his bronzed face.
There's sunshine in the heart of me, My blood sings in the breeze; The mountains are a part of me, I'm fellow to the trees. My golden youth I'm squandering, Sun-libertine am I, A-wandering, a-wandering, Until the day I die.
And then he stood for minutes drinking i=
n deep
breaths of the pure, sweet air of the new day. Beside him, a head taller,
savagely strong, stood Billy Byrne, his broad shoulders squared, his great
chest expanding as he inhaled.
"It's great,=
ain't
it?" he said, at last. "I never knew the country was like this, a=
n' I
don't know that I ever would have known it if it hadn't been for those poet
guys you're always spouting.
"I always ha=
d an
idea they was sissy fellows," he went on; "but a guy can't be a s=
issy
an' think the thoughts they musta thought to write stuff that sends the blo=
od
chasin' through a feller like he'd had a drink on an empty stomach.
"I used to t=
hink
everybody was a sissy who wasn't a tough guy. I was a tough guy all right, =
an'
I was mighty proud of it. I ain't any more an' haven't been for a long time;
but before I took a tumble to myself I'd have hated you, Bridge. I'd a-hated
your fine talk, an' your poetry, an' the thing about you that makes you hat=
e to
touch a guy for a hand-out.
"I'd a-hated
myself if I'd thought that I could ever talk mushy like I am now. Gee, Brid=
ge,
but I was the limit! A girl--a nice girl--called me a mucker once, an' a
coward. I was both; but I had the reputation of bein' the toughest guy on t=
he
West Side, an' I thought I was a man. I nearly poked her face for her--thin=
k of
it, Bridge! I nearly did; but something stopped me--something held my hand =
from
it, an' lately I've liked to think that maybe what stopped me was something=
in
me that had always been there--something decent that was really a part of m=
e. I
hate to think that I was such a beast at heart as I acted like all my life =
up
to that minute. I began to change then. It was mighty slow, an' I'm still a
roughneck; but I'm gettin' on. She helped me most, of course, an' now you're
helpin' me a lot, too--you an' your poetry stuff. If some dick don't get me=
I
may get to be a human bein' before I die."
Bridge laughed. <= o:p>
"It IS
odd," he said, "how our viewpoints change with changed environment
and the passing of the years. Time was, Billy, when I'd have hated you as m=
uch
as you would have hated me. I don't know that I should have said hate, for =
that
is not exactly the word. It was more contempt that I felt for men whom I
considered as not belonging upon that intellectual or social plane to which=
I
considered I had been born.
"I thought of
people who moved outside my limited sphere as 'the great unwashed.' I pitied
them, and I honestly believe now that in the bottom of my heart I considered
them of different clay than I, and with souls, if they possessed such thing=
s,
about on a par with the souls of sheep and cows.
"I couldn't =
have
seen the man in you, Billy, then, any more than you could have seen the man=
in
me. I have learned much since then, though I still stick to a part of my
original articles of faith--I do believe that all men are not equal; and I =
know
that there are a great many more with whom I would not pal than there are t=
hose
with whom I would.
"Because one=
man
speaks better English than another, or has read more and remembers it, only
makes him a better man in that particular respect. I think none the less of=
you
because you can't quote Browning or Shakespeare--the thing that counts is t=
hat
you can appreciate, as I do, Service and Kipling and Knibbs.
"Now maybe we
are both wrong--maybe Knibbs and Kipling and Service didn't write poetry, a=
nd
some people will say as much; but whatever it is it gets you and me in the =
same
way, and so in this respect we are equals. Which being the case let's see i=
f we
can't rustle some grub, and then find a nice soft spot whereon to pound our
respective ears."
Billy, deciding t=
hat
he was too sleepy to work for food, invested half of the capital that was to
have furnished the swell feed the night before in what two bits would purch=
ase
from a generous housewife on a near-by farm, and then, stretching themselves
beneath the shade of a tree sufficiently far from the road that they might =
not
attract unnecessary observation, they slept until after noon.
But their precaut=
ion
failed to serve their purpose entirely. A little before noon two filthy,
bearded knights of the road clambered laboriously over the fence and headed
directly for the very tree under which Billy and Bridge lay sleeping. In the
minds of the two was the same thought that had induced Billy Byrne and the
poetic Bridge to seek this same secluded spot.
There was in the
stiff shuffle of the men something rather familiar. We have seen them
before--just for a few minutes it is true; but under circumstances that imp=
ressed
some of their characteristics upon us. The very last we saw of them they we=
re
shuffling away in the darkness along a railroad track, after promising that
eventually they would wreak dire vengeance upon Billy, who had just trounced
them.
Now as they came
unexpectedly upon the two sleepers they did not immediately recognize in th=
em
the objects of their recent hate. They just stood looking stupidly down on
them, wondering in what way they might turn their discovery to their own
advantage.
Nothing in the
raiment either of Billy or Bridge indicated that here was any particularly =
rich
field for loot, and, too, the athletic figure of Byrne would rather have
discouraged any attempt to roll him without first handing him the
"k.o.", as the two would have naively put it.
But as they gazed
down upon the features of the sleepers the eyes of one of the tramps narrow=
ed
to two ugly slits while those of his companion went wide in incredulity and
surprise.
"Do youse kn=
ow
dem guys?" asked the first, and without waiting for a reply he went on:
"Dem's de guys dat beat us up back dere de udder side o' K. C. Do youse
get 'em?"
"Sure?"
asked the other.
"Sure, I'd k=
now
dem in a t'ous'n'. Le's hand 'em a couple an' beat it," and he stooped=
to
pick up a large stone that lay near at hand.
"Cut it!&quo=
t;
whispered the second tramp. "Youse don't know dem guys at all. Dey may=
be
de guys dat beats us up; but dat big stiff dere is more dan dat. He's wante=
d in
Chi, an' dere's half a t'ou on 'im."
"Who put you=
se
jerry to all dat?" inquired the first tramp, skeptically.
"I was in de
still wit 'im--he croaked some guy. He's a lifer. On de way to de pen he pu=
shes
dis dick off'n de rattler an' makes his get-away. Dat peter-boy we meets at
Quincy slips me an earful about him. Here's w'ere we draws down de five hun=
dred
if we're cagey."
"Whaddaya me=
an,
cagey?"
"Why we leav=
es
'em alone an' goes to de nex' farm an' calls up K. C. an' tips off de dicks,
see?"
"Youse don't
tink we'll get any o' dat five hun, do youse, wit de dicks in on it?" =
The other scratch=
ed
his head.
"No," he
said, rather dubiously, after a moment's deep thought; "dey don't nobo=
dy
get nothin' dat de dicks see first; but we'll get even with dese blokes,
annyway."
"Maybe dey'll
pass us a couple bucks," said the other hopefully. "Dey'd orter do
dat much."
Detective Sergeant
Flannagan of Headquarters, Chicago, slouched in a chair in the private offi=
ce
of the chief of detectives of Kansas City, Missouri. Sergeant Flannagan was
sore. He would have said as much himself. He had been sent west to identify=
a
suspect whom the Kansas City authorities had arrested; but had been unable =
to
do so, and had been preparing to return to his home city when the brilliant
aureola of an unusual piece of excellent fortune had shone upon him for a m=
oment,
and then faded away through the grimy entrance of a basement eating-place. =
He had been walki=
ng
along the street the previous evening thinking of nothing in particular; but
with eyes and ears alert as becomes a successful police officer, when he had
espied two men approaching upon the opposite sidewalk.
There was somethi=
ng
familiar in the swing of the giant frame of one of the men. So, true to yea=
rs
of training, Sergeant Flannagan melted into the shadows of a store entrance=
and
waited until the two should have come closer.
They were directly
opposite him when the truth flashed upon him--the big fellow was Billy Byrn=
e,
and there was a five-hundred-dollar reward out for him.
And then the two
turned and disappeared down the stairway that led to the underground
restaurant. Sergeant Flannagan saw Byrne's companion turn and look back jus=
t as
Flannagan stepped from the doorway to cross the street after them.
That was the last
Sergeant Flannagan had seen either of Billy Byrne or his companion. The tra=
il had
ceased at the open window of the washroom at the rear of the restaurant, and
search as he would be had been unable to pick it up again.
No one in Kansas =
City
had seen two men that night answering the descriptions Flannagan had been a=
ble
to give--at least no one whom Flannagan could unearth.
Finally he had be=
en
forced to take the Kansas City chief into his confidence, and already a doz=
en
men were scouring such sections of Kansas City in which it seemed most like=
ly
an escaped murderer would choose to hide.
Flannagan had been
out himself for a while; but now he was in to learn what progress, if any, =
had
been made. He had just learned that three suspects had been arrested and was
waiting to have them paraded before him.
When the door swu=
ng
in and the three were escorted into his presence Sergeant Flannagan gave a
snort of disgust, indicative probably not only of despair; but in a manner
registering his private opinion of the mental horse power and efficiency of=
the
Kansas City sleuths, for of the three one was a pasty-faced, chestless yout=
h,
even then under the influence of cocaine, another was an old, bewhiskered h=
obo,
while the third was unquestionably a Chinaman.
Even professional
courtesy could scarce restrain Sergeant Flannagan's desire toward bitter sa=
rcasm,
and he was upon the point of launching forth into a vitriolic arraignment of
everything west of Chicago up to and including, specifically, the Kansas Ci=
ty
detective bureau, when the telephone bell at the chief's desk interrupted h=
im.
He had wanted the chief to hear just what he thought, so he waited.
The chief listened
for a few minutes, asked several questions and then, placing a fat hand over
the transmitter, he wheeled about toward Flannagan.
"Well,"=
he
said, "I guess I got something for you at last. There's a bo on the wi=
re
that says he's just seen your man down near Shawnee. He wants to know if yo=
u'll
split the reward with him."
Flannagan yawned =
and
stretched.
"I
suppose," he said, ironically, "that if I go down there I'll find
he's corraled a nigger," and he looked sorrowfully at the three specim=
ens
before him.
"I dunno,&qu=
ot;
said the chief. "This guy says he knows Byrne well, an' that he's got =
it
in for him. Shall I tell him you'll be down--and split the reward?"
"Tell him I'=
ll
be down and that I'll treat him right," replied Flannagan, and after t=
he
chief had transmitted the message, and hung up the receiver: "Where is
this here Shawnee, anyhow?"
"I'll send a
couple of men along with you. It isn't far across the line, an' there won't=
be
no trouble in getting back without nobody knowin' anything about it--if you=
get
him."
"All
right," said Flannagan, his visions of five hundred already dwindled t=
o a
possible one.
It was but a litt=
le
past one o'clock that a touring car rolled south out of Kansas City with
Detective Sergeant Flannagan in the front seat with the driver and two burly
representatives of Missouri law in the back.
WHEN the two tram=
ps
approached the farmhouse at which Billy had purchased food a few hours befo=
re
the farmer's wife called the dog that was asleep in the summer kitchen and =
took
a shotgun down from its hook beside the door.
From long experie=
nce
the lady was a reader of character--of hobo character at least--and she saw
nothing in the appearance of either of these two that inspired even a modic=
um
of confidence. Now the young fellow who had been there earlier in the day a=
nd
who, wonder of wonders, had actually paid for the food she gave him, had be=
en
of a different stamp. His clothing had proclaimed him a tramp, but, thanks =
to
the razor Bridge always carried, he was clean shaven. His year of total
abstinence had given him clear eyes and a healthy skin. There was a freshne=
ss
and vigor in his appearance and carriage that inspired confidence rather th=
an
suspicion.
She had not
mistrusted him; but these others she did mistrust. When they asked to use t=
he
telephone she refused and ordered them away, thinking it but an excuse to e=
nter
the house; but they argued the matter, explaining that they had discovered =
an
escaped murderer hiding near-by--in fact in her own meadow--and that they
wished only to call up the Kansas City police.
Finally she yield=
ed,
but kept the dog by her side and the shotgun in her hand while the two ente=
red
the room and crossed to the telephone upon the opposite side.
From the conversa=
tion
which she overheard the woman concluded that, after all, she had been mista=
ken,
not only about these two, but about the young man who had come earlier in t=
he
day and purchased food from her, for the description the tramp gave of the
fugitive tallied exactly with that of the young man.
It seemed incredi=
ble
that so honest looking a man could be a murderer. The good woman was shocke=
d,
and not a little unstrung by the thought that she had been in the house alo=
ne
when he had come and that if he had wished to he could easily have murdered
her.
"I hope they=
get
him," she said, when the tramp had concluded his talk with Kansas City.
"It's awful the carryings on they is nowadays. Why a body can't never =
tell
who to trust, and I thought him such a nice young man. And he paid me for w=
hat
he got, too."
The dog, bored by=
the
inaction, had wandered back into the summer kitchen and resumed his broken
slumber. One of the tramps was leaning against the wall talking with the fa=
rmer
woman. The other was busily engaged in scratching his right shin with what
remained of the heel of his left shoe. He supported himself with one hand o=
n a
small table upon the top of which was a family Bible.
Quite unexpectedl=
y he
lost his balance, the table tipped, he was thrown still farther over toward=
it,
and all in the flash of an eye tramp, table, and family Bible crashed to the
floor.
With a little cry=
of
alarm the woman rushed forward to gather up the Holy Book, in her haste
forgetting the shotgun and leaving it behind her leaning against the arm of=
a
chair.
Almost simultaneo=
usly
the two tramps saw the real cause of her perturbation. The large book had
fallen upon its back, open; and as several of the leaves turned over before
coming to rest their eyes went wide at what was revealed between.
United States
currency in denominations of five, ten, and twenty-dollar bills lay snugly
inserted between the leaves of the Bible. The tramp who lay on the floor, as
yet too surprised to attempt to rise, rolled over and seized the book as a
football player seizes the pigskin after a fumble, covering it with his bod=
y,
his arms, and sticking out his elbows as a further protection to the invalu=
able
thing.
At the first cry =
of
the woman the dog rose, growling, and bounded into the room. The tramp lean=
ing
against the wall saw the brute coming--a mongrel hound-dog, bristling and
savage.
The shotgun stood
almost within the man's reach--a step and it was in his hands. As though
sensing the fellow's intentions the dog wheeled from the tramp upon the flo=
or,
toward whom he had leaped, and sprang for the other ragged scoundrel.
The muzzle of the=
gun
met him halfway. There was a deafening roar. The dog collapsed to the floor,
his chest torn out. Now the woman began to scream for help; but in an insta=
nt
both the tramps were upon her choking her to silence.
One of them ran to
the summer kitchen, returning a moment later with a piece of clothesline, w=
hile
the other sat astride the victim, his fingers closed about her throat. Once=
he
released his hold and she screamed again. Presently she was secured and gag=
ged.
Then the two commenced to rifle the Bible.
Eleven hundred
dollars in bills were hidden there, because the woman and her husband didn't
believe in banks--the savings of a lifetime. In agony, as she regained
consciousness, she saw the last of their little hoard transferred to the
pockets of the tramps, and when they had finished they demanded to know whe=
re
she kept the rest, loosening her gag that she might reply.
She told them that
that was all the money she had in the world, and begged them not to take it=
.
"Youse've got
more coin dan dis," growled one of the men, "an' youse had better
pass it over, or we'll find a way to make youse."
But still she
insisted that that was all. The tramp stepped into the kitchen. A wood fire=
was
burning in the stove. A pair of pliers lay upon the window sill. With these=
he
lifted one of the hot stove-hole covers and returned to the parlor, grinnin=
g.
"I guess she=
'll
remember she's got more wen dis begins to woik," he said. "Take o=
ff
her shoes, Dink."
The other growled=
an
objection.
"Yeh poor
boob," he said. "De dicks'll be here in a little while. We'd bett=
er
be makin' our get-away wid w'at we got."
"Gee!"
exclaimed his companion. "I clean forgot all about de dicks," and
then after a moment's silence during which his evil face underwent various
changes of expression from fear to final relief, he turned an ugly, crooked
grimace upon his companion.
"We got to c=
roak
her," he said. "Dey ain't no udder way. If dey finds her alive sh=
e'll
blab sure, an' dey won't be no trouble 'bout gettin' us or identifyin' us
neither."
The other shrugge=
d.
"Le's beat
it," he whined. "We can't more'n do time fer dis job if we stop n=
ow;
but de udder'll mean--" and he made a suggestive circle with a grimy
finger close to his neck.
"No it won't
nothin' of de kind," urged his companion. "I got it all doped out=
. We
got lots o' time before de dicks are due. We'll croak de skirt, an' den we'=
ll
beat it up de road AN' MEET DE DICKS--see?"
The other was agh=
ast.
"Wen did you=
se
go nuts?" he asked.
"I ain't gone
nuts. Wait 'til I gets t'rough. We meets de dicks, innocent-like; but first=
we
caches de dough in de woods. We tells 'em we hurried right on to lead 'em to
dis Byrne guy, an' wen we gets back here to de farmhouse an' finds wot's
happened here we'll be as flabbergasted as dey be."
"Oh, nuts!&q=
uot;
exclaimed the other disgustedly. "Youse don't tink youse can put dat o=
ver
on any wise guy from Chi, do youse? Who will dey tink croaked de old woman =
an'
de ki-yi? Will dey tink dey kilt deyreselves?"
"Dey'll tink
Byrne an' his pardner croaked 'em, you simp," replied Crumb.
Dink scratched his
head, and as the possibilities of the scheme filtered into his dull brain a
broad grin bared his yellow teeth.
"You're dere,
pal," he exclaimed, real admiration in his tone. "But who's goin'=
to
do it?"
"I'll do
it," said Crumb. "Dere ain't no chanct of gettin' in bad for it, =
so I
jest as soon do the job. Get me a knife, or an ax from de kitchen--de gat m=
akes
too much noise."
Something awoke Billy Byrne with a start.
Faintly, in the back of his consciousness, the dim suggestion of a loud noi=
se
still reverberated. He sat up and looked about him.
"I wonder wh=
at that
was?" he mused. "It sounded like the report of a gun."
Bridge awoke about
the same time, and turned lazily over, raising himself upon an elbow. He
grinned at Billy.
"Good
morning," he said, and then:
Says I, "Then
let's be on the float. You certain=
ly
have got my goat; You make me hungry in my throat for seeing things that's =
new.
Out there somewhere we'll ride the range a-looking for the new and strange;=
My feet
are tired and need a change. Come
on! It's up to you!"
"Come on,
then," agreed Billy, coming to his feet.
As he rose there
came, faintly, but distinct, the unmistakable scream of a frightened woman.
From the direction of the farmhouse it came--from the farmhouse at which Bi=
lly
had purchased their breakfast.
Without waiting f=
or a
repetition of the cry Billy wheeled and broke into a rapid run in the direc=
tion
of the little cluster of buildings. Bridge leaped to his feet and followed =
him,
dropping behind though, for he had not had the road work that Billy recently
had been through in his training for the battle in which he had defeated the
"white hope" that time in New York when Professor Cassidy had wag=
ered
his entire pile upon him, nor in vain.
Dink searched abo=
ut
the summer kitchen for an ax or hatchet; but failing to find either rummaged
through a table drawer until he came upon a large carving knife. This would=
do
the job nicely. He thumbed the edge as he carried it back into the parlor to
Crumb.
The poor woman, l=
ying
upon the floor, was quite conscious. Her eyes were wide and rolling in horr=
or.
She struggled with her bonds, and tried to force the gag from her mouth with
her tongue; but her every effort was useless. She had heard every word that=
had
passed between the two men. She knew that they would carry out the plan they
had formulated and that there was no chance that they would be interrupted =
in
their gruesome work, for her husband had driven over to a farm beyond Holli=
day,
leaving before sunrise, and there was little prospect that he would return =
before
milking time in the evening. The detectives from Kansas City could not poss=
ibly
reach the farm until far too late to save her.
She saw Dink retu=
rn
from the summer kitchen with the long knife. She recalled the day she had
bought that knife in town, and the various uses to which she had put it. Th=
at
very morning she had sliced some bacon with it. How distinctly such little
things recurred to her at this frightful moment. And now the hideous creatu=
re
standing beside her was going to use it to cut her throat.
She saw Crumb take
the knife and feel of the blade, running his thumb along it. She saw him st=
oop,
his eyes turned down upon hers. He grasped her chin and forced it upward and
back, the better to expose her throat.
Oh, why could she=
not
faint? Why must she suffer all these hideous preliminaries? Why could she n=
ot
even close her eyes?
Crumb raised the
knife and held the blade close above her bared neck. A shudder ran through =
her,
and then the door crashed open and a man sprang into the room. It was Billy
Byrne. Through the window he had seen what was passing in the interior.
His hand fell upon
Crumb's collar and jerked him backward from his prey. Dink seized the shotg=
un
and turned it upon the intruder; but he was too close. Billy grasped the ba=
rrel
of the weapon and threw the muzzle up toward the ceiling as the tramp pulled
the trigger. Then he wrenched it from the man's hands, swung it once above =
his
head and crashed the stock down upon Dink's skull.
Dink went down and
out for the count--for several counts, in fact. Crumb stumbled to his feet =
and
made a break for the door. In the doorway he ran full into Bridge, winded, =
but
ready. The latter realizing that the matted one was attempting to escape,
seized a handful of his tangled beard, and, as he had done upon another
occasion, held the tramp's head in rigid position while he planted a series=
of
blows in the fellow's face--blows that left Crumb as completely out of batt=
le
as was his mildewed comrade.
"Watch
'em," said Billy, handing Bridge the shotgun. Then he turned his atten=
tion
to the woman. With the carving knife that was to have ended her life he cut=
her
bonds. Removing the gag from her mouth he lifted her in his strong arms and
carried her to the little horsehair sofa that stood in one corner of the
parlor, laying her upon it very gently.
He was thinking of
"Maw" Watson. This woman resembled her just a little--particularl=
y in
her comfortable, motherly expansiveness, and she had had a kind word and a
cheery good-bye for him that morning as he had departed.
The woman lay upon
the sofa, breathing hard, and moaning just a little. The shock had been alm=
ost
too much even for her stolid nerves. Presently she turned her eyes toward
Billy.
"You are a g=
ood
boy," she said, "and you come just in the nick o' time. They got =
all
my money. It's in their clothes," and then a look of terror overspread=
her
face. For the moment she had forgotten what she had heard about this man--t=
hat
he was an escaped convict--a convicted murderer. Was she any better off now
that she had let him know about the money than she was with the others after
they discovered it?
At her words Brid=
ge
kneeled and searched the two tramps. He counted the bills as he removed them
from their pockets.
"Eleven
hundred?" he asked, and handed the money to Billy.
"Eleven hund=
red,
yes," breathed the woman, faintly, her eyes horror-filled and fearful =
as
she gazed upon Billy's face. She didn't care for the money any more--they c=
ould
have it all if they would only let her live.
Billy turned towa=
rd
her and held the rumpled green mass out.
"Here,"=
he
said; "but that's an awful lot o' coin for a woman to have about de
house--an' her all alone. You ought not to a-done it."
She took the mone=
y in
trembling fingers. It seemed incredible that the man was returning it to he=
r.
"But I knew
it," she said finally.
"Knew
what?" asked Billy.
"I knew you =
was
a good boy. They said you was a murderer."
Billy's brows
contracted, and an expression of pain crossed his face.
"How did they
come to say that?" he asked.
"I heard them
telephonin' to Kansas City to the police," she replied, and then she s=
at
bolt upright. "The detectives are on their way here now," she alm=
ost
screamed, "and even if you ARE a murderer I don't care. I won't stand =
by
and see 'em get you after what you have done for me. I don't believe you're=
a
murderer anyhow. You're a good boy. My boy would be about as old and as big=
as
you by now--if he lives. He ran away a long time ago--maybe you've met him.=
His
name's Eddie--Eddie Shorter. I ain't heard from him fer years.
"No," s=
he
went on, "I don't believe what they said--you got too good a face; but=
if
you are a murderer you get out now before they come an' I'll send 'em on a
wild-goose chase in the wrong direction."
"But
these," said Billy. "We can't leave these here."
"Tie 'em up =
and give
me the shotgun," she said. "I'll bet they don't come any more fun=
ny
business on me." She had regained both her composure and her nerve by =
this
time.
Together Billy and
Bridge trussed up the two tramps. An elephant couldn't have forced the bonds
they placed upon them. Then they carried them down cellar and when they had
come up again Mrs. Shorter barred the cellar door.
"I reckon th=
ey
won't get out of there very fast," she said. "And now you two boys
run along. Got any money?" and without waiting for a reply she counted
twenty-five dollars from the roll she had tucked in the front of her waist =
and
handed them to Billy.
"Nothin'
doin'," said he; "but t'anks just the same."
"You got to =
take
it," she insisted. "Let me make believe I'm givin' it to my boy,
Eddie--please," and the tears that came to her eyes proved far more
effective than her generous words.
"Aw, all
right," said Billy. "I'll take it an' pass it along to Eddie if I
ever meet him, eh?"
"Now please
hurry," she urged. "I don't want you to be caught--even if you ar=
e a
murderer. I wish you weren't though."
"I'm not,&qu=
ot;
said Billy; "but de law says I am an' what de law says, goes."
He turned toward =
the
doorway with Bridge, calling a goodbye to the woman, but as he stepped out =
upon
the veranda the dust of a fast-moving automobile appeared about a bend in t=
he
road a half-mile from the house.
"Too late,&q=
uot;
he said, turning to Bridge. "Here they come!"
The woman brushed=
by
them and peered up the road.
"Yes," =
she
said, "it must be them. Lordy! What'll we do?"
"I'll duck o=
ut
the back way, that's what I'll do," said Billy.
"It wouldn't=
do
a mite of good," said Mrs. Shorter, with a shake of her head.
"They'll telephone every farmer within twenty mile of here in every
direction, an' they'll get you sure. Wait! I got a scheme. Come with me,&qu=
ot;
and she turned and bustled through the little parlor, out of a doorway into
something that was half hall and half storeroom. There was a flight of stai=
rs
leading to the upper story, and she waddled up them as fast as her legs wou=
ld
carry her, motioning the two men to follow her.
In a rear room wa=
s a
trapdoor in the ceiling.
"Drag that
commode under this," she told them. "Then climb into the attic, a=
nd
close the trapdoor. They won't never find you there."
Billy pulled the
ancient article of furniture beneath the opening, and in another moment the=
two
men were in the stuffy atmosphere of the unventilated loft. Beneath them th=
ey
heard Mrs. Shorter dragging the commode back to its accustomed place, and t=
hen
the sound of her footsteps descending the stair.
Presently there c=
ame
to them the rattling of a motor without, followed by the voices of men in t=
he
house. For an hour, half asphyxiated by the closeness of the attic, they
waited, and then again they heard the sound of the running engine, diminish=
ing
as the machine drew away.
Shortly after, Mr=
s.
Shorter's voice rose to them from below:
"You ken come
down now," she said, "they've gone."
When they had
descended she led them to the kitchen.
"I got a bit=
e to
eat ready for you while they was here," she explained. "When you'=
ve
done you ken hide in the barn 'til dark, an' after that I'll have my ol' man
take you 'cross to Dodson, that's a junction, an' you'd aughter be able to =
git
away easy enough from there. I told 'em you started for Olathe--there's whe=
re
they've gone with the two tramps.
"My, but I d=
id
have a time of it! I ain't much good at story-tellin' but I reckon I told m=
ore
stories this arternoon than I ever tole before in all my life. I told 'em t=
hat
they was two of you, an' that the biggest one hed red hair, an' the little =
one
was all pock-marked. Then they said you prob'ly wasn't the man at all, an' =
my!
how they did swear at them two tramps fer gettin' 'em way out here on a
wild-goose chase; but they're goin' to look fer you jes' the same in Olathe,
only they won't find you there," and she laughed, a bit nervously thou=
gh.
It was dusk when =
Mr.
Shorter returned from Holliday, but after he had heard his wife's story he =
said
that he'd drive "them two byes" all the way to Mexico, if there
wasn't any better plan.
"Dodson's far
enough," Bridge assured him, and late that night the grateful farmer s=
et
them down at their destination.
An hour later they
were speeding south on the Missouri Pacific.
Bridge lay back,
luxuriously, on the red plush of the smoker seat.
"Some class =
to
us, eh, bo?" asked Billy.
Bridge stretched.=
The tide-hounds race far up the shore-=
-the
hunt is on! The breakers roar!
IT WAS twenty-four
hours before Detective Sergeant Flannagan awoke to the fact that something =
had
been put over on him, and that a Kansas farmer's wife had done the putting.=
He managed to pie=
ce
it out finally from the narratives of the two tramps, and when he had retur=
ned
to the Shorter home and listened to the contradictory and whole-souled impr=
ovisations
of Shorter pere and mere he was convinced.
Whereupon he
immediately telegraphed Chicago headquarters and obtained the necessary
authority to proceed upon the trail of the fugitive, Byrne.
And so it was that
Sergeant Flannagan landed in El Paso a few days later, drawn thither by var=
ious
pieces of intelligence he had gathered en route, though with much delay and
consequent vexation.
Even after he had
quitted the train he was none too sure that he was upon the right trail tho=
ugh
he at once repaired to a telegraph office and wired his chief that he was h=
ot
on the trail of the fugitive.
As a matter of fa=
ct
he was much hotter than he imagined, for Billy and Bridge were that very mi=
nute
not two squares from him, debating as to the future and the best manner of
meeting it before it arrived.
"I think,&qu=
ot;
said Billy, "that I'll duck across the border. I won't never be safe in
little old U. S., an' with things hoppin' in Mexico the way they have been =
for
the last few years I orter be able to lose myself pretty well.
"Now you're =
all
right, ol' top. You don't have to duck nothin' for you ain't did nothin'. I
don't know what you're runnin' away from; but I know it ain't nothin' the
police is worryin' about--I can tell that by the way you act--so I guess we=
'll
split here. You'd be a boob to cross if you don't have to, fer if Villa don=
't
get you the Carranzistas will, unless the Zapatistas nab you first.
"Comin' or g=
oin'
some greasy-mugged highbinder's bound to croak you if you cross, from what
little I've heard since we landed in El Paso.
"We'll feed =
up
together tonight, fer the last time. Then I'll pull my freight." He was
silent for a while, and then: "I hate to do it, bo, fer you're the whi=
test
guy I ever struck," which was a great deal for Billy Byrne of Grand Av=
enue
to say.
Bridge finished
rolling a brown paper cigarette before he spoke.
"Your words =
are
pure and unadulterated wisdom, my friend," he said. "The chances =
are
scarcely even that two gringo hoboes would last the week out afoot and brok=
e in
Viva Mexico; but it has been many years since I followed the dictates of
wisdom. Therefore I am going with you."
Billy grinned. He
could not conceal his pleasure.
"You're past
twenty-one," he said, "an' dry behind the ears. Let's go an' eat.
There is still some of that twenty-five left."
Together they ent=
ered
a saloon which Bridge remembered as permitting a very large consumption of =
free
lunch upon the purchase of a single schooner of beer.
There were round
tables scattered about the floor in front of the bar, and after purchasing
their beer they carried it to one of these that stood in a far corner of the
room close to a rear door.
Here Bridge sat on
guard over the foaming open sesame to food while Billy crossed to the free
lunch counter and appropriated all that a zealous attendant would permit hi=
m to
carry off.
When he returned =
to
the table he took a chair with his back to the wall in conformity to a habi=
t of
long standing when, as now, it had stood him in good stead to be in a posit=
ion
to see the other fellow at least as soon as the other fellow saw him. The o=
ther
fellow being more often than not a large gentleman with a bit of shiny metal
pinned to his left suspender strap.
"That guy's a
tight one," said Billy, jerking his hand in the direction of the guard=
ian
of the free lunch. "I scoops up about a good, square meal for a canary
bird, an' he makes me cough up half of it. Wants to know if I t'ink I can go
into the restaurant business on a fi'-cent schooner of suds."
Bridge laughed. <= o:p>
"Well, you
didn't do so badly at that," he said. "I know places where they'd
indict you for grand larceny if you took much more than you have here."=
;
"Rotten
beer," commented Billy.
"Always is
rotten down here," replied Bridge. "I sometimes think they put mo=
th
balls in it so it won't spoil."
Billy looked up a=
nd
smiled. Then he raised his tall glass before him.
"Here's
to," he started; but he got no further. His eyes traveling past his
companion fell upon the figure of a large man entering the low doorway.
At the same insta=
nt
the gentleman's eyes fell upon Billy. Recognition lit those of each
simultaneously. The big man started across the room on a run, straight towa=
rd
Billy Byrne.
The latter leaped=
to
his feet. Bridge, guessing what had happened, rose too.
"Flannagan!&=
quot;
he exclaimed.
The detective was
tugging at his revolver, which had stuck in his hip pocket. Byrne reached f=
or
his own weapon. Bridge laid a hand on his arm.
"Not that,
Billy!" he cried. "There's a door behind you. Here," and he =
pulled
Billy backward toward the doorway in the wall behind them.
Byrne still clung=
to
his schooner of beer, which he had transferred to his left hand as he sough=
t to
draw his gun. Flannagan was close to them. Bridge opened the door and strov=
e to
pull Billy through; but the latter hesitated just an instant, for he saw th=
at
it would be impossible to close and bar the door, provided it had a bar, be=
fore
Flannagan would be against it with his great shoulders.
The policeman was
still struggling to disentangle his revolver from the lining of his pocket.=
He
was bellowing like a bull--yelling at Billy that he was under arrest. Men at
the tables were on their feet. Those at the bar had turned around as Flanna=
gan
started to run across the floor. Now some of them were moving in the direct=
ion
of the detective and his prey, but whether from curiosity or with sinister
intentions it is difficult to say.
One thing, howeve=
r,
is certain--if all the love that was felt for policemen in general by the m=
en
in that room could have been combined in a single individual it still scarc=
ely
would have constituted a grand passion.
Flannagan felt ra=
ther
than saw that others were closing in on him, and then, fortunately for hims=
elf,
he thought, he managed to draw his weapon. It was just as Billy was fading =
through
the doorway into the room beyond. He saw the revolver gleam in the policema=
n's
hand and then it became evident why Billy had clung so tenaciously to his
schooner of beer. Left-handed and hurriedly he threw it; but even Flannagan
must have been constrained to admit that it was a good shot. It struck the =
detective
directly in the midst of his features, gave him a nasty cut on the cheek as=
it
broke and filled his eyes full of beer--and beer never was intended as an e=
ye
wash.
Spluttering and
cursing, Flannagan came to a sudden stop, and when he had wiped the beer fr=
om
his eyes he found that Billy Byrne had passed through the doorway and closed
the door after him.
The room in which
Billy and Bridge found themselves was a small one in the center of which wa=
s a
large round table at which were gathered a half-dozen men at poker. Above t=
he
table swung a single arc lamp, casting a garish light upon the players bene=
ath.
Billy looked quic=
kly
about for another exit, only to find that besides the doorway through which=
he
had entered there was but a single aperture in the four walls--a small wind=
ow,
heavily barred. The place was a veritable trap.
At their hurried
entrance the men had ceased their play, and one or two had risen in profane
questioning and protest. Billy ignored them. He was standing with his shoul=
der
against the door trying to secure it against the detective without; but the=
re
was neither bolt nor bar.
Flannagan hurtling
against the opposite side exerted his noblest efforts to force an entrance =
to
the room; but Billy Byrne's great weight held firm as Gibraltar. His mind
revolved various wild plans of escape; but none bade fair to offer the
slightest foothold to hope.
The men at the ta=
ble
were clamoring for an explanation of the interruption. Two of them were
approaching Billy with the avowed intention of "turning him out,"
when he turned his head suddenly toward them.
"Can de beef,
you poor boobs," he cried. "Dere's a bunch o' dicks out dere--de
joint's been pinched."
Instantly pandemo=
nium
ensued. Cards, chips, and money were swept as by magic from the board. A do=
zen
dog-eared and filthy magazines and newspapers were snatched from a hiding p=
lace
beneath the table, and in the fraction of a second the room was transformed
from a gambling place to an innocent reading-room.
Billy grinned
broadly. Flannagan had ceased his efforts to break down the door, and was
endeavoring to persuade Billy that he might as well come out quietly and su=
bmit
to arrest. Byrne had drawn his revolver again. Now he motioned to Bridge to
come to his side.
"Follow
me," he whispered. "Don't move 'til I move--then move sudden.&quo=
t; Then,
turning to the door again, "You big stiff," he cried, "you c=
ouldn't
take a crip to a hospital, let alone takin' Billy Byrne to the still. Beat =
it,
before I come out an' spread your beezer acrost your map."
If Billy had desi=
red
to arouse the ire of Detective Sergeant Flannagan by this little speech he
succeeded quite as well as he could have hoped. Flannagan commenced to growl
and threaten, and presently again hurled himself against the door.
Instantly Byrne
wheeled and fired a single shot into the arc lamp, the shattered carbon rat=
tled
to the table with fragments of the globe, and Byrne stepped quickly to one
side. The door flew open and Sergeant Flannagan dove headlong into the dark=
ened
room. A foot shot out from behind the opened door, and Flannagan, striking =
it,
sprawled upon his face amidst the legs of the literary lights who held
dog-eared magazines rightside up or upside down, as they chanced to have pi=
cked
them up.
Simultaneously Bi=
lly
Byrne and Bridge dodged through the open doorway, banged the door to behind
them, and sped across the barroom toward the street.
As Flannagan shot
into their midst the men at the table leaped to their feet and bolted for t=
he
doorway; but the detective was up and after them so quickly that only two
succeeded in getting out of the room. One of these generously slammed the d=
oor
in the faces of his fellows, and there they pulled and hauled at each other
until Flannagan was among them.
In the pitch dark=
ness
he could recognize no one; but to be on the safe side he hit out promiscuou=
sly
until he had driven them all from the door, then he stood with his back tow=
ard
it--the inmates of the room his prisoners.
Thus he remained =
for
a moment threatening to shoot at the first sound of movement in the room, a=
nd
then he opened the door again, and stepping just outside ordered the prison=
ers
to file out one at a time.
As each man passed
him Flannagan scrutinized his face, and it was not until they had all emerg=
ed
and he had reentered the room with a light that he discovered that once aga=
in
his quarry had eluded him. Detective Sergeant Flannagan was peeved.
The sun smote down
upon a dusty road. A heat-haze lay upon the arid land that stretched away u=
pon
either hand toward gray-brown hills. A little adobe hut, backed by a few
squalid outbuildings, stood out, a screaming high-light in its coat of
whitewash, against a background that was garish with light.
Two men plodded a=
long
the road. Their coats were off, the brims of their tattered hats were pulled
down over eyes closed to mere slits against sun and dust.
One of the men,
glancing up at the distant hut, broke into verse:
Yet then the sun was shining down, a-bl=
azing
on the little town, A mile or so '=
way
down the track a-dancing in the sun. But somehow, as I waited there, there =
came a
shiver in the air, "The birds=
are
flying south," he said. "=
;The
winter has begun."
His companion looked up at him who quote=
d.
"There ain't=
no track,"
he said, "an' that 'dobe shack don't look much like a town; but otherw=
ise
his Knibbs has got our number all right, all right. We are the birds a-flyi=
n'
south, and Flannagan was the shiver in the air. Flannagan is a reg'lar fros=
t.
Gee! but I betcha dat guy's sore."
"Why is it,
Billy," asked Bridge, after a moment's silence, "that upon occasi=
on
you speak king's English after the manner of the boulevard, and again after
that of the back alley? Sometimes you say 'that' and 'dat' in the same
sentence. Your conversational clashes are numerous. Surely something or som=
eone
has cramped your original style."
"I was born =
and
brought up on 'dat,'" explained Billy. "SHE taught me the other l=
ine
of talk. Sometimes I forget. I had about twenty years of the other and only=
one
of hers, and twenty to one is a long shot--more apt to lose than win."=
"'She,' I ta=
ke
it, is PENELOPE," mused Bridge, half to himself. "She must have b=
een
a fine girl."
"'Fine' isn't
the right word," Billy corrected him. "If a thing's fine there ma=
y be
something finer, and then something else finest. She was better than finest.
She--she was--why, Bridge, I'd have to be a walking dictionary to tell you =
what
she was."
Bridge made no re=
ply,
and the two trudged on toward the whitewashed hut in silence for several
minutes. Then Bridge broke it:
And you, my sweet Penelope, out there
somewhere you wait for me With bud=
s of
roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.
Billy sighed and shook his head.
"There ain't=
no
such luck for me," he said. "She's married to another gink now.&q=
uot;
They came at last=
to
the hut, upon the shady side of which they found a Mexican squatting puffing
upon a cigarette, while upon the doorstep sat a woman, evidently his wife,
busily engaged in the preparation of some manner of foodstuff contained in a
large, shallow vessel. About them played a couple of half-naked children. A
baby sprawled upon a blanket just within the doorway.
The man looked up,
suspiciously, as the two approached. Bridge saluted him in fairly understan=
dable
Spanish, asking for food, and telling the man that they had money with whic=
h to
pay for a little--not much, just a little.
The Mexican slowly
unfolded himself and arose, motioning the strangers to follow him into the
interior of the hut. The woman, at a word from her lord and master, followed
them, and at his further dictation brought them frijoles and tortillas.
The price he asked
was nominal; but his eyes never left Bridge's hands as the latter brought f=
orth
the money and handed it over. He appeared just a trifle disappointed when no
more money than the stipulated purchase price was revealed to sight.
"Where you
going?" he asked.
"We're looki=
ng
for work," explained Bridge. "We want to get jobs on one of the
American ranches or mines."
"You better =
go
back," warned the Mexican. "I, myself, have nothing against the
Americans, senor; but there are many of my countrymen who do not like you. =
The
Americans are all leaving. Some already have been killed by bandits. It is =
not
safe to go farther. Pesita's men are all about here. Even Mexicans are not =
safe
from him. No one knows whether he is for Villa or Carranza. If he finds a V=
illa
ranchero, then Pesita cries Viva Carranza! and his men kill and rob. If, on=
the
other hand, a neighbor of the last victim hears of it in time, and later Pe=
sita
comes to him, he assures Pesita that he is for Carranza, whereupon Pesita c=
ries
Viva Villa! and falls upon the poor unfortunate, who is lucky if he escapes
with his life. But Americans! Ah, Pesita asks them no questions. He hates t=
hem
all, and kills them all, whenever he can lay his hands upon them. He has sw=
orn
to rid Mexico of the gringos."
"Wot's the D=
ago
talkin' about?" asked Billy.
Bridge gave his
companion a brief synopsis of the Mexican's conversation.
"Only the ge= ntleman is not an Italian, Billy," he concluded. "He's a Mexican." <= o:p>
"Who said he=
was
an Eyetalian?" demanded Byrne.
As the two Americ=
ans
and the Mexican conversed within the hut there approached across the dusty
flat, from the direction of the nearer hills, a party of five horsemen.
They rode rapidly,
coming toward the hut from the side which had neither door nor window, so t=
hat
those within had no warning of their coming. They were swarthy, ragged
ruffians, fully armed, and with an equipment which suggested that they migh=
t be
a part of a quasi-military organization.
Close behind the =
hut
four of them dismounted while the fifth, remaining in his saddle, held the
bridle reins of the horses of his companions. The latter crept stealthily
around the outside of the building, toward the door--their carbines ready in
their hands.
It was one of the
little children who first discovered the presence of the newcomers. With a
piercing scream she bolted into the interior and ran to cling to her mother=
's
skirts.
Billy, Bridge, and
the Mexican wheeled toward the doorway simultaneously to learn the cause of=
the
girl's fright, and as they did so found themselves covered by four carbines=
in
the hands of as many men.
As his eyes fell =
upon
the faces of the intruders the countenance of the Mexican fell, while his w=
ife
dropped to the floor and embraced his knees, weeping.
"Wotinell?&q=
uot;
ejaculated Billy Byrne. "What's doin'?"
"We seem to =
have
been made prisoners," suggested Bridge; "but whether by Villistas=
or
Carranzistas I do not know."
Their host unders=
tood
his words and turned toward the two Americans.
"These are
Pesita's men," he said.
"Yes,"
spoke up one of the bandits, "we are Pesita's men, and Pesita will be
delighted, Miguel, to greet you, especially when he sees the sort of company
you have been keeping. You know how much Pesita loves the gringos!"
"But this man
does not even know us," spoke up Bridge. "We stopped here to get a
meal. He never saw us before. We are on our way to the El Orobo Rancho in
search of work. We have no money and have broken no laws. Let us go our way=
in
peace. You can gain nothing by detaining us, and as for Miguel here--that is
what you called him, I believe--I think from what he said to us that he lov=
es a
gringo about as much as your revered chief seems to."
Miguel looked his
appreciation of Bridge's defense of him; but it was evident that he did not
expect it to bear fruit. Nor did it. The brigand spokesman only grinned
sardonically.
"You may tell
all this to Pesita himself, senor," he said. "Now come--get a move
on--beat it!" The fellow had once worked in El Paso and took great pri=
de
in his "higher English" education.
As he started to =
herd
them from the hut Billy demurred. He turned toward Bridge.
"Most of this
talk gets by me," he said. "I ain't jerry to all the Dago jabber =
yet,
though I've copped off a little of it in the past two weeks. Put me wise to=
the
gink's lay."
"Elementary,
Watson, elementary," replied Bridge. "We are captured by bandits,=
and
they are going to take us to their delightful chief who will doubtless have=
us
shot at sunrise."
"Bandits?&qu=
ot;
snapped Billy, with a sneer. "Youse don't call dese little runts
bandits?"
"Baby bandit=
s,
Billy, baby bandits," replied Bridge.
"An' you're
goin' to stan' fer lettin' 'em pull off this rough stuff without handin' 'e=
m a
come-back?" demanded Byrne.
"We seem to =
be
up against just that very thing," said Bridge. "There are four
carbines quite ready for us. It would mean sudden death to resist now. Late=
r we
may find an opportunity--I think we'd better act simple and wait." He
spoke in a quick, low whisper, for the spokesman of the brigands evidently
understood a little English and was on the alert for any trickery.
Billy shrugged, a=
nd
when their captors again urged them forward he went quietly; but the expres=
sion
on his face might have perturbed the Mexicans had they known Billy Byrne of
Grand Avenue better--he was smiling happily.
Miguel had two po=
nies
in his corral. These the brigands appropriated, placing Billy upon one and
Miguel and Bridge upon the other. Billy's great weight rendered it inadvisa=
ble
to double him up with another rider.
As they were moun=
ting
Billy leaned toward Bridge and whispered:
"I'll get th=
ese
guys, pal--watch me," he said.
"I am with t=
hee,
William!--horse, foot, and artillery," laughed Bridge.
"Which remin=
ds
me," said Billy, "that I have an ace-in-the-hole--the boobs never
frisked me."
"And I am
reminded," returned Bridge, as the horses started off to the yank of
hackamore ropes in the hands of the brigands who were leading them, "o=
f a
touching little thing of Service's:
Just think!
Some night the stars will gleam Upon a cold gray stone, And trace a name with silver beam, And lo! 'twill be your own."
"You're a cheerful guy," was B=
illy's
only comment.
PESITA was a shor=
t,
stocky man with a large, dark mustache. He attired himself after his own id=
eas
of what should constitute the uniform of a general--ideas more or less
influenced and modified by the chance and caprice of fortune.
At the moment that
Billy, Bridge, and Miguel were dragged into his presence his torso was
enwrapped in a once resplendent coat covered with yards of gold braid. Upon=
his
shoulders were brass epaulets such as are connected only in one's mind with=
the
ancient chorus ladies of the light operas of fifteen or twenty years ago. U=
pon
his legs were some rusty and ragged overalls. His feet were bare.
He scowled
ferociously at the prisoners while his lieutenant narrated the thrilling fa=
cts
of their capture--thrilling by embellishment.
"You are
Americanos?" he asked of Bridge and Billy.
Both agreed that =
they
were. Then Pesita turned toward Miguel.
"Where is
Villa?" he asked.
"How should I
know, my general?" parried Miguel. "Who am I--a poor man with a t=
iny
rancho--to know of the movements of the great ones of the earth? I did not =
even
know where was the great General Pesita until now I am brought into his
gracious presence, to throw myself at his feet and implore that I be permit=
ted
to serve him in even the meanest of capacities."
Pesita appeared n=
ot
to hear what Miguel had said. He turned his shoulder toward the man, and
addressed Billy in broken English.
"You were on
your way to El Orobo Rancho, eh? Are you acquainted there?" he asked. =
Billy replied that
they were not--merely looking for employment upon an American-owned ranch o=
r in
an American mine.
"Why did you
leave your own country?" asked Pesita. "What do you want here in
Mexico?"
"Well, ol'
top," replied Billy, "you see de birds was flyin' south an' winter
was in de air, an a fat-head dick from Chi was on me trail--so I ducks.&quo=
t;
"Ducks?"
queried Pesita, mystified. "Ah, the ducks--they fly south, I see."=
;
"Naw, you po=
or
simp--I blows," explained Billy.
"Ah, yes,&qu=
ot;
agreed Pesita, not wishing to admit any ignorance of plain American even be=
fore
a despised gringo. "But the large-faced dick--what might that be? I ha=
ve
spend much time in the States, but I do not know that."
"I said
'fat-head dick'--dat's a fly cop," Billy elucidated.
"It is he th=
en
that is the bird." Pesita beamed at this evidence of his own sagacity.
"He fly."
"Flannagan a=
in't
no bird--Flannagan's a dub."
Bridge came to the
rescue.
"My erudite
friend means," he explained, "that the police chased him out of t=
he
United States of America."
Pesita raised his
eyebrows. All was now clear to him.
"But why did=
he
not say so?" he asked.
"He tried
to," said Bridge. "He did his best."
"Quit yer
kiddin'," admonished Billy.
A bright light
suddenly burst upon Pesita. He turned upon Bridge.
"Your friend=
is
not then an American?" he asked. "I guessed it. That is why I cou=
ld
not understand him. He speaks the language of the gringo less well even tha=
n I.
From what country is he?"
Billy Byrne would
have asserted with some show of asperity that he was nothing if not America=
n;
but Bridge was quick to see a possible loophole for escape for his friend in
Pesita's belief that Billy was no gringo, and warned the latter to silence =
by a
quick motion of his head.
"He's from
'Gran' Avenoo,'" he said. "It is not exactly in Germany; but there
are a great many Germans there. My friend is a native, so he don't speak Ge=
rman
or English either--they have a language of their own in 'Gran' Avenoo'.&quo=
t;
"I see,"
said Pesita--"a German colony. I like the Germans--they furnish me with
much ammunition and rifles. They are my very good friends. Take Miguel and =
the
gringo away"--this to the soldiers who had brought the prisoners to
him--"I will speak further with this man from Granavenoo."
When the others h=
ad passed
out of hearing Pesita addressed Billy.
"I am sorry,
senor," he said, "that you have been put to so much inconvenience=
. My
men could not know that you were not a gringo; but I can make it all right.=
I
will make it all right. You are a big man. The gringos have chased you from
their country as they chased me. I hate them. You hate them. But enough of
them. You have no business in Mexico except to seek work. I give you work. =
You
are big. You are strong. You are like a bull. You stay with me, senor, and I
make you captain. I need men what can talk some English and look like gring=
o.
You do fine. We make much money--you and I. We make it all time while we fi=
ght
to liberate my poor Mexico. When Mexico liberate we fight some more to libe=
rate
her again. The Germans they give me much money to liberate Mexico, and--the=
re
are other ways of getting much money when one is riding around through rich
country with soldiers liberating his poor, bleeding country. Sabe?"
"Yep, I gues=
s I
savvy," said Billy, "an' it listens all right to me's far's you've
gone. My pal in on it?"
"Eh?" <= o:p>
"You make my
frien' a captain, too?"
Pesita held up his
hands and rolled his eyes in holy horror. Take a gringo into his band? It w=
as
unthinkable.
"He shot,&qu=
ot;
he cried. "I swear to kill all gringo. I become savior of my country. I
rid her of all Americanos."
"Nix on the
captain stuff fer me, then," said Billy, firmly. "That guy's a ri=
ght
one. If any big stiff thinks he can croak little ol' Bridge while Billy Byr=
ne's
aroun' he's got anudder t'ink comin'. Why, me an' him's just like
brudders."
"You like th=
is
gringo?" asked Pesita.
"You bet,&qu=
ot;
cried Billy.
Pesita thought for
several minutes. In his mind was a scheme which required the help of just s=
uch
an individual as this stranger--someone who was utterly unknown in the
surrounding country and whose presence in a town could not by any stretch of
the imagination be connected in any way with the bandit, Pesita.
"I tell
you," he said. "I let your friend go. I send him under safe escor=
t to
El Orobo Rancho. Maybe he help us there after a while. If you stay I let him
go. Otherwise I shoot you both with Miguel."
"Wot you got=
it
in for Mig fer?" asked Billy. "He's a harmless sort o' guy."=
"He Villista.
Villista with gringos run Mexico--gringos and the church. Just like Huerta
would have done it if they'd given him a chance, only Huerta more for church
than for gringos."
"Aw, let the
poor boob go," urged Billy, "an' I'll come along wit you. Why he's
got a wife an' kids--you wouldn't want to leave them without no one to look
after them in this God-forsaken country!"
Pesita grinned
indulgently.
"Very well,
Senor Captain," he said, bowing low. "I let Miguel and your honor=
able
friend go. I send safe escort with them."
"Bully fer y=
ou,
ol' pot!" exclaimed Billy, and Pesita smiled delightedly in the belief
that some complimentary title had been applied to him in the language of
"Granavenoo." "I'll go an' tell 'em," said Billy.
"Yes," =
said
Pesita, "and say to them that they will start early in the morning.&qu=
ot;
As Billy turned a=
nd
walked in the direction that the soldiers had led Bridge and Miguel, Pesita
beckoned to a soldier who leaned upon his gun at a short distance from his
"general"--a barefooted, slovenly attempt at a headquarters order=
ly.
"Send Captain
Rozales to me," directed Pesita.
The soldier shuff=
led
away to where a little circle of men in wide-brimmed, metal-encrusted hats
squatted in the shade of a tree, chatting, laughing, and rolling cigarettes=
. He
saluted one of these and delivered his message, whereupon the tall, gaunt
Captain Rozales arose and came over to Pesita.
"The big one=
who
was brought in today is not a gringo," said Pesita, by way of opening =
the
conversation. "He is from Granavenoo. He can be of great service to us,
for he is very friendly with the Germans--yet he looks like a gringo and co=
uld
pass for one. We can utilize him. Also he is very large and appears to be
equally strong. He should make a good fighter and we have none too many. I =
have
made him a captain."
Rozales grinned.
Already among Pesita's following of a hundred men there were fifteen captai=
ns.
"Where is
Granavenoo?" asked Rozales.
"You mean to
say, my dear captain," exclaimed Pesita, "that a man of your
education does not know where Granavenoo is? I am surprised. Why, it is a
German colony."
"Yes, of cou=
rse.
I recall it well now. For the moment it had slipped my mind. My grandfather=
who
was a great traveler was there many times. I have heard him speak of it
often."
"But I did n=
ot
summon you that we might discuss European geography," interrupted Pesi=
ta.
"I sent for you to tell you that the stranger would not consent to ser=
ve
me unless I liberated his friend, the gringo, and that sneaking spy of a
Miguel. I was forced to yield, for we can use the stranger. So I have promi=
sed,
my dear captain, that I shall send them upon their road with a safe escort =
in
the morning, and you shall command the guard. Upon your life respect my
promise, Rozales; but if some of Villa's cutthroats should fall upon you, a=
nd
in the battle, while you were trying to defend the gringo and Miguel, both
should be slain by the bullets of the Villistas--ah, but it would be
deplorable, Rozales, but it would not be your fault. Who, indeed, could bla=
me
you who had fought well and risked your men and yourself in the performance=
of
your sacred duty? Rozales, should such a thing occur what could I do in tok=
en
of my great pleasure other than make you a colonel?"
"I shall def=
end
them with my life, my general," cried Rozales, bowing low.
"Good!"
cried Pesita. "That is all."
Rozales started b=
ack
toward the ring of smokers.
"Ah,
Captain!" cried Pesita. "Another thing. Will you make it known to=
the
other officers that the stranger from Granavenoo is a captain and that it i=
s my
wish that he be well treated, but not told so much as might injure him, or =
his
usefulness, about our sacred work of liberating poor, bleeding unhappy
Mexico."
Again Rozales bow=
ed
and departed. This time he was not recalled.
Billy found Bridge
and Miguel squatting on the ground with two dirty-faced peons standing guard
over them. The latter were some little distance away. They made no objection
when Billy approached the prisoners though they had looked in mild surprise
when they saw him crossing toward them without a guard.
Billy sat down be=
side
Bridge, and broke into a laugh.
"What's the
joke?" asked Bridge. "Are we going to be hanged instead of being
shot?"
"We ain't go=
in'
to be either," said Billy, "an' I'm a captain. Whaddaya know about
that?"
He explained all =
that
had taken place between himself and Pesita while Bridge and Miguel listened
attentively to his every word.
"I t'ought it
was about de only way out fer us," said Billy. "We were in worse =
than
I t'ought."
"Can the Bow=
ery
stuff, Billy," cried Bridge, "and talk like a white man. You can,=
you
know."
"All right,
bo," cried Billy, good-naturedly. "You see I forget when there is
anything pressing like this, to chew about. Then I fall back into the old
lingo. Well, as I was saying, I didn't want to do it unless you would stay =
too,
but he wouldn't have you. He has it in for all gringos, and that bull you
passed him about me being from a foreign country called Grand Avenue! He fe=
ll
for it like a rube for the tapped-wire stuff. He said if I wouldn't stay and
help him he'd croak the bunch of us."
"How about t=
hat
ace-in-the-hole, you were telling me about?" asked Bridge.
"I still got
it," and Billy fondled something hard that swung under his left arm
beneath his shirt; "but, Lord, man! what could I do against the whole
bunch? I might get a few of them; but they'd get us all in the end. This ot=
her
way is better, though I hate to have to split with you, old man."
He was silent then
for a moment, looking hard at the ground. Bridge whistled, and cleared his
throat.
"I've always
wanted to spend a year in Rio," he said. "We'll meet there, when =
you
can make your get-away."
"You've said
it," agreed Byrne. "It's Rio as soon as we can make it. Pesita's
promised to set you both loose in the morning and send you under safe
escort--Miguel to his happy home, and you to El Orobo Rancho. I guess the o=
ld
stiff isn't so bad after all."
Miguel had pricke=
d up
his ears at the sound of the word ESCORT. He leaned far forward, closer to =
the
two Americans, and whispered.
"Who is to
command the escort?" he asked.
"I dunno,&qu=
ot;
said Billy. "What difference does it make?"
"It makes all
the difference between life and death for your friend and for me," said
Miguel. "There is no reason why I should need an escort. I know my way
throughout all Chihuahua as well as Pesita or any of his cutthroats. I have
come and gone all my life without an escort. Of course your friend is
different. It might be well for him to have company to El Orobo. Maybe it is
all right; but wait until we learn who commands the escort. I know Pesita w=
ell.
I know his methods. If Rozales rides out with us tomorrow morning you may s=
ay
good-bye to your friend forever, for you will never see him in Rio, or
elsewhere. He and I will be dead before ten o'clock."
"What makes =
you
think that, bo?" demanded Billy.
"I do not th=
ink,
senor," replied Miguel; "I know."
"Well,"
said Billy, "we'll wait and see."
"If it is
Rozales, say nothing," said Miguel. "It will do no good; but we m=
ay
then be on the watch, and if possible you might find the means to obtain a
couple of revolvers for us. In which case--" he shrugged and permitted=
a
faint smile to flex his lips.
As they talked a
soldier came and announced that they were no longer prisoners--they were to
have the freedom of the camp; "but," he concluded, "the gene=
ral
requests that you do not pass beyond the limits of the camp. There are many
desperadoes in the hills and he fears for your safety, now that you are his
guests."
The man spoke
Spanish, so that it was necessary that Bridge interpret his words for the
benefit of Billy, who had understood only part of what he said.
"Ask him,&qu=
ot;
said Byrne, "if that stuff goes for me, too."
"He says
no," replied Bridge after questioning the soldier, "that the capt=
ain
is now one of them, and may go and come as do the other officers. Such are
Pesita's orders."
Billy arose. The
messenger had returned to his post at headquarters. The guard had withdrawn,
leaving the three men alone.
"So long, old
man," said Billy. "If I'm goin' to be of any help to you and Mig =
the
less I'm seen with you the better. I'll blow over and mix with the Dago bun=
ch,
an' practice sittin' on my heels. It seems to be the right dope down here, =
an'
I got to learn all I can about bein' a greaser seein' that I've turned
one."
"Good-bye Bi=
lly,
remember Rio," said Bridge.
"And the
revolvers, senor," added Miguel.
"You bet,&qu=
ot;
replied Billy, and strolled off in the direction of the little circle of
cigarette smokers.
As he approached =
them
Rozales looked up and smiled. Then, rising, extended his hand.
"Senor
Captain," he said, "we welcome you. I am Captain Rozales." H=
e hesitated
waiting for Billy to give his name.
"My monacker=
's
Byrne," said Billy. "Pleased to meet you, Cap."
"Ah, Captain
Byrne," and Rozales proceeded to introduce the newcomer to his fellow-=
officers.
Several, like
Rozales, were educated men who had been officers in the army under former
regimes, but had turned bandit as the safer alternative to suffering immedi=
ate
death at the hands of the faction then in power. The others, for the most p=
art,
were pure-blooded Indians whose adult lives had been spent in outlawry and
brigandage. All were small of stature beside the giant, Byrne. Rozales and =
two
others spoke English. With those Billy conversed. He tried to learn from th=
em
the name of the officer who was to command the escort that was to accompany=
Bridge
and Miguel into the valley on the morrow; but Rozales and the others assured
him that they did not know.
When he had asked=
the
question Billy had been looking straight at Rozales, and he had seen the ma=
n's
pupils contract and noticed the slight backward movement of the body which =
also
denotes determination. Billy knew, therefore, that Rozales was lying. He did
know who was to command the escort, and there was something sinister in that
knowledge or the fellow would not have denied it.
The American bega=
n to
consider plans for saving his friend from the fate which Pesita had outlined
for him. Rozales, too, was thinking rapidly. He was no fool. Why had the
stranger desired to know who was to command the escort? He knew none of the
officers personally. What difference then, did it make to him who rode out =
on
the morrow with his friend? Ah, but Miguel knew that it would make a
difference. Miguel had spoken to the new captain, and aroused his suspicion=
s.
Rozales excused
himself and rose. A moment later he was in conversation with Pesita,
unburdening himself of his suspicions, and outlining a plan.
"Do not send=
me
in charge of the escort," he advised. "Send Captain Byrne
himself."
Pesita pooh-poohe=
d the
idea.
"But wait,&q=
uot;
urged Rozales. "Let the stranger ride in command, with a half-dozen pi=
cked
men who will see that nothing goes wrong. An hour before dawn I will send t=
wo
men--they will be our best shots--on ahead. They will stop at a place we bo=
th
know, and about noon the Captain Byrne and his escort will ride back to camp
and tell us that they were attacked by a troop of Villa's men, and that both
our guests were killed. It will be sad; but it will not be our fault. We wi=
ll
swear vengeance upon Villa, and the Captain Byrne will hate him as a good P=
esitista
should."
"You have the
cunning of the Coyote, my captain," cried Pesita. "It shall be do=
ne
as you suggest. Go now, and I will send for Captain Byrne, and give him his
orders for the morning."
As Rozales stroll=
ed
away a figure rose from the shadows at the side of Pesita's tent and slunk =
off
into the darkness.
AND so it was that
having breakfasted in the morning Bridge and Miguel started downward toward=
the
valley protected by an escort under Captain Billy Byrne. An old service jac=
ket
and a wide-brimmed hat, both donated by brother officers, constituted Capta=
in
Byrne's uniform. His mount was the largest that the picket line of Pesita's
forces could produce. Billy loomed large amongst his men.
For an hour they =
rode
along the trail, Billy and Bridge conversing upon various subjects, none of
which touched upon the one uppermost in the mind of each. Miguel rode, sile=
nt
and preoccupied. The evening before he had whispered something to Bridge as=
he
had crawled out of the darkness to lie close to the American, and during a
brief moment that morning Bridge had found an opportunity to relay the
Mexican's message to Billy Byrne.
The latter had but
raised his eyebrows a trifle at the time, but later he smiled more than was
usual with him. Something seemed to please him immensely.
Beside him at the
head of the column rode Bridge and Miguel. Behind them trailed the six swar=
thy
little troopers--the picked men upon whom Pesita could depend.
They had reached a
point where the trail passes through a narrow dry arroyo which the waters of
the rainy season had cut deep into the soft, powdery soil. Upon either bank
grew cacti and mesquite, forming a sheltering screen behind which a regiment
might have hidden. The place was ideal for an ambuscade.
"Here, Senor Capitan," whispered Miguel, as they neared the entrance to the trap. <= o:p>
A low hill shut o=
ff
from their view all but the head of the cut, and it also hid them from the
sight of any possible enemy which might have been lurking in wait for them
farther down the arroyo.
At Miguel's words
Byrne wheeled his horse to the right away from the trail which led through =
the
bottom of the waterway and around the base of the hill, or rather in that
direction, for he had scarce deviated from the direct way before one of the
troopers spurred to his side, calling out in Spanish that he was upon the w=
rong
trail.
"Wot's this =
guy
chewin' about?" asked Billy, turning to Miguel.
"He says you
must keep to the arroyo, Senor Capitan," explained the Mexican.
"Tell him to=
go
back into his stall," was Byrne's laconic rejoinder, as he pushed his
mount forward to pass the brigand.
The soldier was
voluble in his objections. Again he reined in front of Billy, and by this t=
ime
his five fellows had spurred forward to block the way.
"This is the
wrong trail," they cried. "Come this other way, Capitan. Pesita h=
as
so ordered it."
Catching the drif=
t of
their remarks, Billy waved them to one side.
"I'm bossin'=
this
picnic," he announced. "Get out o' the way, an' be quick about it=
if
you don't want to be hurted."
Again he rode
forward. Again the troopers interposed their mounts, and this time their le=
ader
cocked his carbine. His attitude was menacing. Billy was close to him. Their
ponies were shoulder to shoulder, that of the bandit almost broadside of the
trail.
Now Billy Byrne w=
as
more than passing well acquainted with many of the fundamental principles of
sudden brawls. It is safe to say that he had never heard of Van Bibber; but=
he
knew, as well as Van Bibber knew, that it is well to hit first.
Without a word and
without warning he struck, leaning forward with all the weight of his body
behind his blow, and catching the man full beneath the chin he lifted him as
neatly from his saddle as though a battering ram had struck him.
Simultaneously Br=
idge
and Miguel drew revolvers from their shirts and as Billy wheeled his pony
toward the remaining five they opened fire upon them.
The battle was sh=
ort
and sweet. One almost escaped but Miguel, who proved to be an excellent
revolver shot, brought him down at a hundred yards. He then, with utter
disregard for the rules of civilized warfare, dispatched those who were not
already dead.
"We must let
none return to carry false tales to Pesita," he explained.
Even Billy Byrne
winced at the ruthlessness of the cold-blooded murders; but he realized the
necessity which confronted them though he could not have brought himself to=
do
the things which the Mexican did with such sang-froid and even evident
enjoyment.
"Now for the
others!" cried Miguel, when he had assured himself that each of the six
were really quite dead.
Spurring after him
Billy and Bridge ran their horses over the rough ground at the base of the
little hill, and then parallel to the arroyo for a matter of a hundred yard=
s,
where they espied two Indians, carbines in hand, standing in evident
consternation because of the unexpected fusillade of shots which they had j=
ust
heard and which they were unable to account for.
At the sight of t=
he
three the sharpshooters dropped behind cover and fired. Billy's horse stumb=
led
at the first report, caught himself, reared high upon his hind legs and then
toppled over, dead.
His rider, throwi=
ng
himself to one side, scrambled to his feet and fired twice at the partially
concealed men. Miguel and Bridge rode in rapidly to close quarters, firing =
as
they came. One of the two men Pesita had sent to assassinate his
"guests" dropped his gun, clutched at his breast, screamed, and s=
ank
back behind a clump of mesquite. The other turned and leaped over the edge =
of
the bank into the arroyo, rolling and tumbling to the bottom in a cloud of =
dry
dust.
As he rose to his
feet and started on a run up the bed of the dry stream, dodging a zigzag co=
urse
from one bit of scant cover to another Billy Byrne stepped to the edge of t=
he
washout and threw his carbine to his shoulder. His face was flushed, his ey=
es
sparkled, a smile lighted his regular features.
"This is the
life!" he cried, and pulled the trigger.
The man beneath h= im, running for his life like a frightened jackrabbit, sprawled forward upon his face, made a single effort to rise and then slumped limply down, forever. <= o:p>
Miguel and Bridge,
dismounted now, came to Byrne's side. The Mexican was grinning broadly.
"The captain=
is
one grand fighter," he said. "How my dear general would admire su=
ch a
man as the captain. Doubtless he would make him a colonel. Come with me Sen=
or
Capitan and your fortune is made."
"Come
where?" asked Billy Byrne.
"To the camp= of the liberator of poor, bleeding Mexico--to General Francisco Villa." <= o:p>
"Nothin'
doin'," said Billy. "I'm hooked up with this Pesita person now, a=
n' I
guess I'll stick. He's given me more of a run for my money in the last
twenty-four hours than I've had since I parted from my dear old friend, the
Lord of Yoka."
"But Senor
Capitan," cried Miguel, "you do not mean to say that you are going
back to Pesita! He will shoot you down with his own hand when he has learned
what has happened here."
"I guess not=
,"
said Billy.
"You'd bette=
r go
with Miguel, Billy," urged Bridge. "Pesita will not forgive you t=
his.
You've cost him eight men today and he hasn't any more men than he needs at
best. Besides you've made a monkey of him and unless I miss my guess you'll
have to pay for it."
"No," s=
aid
Billy, "I kind o' like this Pesita gent. I think I'll stick around with
him for a while yet. Anyhow until I've had a chance to see his face after I=
've
made my report to him. You guys run along now and make your get-away good, =
an'
I'll beat it back to camp."
He crossed to whe=
re
the two horses of the slain marksmen were hidden, turned one of them loose =
and
mounted the other.
"So long,
boes!" he cried, and with a wave of his hand wheeled about and spurred
back along the trail over which they had just come.
Miguel and Bridge
watched him for a moment, then they, too, mounted and turned away in the
opposite direction. Bridge recited no verse for the balance of that day. His
heart lay heavy in his bosom, for he missed Billy Byrne, and was fearful of=
the
fate which awaited him at the camp of the bandit.
Billy, blithe as a
lark, rode gaily back along the trail to camp. He looked forward with unmix=
ed
delight to his coming interview with Pesita, and to the wild, half-savage l=
ife
which association with the bandit promised. All his life had Billy Byrne fed
upon excitement and adventure. As gangster, thug, holdup man and second-sto=
ry
artist Billy had found food for his appetite within the dismal, sooty stree=
ts
of Chicago's great West Side, and then Fate had flung him upon the savage s=
hore
of Yoka to find other forms of adventure where the best that is in a strong=
man
may be brought out in the stern battle for existence against primeval men a=
nd
conditions. The West Side had developed only Billy's basest characteristics=
. He
might have slipped back easily into the old ways had it not been for HER and
the recollection of that which he had read in her eyes. Love had been there;
but greater than that to hold a man into the straight and narrow path of
decency and honor had been respect and admiration. It had seemed incredible=
to
Billy that a goddess should feel such things for him--for the same man her
scornful lips once had branded as coward and mucker; yet he had read the tr=
uth aright,
and since then Billy Byrne had done his best according to the light that had
been given him to deserve the belief she had in him.
So far there had
crept into his consciousness no disquieting doubts as to the consistency of=
his
recent action in joining the force of a depredating Mexican outlaw. Billy k=
new
nothing of the political conditions of the republic. Had Pesita told him th=
at
he was president of Mexico, Billy could not have disputed the statement from
any knowledge of facts which he possessed. As a matter of fact about all Bi=
lly
had ever known of Mexico was that it had some connection with an important =
place
called Juarez where running meets were held.
To Billy Byrne, t=
hen,
Pesita was a real general, and Billy, himself, a bona fide captain. He had
entered an army which was at war with some other army. What they were warri=
ng
about Billy knew not, nor did he care. There should be fighting and he loved
that--that much he knew. The ethics of Pesita's warfare troubled him not. He
had heard that some great American general had said: "War is hell.&quo=
t;
Billy was willing to take his word for it, and accept anything which came in
the guise of war as entirely proper and as it should be.
The afternoon was=
far
gone when Billy drew rein in the camp of the outlaw band. Pesita with the b=
ulk
of his raiders was out upon some excursion to the north. Only half a dozen =
men
lolled about, smoking or sleeping away the hot day. They looked at Billy in
evident surprise when they saw him riding in alone; but they asked no quest=
ions
and Billy offered no explanation--his report was for the ears of Pesita onl=
y.
The balance of the
day Billy spent in acquiring further knowledge of Spanish by conversing with
those of the men who remained awake, and asking innumerable questions. It w=
as
almost sundown when Pesita rode in. Two riderless horses were led by troope=
rs
in the rear of the little column and three men swayed painfully in their
saddles and their clothing was stained with blood.
Evidently Pesita =
had
met with resistance. There was much voluble chattering on the part of those=
who
had remained behind in their endeavors to extract from their returning comr=
ades
the details of the day's enterprise. By piecing together the various scraps=
of
conversation he could understand Billy discovered that Pesita had ridden fa=
r to
demand tribute from a wealthy ranchero, only to find that word of his coming
had preceded him and brought a large detachment of Villa's regulars who
concealed themselves about the house and outbuildings until Pesita and his
entire force were well within close range.
"We were luc=
ky
to get off as well as we did," said an officer.
Billy grinned
inwardly as he thought of the pleasant frame of mind in which Pesita might =
now
be expected to receive the news that eight of his troopers had been killed =
and
his two "guests" safely removed from the sphere of his hospitalit=
y.
And even as his m=
ind
dwelt delightedly upon the subject a ragged Indian carrying a carbine and w=
ith
heavy silver spurs strapped to his bare feet approached and saluted him.
"General Pes=
ita
wishes Senor Capitan Byrne to report to him at once," said the man.
"Sure
Mike!" replied Billy, and made his way through the pandemonium of the =
camp
toward the headquarters tent.
As he went he sli=
pped
his hand inside his shirt and loosened something which hung beneath his left
arm.
"Li'l ol'
ace-in-the-hole," he murmured affectionately.
He found Pesita
pacing back and forth before his tent--an energetic bundle of nerves which =
no
amount of hard riding and fighting could tire or discourage.
As Billy approach=
ed
Pesita shot a quick glance at his face, that he might read, perhaps, in his=
new
officer's expression whether anger or suspicion had been aroused by the kil=
ling
of his American friend, for Pesita never dreamed but that Bridge had been d=
ead
since mid-forenoon.
"Well,"
said Pesita, smiling, "you left Senor Bridge and Miguel safely at their
destination?"
"I couldn't =
take
'em all the way," replied Billy, "cause I didn't have no more men=
to
guard 'em with; but I seen 'em past the danger I guess an' well on their
way."
"You had no
men?" questioned Pesita. "You had six troopers."
"Oh, they was
all croaked before we'd been gone two hours. You see it happens like this: =
We
got as far as that dry arroyo just before the trail drops down into the val=
ley,
when up jumps a bunch of this here Villa's guys and commenced takin' pot sh=
ots
at us.
"Seein' as h=
ow I
was sent to guard Bridge an' Mig, I makes them dismount and hunt cover, and
then me an' my men wades in and cleans up the bunch. They was only a few of
them but they croaked the whole bloomin' six o' mine.
"I tell you =
it
was some scrap while it lasted; but I saved your guests from gettin' hurted=
an'
I know that that's what you sent me to do. It's too bad about the six men we
lost but, leave it to me, we'll get even with that Villa guy yet. Just lead=
me
to 'im."
As he spoke Billy
commenced scratching himself beneath the left arm, and then, as though to
better reach the point of irritation, he slipped his hand inside his shirt.=
If
Pesita noticed the apparently innocent little act, or interpreted it correc=
tly
may or may not have been the fact. He stood looking straight into Byrne's e=
yes
for a full minute. His face denoted neither baffled rage nor contemplated
revenge. Presently a slow smile raised his heavy mustache and revealed his
strong, white teeth.
"You have do=
ne
well, Captain Byrne," he said. "You are a man after my own
heart," and he extended his hand.
A half-hour later
Billy walked slowly back to his own blankets, and to say that he was puzzled
would scarce have described his mental state.
"I can't qui=
te
make that gink out," he mused. "Either he's a mighty good loser or
else he's a deep one who'll wait a year to get me the way he wants to get
me."
And Pesita a few
moments later was saying to Captain Rozales:
"I should ha=
ve
shot him if I could spare such a man; but it is seldom I find one with the
courage and effrontery he possesses. Why think of it, Rozales, he kills eig=
ht
of my men, and lets my prisoners escape, and then dares to come back and te=
ll
me about it when he might easily have gotten away. Villa would have made hi=
m an
officer for this thing, and Miguel must have told him so. He found out in s=
ome
way about your little plan and he turned the tables on us. We can use him,
Rozales, but we must watch him. Also, my dear captain, watch his right hand=
and
when he slips it into his shirt be careful that you do not draw on him--unl=
ess you
happen to be behind him."
Rozales was not
inclined to take his chief's view of Byrne's value to them. He argued that =
the
man was guilty of disloyalty and therefore a menace. What he thought, but d=
id
not advance as an argument, was of a different nature. Rozales was filled w=
ith
rage to think that the newcomer had outwitted him, and beaten him at his own
game, and he was jealous, too, of the man's ascendancy in the esteem of Pes=
ita;
but he hid his personal feelings beneath a cloak of seeming acquiescence in=
his
chief's views, knowing that some day his time would come when he might rid
himself of the danger of this obnoxious rival.
"And
tomorrow," continued Pesita, "I am sending him to Cuivaca. Villa =
has
considerable funds in bank there, and this stranger can learn what I want to
know about the size of the detachment holding the town, and the habits of t=
he
garrison."
THE manager of El
Orobo Rancho was an American named Grayson. He was a tall, wiry man whose
education had been acquired principally in the cow camps of Texas, where, a=
mong
other things one does NOT learn to love nor trust a greaser. As a result of
this early training Grayson was peculiarly unfitted in some respects to man=
age
an American ranch in Mexico; but he was a just man, and so if his vaqueros =
did
not love him, they at least respected him, and everyone who was or possessed
the latent characteristics of a wrongdoer feared him.
Perhaps it is not
fair to say that Grayson was in any way unfitted for the position he held,
since as a matter of fact he was an ideal ranch foreman, and, if the truth =
be
known, the simple fact that he was a gringo would have been sufficient to h=
ave
won him the hatred of the Mexicans who worked under him--not in the course =
of
their everyday relations; but when the fires of racial animosity were fanne=
d to
flame by some untoward incident upon either side of the border.
Today Grayson was
particularly rabid. The more so because he could not vent his anger upon the
cause of it, who was no less a person than his boss.
It seemed incredi=
ble
to Grayson that any man of intelligence could have conceived and then carri=
ed
out the fool thing which the boss had just done, which was to have come from
the safety of New York City to the hazards of warring Mexico, bringing--and
this was the worst feature of it--his daughter with him. And at such a time!
Scarce a day passed without its rumors or reports of new affronts and even
atrocities being perpetrated upon American residents of Mexico. Each day, t=
oo,
the gravity of these acts increased. From mere insult they had run of late =
to
assault and even to murder. Nor was the end in sight.
Pesita had openly
sworn to rid Mexico of the gringo--to kill on sight every American who fell
into his hands. And what could Grayson do in case of a determined attack up=
on
the rancho? It is true he had a hundred men--laborers and vaqueros, but sca=
rce
a dozen of these were Americans, and the rest would, almost without excepti=
on,
follow the inclinations of consanguinity in case of trouble.
To add to Grayson=
's
irritability he had just lost his bookkeeper, and if there was one thing mo=
re
than any other that Grayson hated it was pen and ink. The youth had been a
"lunger" from Iowa, a fairly nice little chap, and entirely suite=
d to
his duties under any other circumstances than those which prevailed in Mexi=
co
at that time. He was in mortal terror of his life every moment that he was
awake, and at last had given in to the urge of cowardice and resigned. The =
day
previous he had been bundled into a buckboard and driven over to the Mexican
Central which, at that time, still was operating trains--occasionally--betw=
een Chihuahua
and Juarez.
His mind filled w=
ith
these unpleasant thoughts, Grayson sat at his desk in the office of the ran=
ch
trying to unravel the riddle of a balance sheet which would not balance. Mi=
xed
with the blue of the smoke from his briar was the deeper azure of a spirited
monologue in which Grayson was engaged.
A girl was passing
the building at the moment. At her side walked a gray-haired man--one of th=
ose
men whom you just naturally fit into a mental picture of a director's meeti=
ng
somewhere along Wall Street.
"Sich
langwidge!" cried the girl, with a laugh, covering her ears with her
palms.
The man at her si=
de
smiled.
"I can't say
that I blame him much, Barbara," he replied. "It was a very fooli=
sh
thing for me to bring you down here at this time. I can't understand what e=
ver
possessed me to do it."
"Don't blame
yourself, dear," remonstrated the girl, "when it was all my fault=
. I
begged and begged and begged until you had to consent, and I'm not sorry
either--if nothing happens to you because of our coming. I couldn't stay in=
New
York another minute. Everyone was so snoopy, and I could just tell that they
were dying to ask questions about Billy and me."
"I can't get=
it
through my head yet, Barbara," said the man, "why in the world you
broke with Billy Mallory. He's one of the finest young men in New York City
today--just my ideal of the sort of man I'd like my only daughter to
marry."
"I tried,
Papa," said the girl in a low voice; "but I couldn't--I just coul=
dn't."
"Was it
because--" the man stopped abruptly. "Well, never mind dear, I sh=
an't
be snoopy too. Here now, you run along and do some snooping yourself about =
the
ranch. I want to stop in and have a talk with Grayson."
Down by one of the
corrals where three men were busily engaged in attempting to persuade an
unbroken pony that a spade bit is a pleasant thing to wear in one's mouth,
Barbara found a seat upon a wagon box which commanded an excellent view of =
the
entertainment going on within the corral. As she sat there experiencing a
combination of admiration for the agility and courage of the men and pity f=
or
the horse the tones of a pleasant masculine voice broke in upon her thought=
s.
"Out there somewhere!" says =
I to
me. "By Gosh, I guess, thats
poetry!" "Out there
somewhere--Penelope--with kisses on her mouth!" And then, thinks I, "O college gu=
y!
your talk it gets me in the eye, =
The
north is creeping in the air, the birds are flying south."
Barbara swung aro=
und
to view the poet. She saw a slender man astride a fagged Mexican pony. A ra=
gged
coat and ragged trousers covered the man's nakedness. Indian moccasins
protected his feet, while a torn and shapeless felt hat sat upon his
well-shaped head. AMERICAN was written all over him. No one could have imag=
ined
him anything else. Apparently he was a tramp as well--his apparel proclaimed
him that; but there were two discordant notes in the otherwise harmonious
ensemble of your typical bo. He was clean shaven and he rode a pony. He rode
erect, too, with the easy seat of an army officer.
At sight of the g=
irl
he raised his battered hat and swept it low to his pony's shoulder as he be=
nt
in a profound bow.
"I seek the
majordomo, senorita," he said.
"Mr. Grayson=
is
up at the office, that little building to the left of the ranchhouse,"
replied the girl, pointing.
The newcomer had
addressed her in Spanish, and as he heard her reply, in pure and liquid
English, his eyes widened a trifle; but the familiar smile with which he had
greeted her left his face, and his parting bow was much more dignified thou=
gh
no less profound than its predecessor.
And you, my sweet Penelope, out there
somewhere you wait for me, With b=
uds of
roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.
Grayson and his employer both looked up =
as the
words of Knibbs' poem floated in to them through the open window.
"I wonder wh=
ere
that blew in from," remarked Grayson, as his eyes discovered Bridge
astride the tired pony, looking at him through the window. A polite smile
touched the stranger's lips as his eyes met Grayson's, and then wandered pa=
st
him to the imposing figure of the Easterner.
"Good evenin=
g,
gentlemen," said Bridge.
"Evenin',&qu=
ot;
snapped Grayson. "Go over to the cookhouse and the Chink'll give you
something to eat. Turn your pony in the lower pasture. Smith'll show you wh=
ere
to bunk tonight, an' you kin hev your breakfast in the mornin'. S'long!&quo=
t;
The ranch superintendent turned back to the paper in his hand which he had =
been
discussing with his employer at the moment of the interruption. He had voll=
eyed
his instructions at Bridge as though pouring a rain of lead from a machine =
gun,
and now that he had said what he had to say the incident was closed in so f=
ar
as he was concerned.
The hospitality of
the Southwest permitted no stranger to be turned away without food and a
night's lodging. Grayson having arranged for these felt that he had done all
that might be expected of a host, especially when the uninvited guest was so
obviously a hobo and doubtless a horse thief as well, for who ever knew a h=
obo to
own a horse?
Bridge continued =
to
sit where he had reined in his pony. He was looking at Grayson with what the
discerning boss judged to be politely concealed enjoyment.
"Possibly,&q=
uot;
suggested the boss in a whisper to his aide, "the man has business with
you. You did not ask him, and I am sure that he said nothing about wishing a
meal or a place to sleep."
"Huh?"
grunted Grayson, and then to Bridge, "Well, what the devil DO you want=
?"
"A job,"
replied Bridge, "or, to be more explicit, I need a job--far be it from=
me
to WISH one."
The Easterner smi=
led.
Grayson looked a bit mystified--and irritated.
"Well, I hai=
n't
got none," he snapped. "We don't need nobody now unless it might =
be a
good puncher--one who can rope and ride."
"I can
ride," replied Bridge, "as is evidenced by the fact that you now =
see
me astride a horse."
"I said
RIDE," said Grayson. "Any fool can SIT on a horse. NO, I hain't g=
ot
nothin', an' I'm busy now. Hold on!" he exclaimed as though seized by a
sudden inspiration. He looked sharply at Bridge for a moment and then shook=
his
head sadly. "No, I'm afraid you couldn't do it--a guy's got to be
eddicated for the job I got in mind."
"Washing
dishes?" suggested Bridge.
Grayson ignored t=
he
playfulness of the other's question.
"Keepin' boo=
ks,"
he explained. There was a finality in his tone which said: "As you, of
course, cannot keep books the interview is now over. Get out!"
"I could
try," said Bridge. "I can read and write, you know. Let me try.&q=
uot;
Bridge wanted money for the trip to Rio, and, too, he wanted to stay in the
country until Billy was ready to leave.
"Savvy
Spanish?" asked Grayson.
"I read and
write it better than I speak it," said Bridge, "though I do the
latter well enough to get along anywhere that it is spoken."
Grayson wanted a
bookkeeper worse than he could ever recall having wanted anything before in=
all
his life. His better judgment told him that it was the height of idiocy to
employ a ragged bum as a bookkeeper; but the bum was at least as much of a =
hope
to him as is a straw to a drowning man, and so Grayson clutched at him.
"Go an' turn
your cayuse in an' then come back here," he directed, "an' I'll g=
ive
you a tryout."
"Thanks,&quo=
t;
said Bridge, and rode off in the direction of the pasture gate.
"'Fraid he w=
on't
never do," said Grayson, ruefully, after Bridge had passed out of ears=
hot.
"I rather
imagine that he will," said the boss. "He is an educated man, Gra=
yson--you
can tell that from his English, which is excellent. He's probably one of the
great army of down-and-outers. The world is full of them--poor devils. Give=
him
a chance, Grayson, and anyway he adds another American to our force, and ea=
ch
one counts."
"Yes, that's
right; but I hope you won't need 'em before you an' Miss Barbara go," =
said
Grayson.
"I hope not,
Grayson; but one can never tell with conditions here such as they are. Have=
you
any hope that you will be able to obtain a safe conduct for us from General
Villa?"
"Oh, Villa'll
give us the paper all right," said Grayson; "but it won't do us no
good unless we don't meet nobody but Villa's men on the way out. This here
Pesita's the critter I'm leery of. He's got it in for all Americans, and
especially for El Orobo Rancho. You know we beat off a raid of his about six
months ago--killed half a dozen of his men, an' he won't never forgive that.
Villa can't spare a big enough force to give us safe escort to the border a=
nd
he can't assure the safety of the train service. It looks mighty bad, sir--I
don't see what in hell you came for."
"Neither do =
I,
Grayson," agreed the boss; "but I'm here and we've got to make the
best of it. All this may blow over--it has before--and we'll laugh at our f=
ears
in a few weeks."
"This thing
that's happenin' now won't never blow over 'til the stars and stripes blow =
over
Chihuahua," said Grayson with finality.
A few moments lat=
er
Bridge returned to the office, having unsaddled his pony and turned it into=
the
pasture.
"What's your
name?" asked Grayson, preparing to enter it in his time book.
"Bridge,&quo=
t;
replied the new bookkeeper.
"'Nitials,&q=
uot;
snapped Grayson.
Bridge hesitated.
"Oh, put me down as L. Bridge," he said.
"Where
from?" asked the ranch foreman.
"El Orobo
Rancho," answered Bridge.
Grayson shot a qu=
ick
glance at the man. The answer confirmed his suspicions that the stranger was
probably a horse thief, which, in Grayson's estimation, was the worst thing=
a
man could be.
"Where did y=
ou
get that pony you come in on?" he demanded. "I ain't sayin' nothi=
n'
of course, but I jest want to tell you that we ain't got no use for horse
thieves here."
The Easterner, who
had been a listener, was shocked by the brutality of Grayson's speech; but
Bridge only laughed.
"If you must
know," he said, "I never bought that horse, an' the man he belong=
ed
to didn't give him to me. I just took him."
"You got your
nerve," growled Grayson. "I guess you better git out. We don't wa=
nt
no horse thieves here."
"Wait,"
interposed the boss. "This man doesn't act like a horse thief. A horse
thief, I should imagine, would scarcely admit his guilt. Let's have his sto=
ry
before we judge him."
"All
right," said Grayson; "but he's just admitted he stole the
horse."
Bridge turned to =
the
boss. "Thanks," he said; "but really I did steal the
horse."
Grayson made a
gesture which said: "See, I told you so."
"It was like
this," went on Bridge. "The gentleman who owned the horse, togeth=
er
with some of his friends, had been shooting at me and my friends. When it w=
as
all over there was no one left to inform us who were the legal heirs of the
late owners of this and several other horses which were left upon our hands=
, so
I borrowed this one. The law would say, doubtless, that I had stolen it; bu=
t I
am perfectly willing to return it to its rightful owners if someone will fi=
nd
them for me."
"You been in=
a
scrap?" asked Grayson. "Who with?"
"A party of
Pesita's men," replied Bridge.
"When?"=
"Yesterday.&=
quot;
"You see they
are working pretty close," said Grayson, to his employer, and then to
Bridge: "Well, if you took that cayuse from one of Pesita's bunch you
can't call that stealin'. Your room's in there, back of the office, an' you=
'll
find some clothes there that the last man forgot to take with him. You ken =
have
'em, an' from the looks o' yourn you need 'em."
"Thank
you," replied Bridge. "My clothes are a bit rusty. I shall have to
speak to James about them," and he passed through into the little bedr=
oom
off the office, and closed the door behind him.
"James?"
grunted Grayson. "Who the devil does he mean by James? I hain't seen b=
ut
one of 'em."
The boss was laug=
hing
quietly.
"The man's a
character," he said. "He'll be worth all you pay him--if you can
appreciate him, which I doubt, Grayson."
"I ken
appreciate him if he ken keep books," replied Grayson. "That's al=
l I
ask of him."
When Bridge emerg=
ed
from the bedroom he was clothed in white duck trousers, a soft shirt, and a
pair of tennis shoes, and such a change had they wrought in his appearance =
that
neither Grayson nor his employer would have known him had they not seen him
come from the room into which they had sent him to make the exchange of
clothing.
"Feel
better?" asked the boss, smiling.
"Clothes are=
but
an incident with me," replied Bridge. "I wear them because it is
easier to do so than it would be to dodge the weather and the police. Whate=
ver
I may have upon my back affects in no way what I have within my head. No, I
cannot say that I feel any better, since these clothes are not as comfortab=
le
as my old ones. However if it pleases Mr. Grayson that I should wear a pink
kimono while working for him I shall gladly wear a pink kimono. What shall =
I do
first, sir?" The question was directed toward Grayson.
"Sit down he=
re
an' see what you ken make of this bunch of trouble," replied the forem=
an.
"I'll talk with you again this evenin'."
As Grayson and his
employer quitted the office and walked together toward the corrals the latt=
er's
brow was corrugated by thought and his facial expression that of one who la=
bors
to fasten upon a baffling and illusive recollection.
"It beats al=
l,
Grayson," he said presently; "but I am sure that I have known this
new bookkeeper of yours before. The moment he came out of that room dressed
like a human being I knew that I had known him; but for the life of me I ca=
n't
place him. I should be willing to wager considerable, however, that his nam=
e is
not Bridge."
"S'pect you'=
re
right," assented Grayson. "He's probably one o' them eastern dude
bank clerks what's gone wrong and come down here to hide. Mighty fine place=
to
hide jest now, too.
"And say,
speakin' of banks," he went on, "what'll I do 'bout sendin' over =
to
Cuivaca fer the pay tomorrow. Next day's pay day. I don't like to send this
here bum, I can't trust a greaser no better, an' I can't spare none of my w=
hite
men thet I ken trust."
"Send him wi=
th a
couple of the most trustworthy Mexicans you have," suggested the boss.=
"There ain't=
no
sich critter," replied Grayson; "but I guess that's the best I ken
do. I'll send him along with Tony an' Benito--they hate each other too much=
to
frame up anything together, an' they both hate a gringo. I reckon they'll h=
ev a
lovely trip."
"But they'll=
get
back with the money, eh?" queried the boss.
"If Pesita d=
on't
get 'em," replied Grayson.
BILLY BYRNE, capt=
ain,
rode into Cuivaca from the south. He had made a wide detour in order to
accomplish this; but under the circumstances he had thought it wise to do s=
o.
In his pocket was a safe conduct from one of Villa's generals farther south=
--a
safe conduct taken by Pesita from the body of one of his recent victims. It=
would
explain Billy's presence in Cuivaca since it had been intended to carry its
rightful possessor to Juarez and across the border into the United States. =
He found the mili=
tary
establishment at Cuivaca small and ill commanded. There were soldiers upon =
the streets;
but the only regularly detailed guard was stationed in front of the bank. No
one questioned Billy. He did not have to show his safe conduct.
"This looks
easy," thought Billy. "A reg'lar skinch."
He first attended=
to
his horse, turning him into a public corral, and then sauntered up the stre=
et
to the bank, which he entered, still unquestioned. Inside he changed a bill=
of
large denomination which Pesita had given him for the purpose of an excuse =
to
examine the lay of the bank from the inside. Billy took a long time to count
the change. All the time his eyes wandered about the interior while he made
mental notes of such salient features as might prove of moment to him later=
. The
money counted Billy slowly rolled a cigarette.
He saw that the b=
ank
was roughly divided into two sections by a wire and wood partition. On one =
side
were the customers, on the other the clerks and a teller. The latter sat be=
hind
a small wicket through which he received deposits and cashed checks. Back of
him, against the wall, stood a large safe of American manufacture. Billy had
had business before with similar safes. A doorway in the rear wall led into=
the
yard behind the building. It was closed by a heavy door covered with sheet =
iron
and fastened by several bolts and a thick, strong bar. There were no window=
s in
the rear wall. From that side the bank appeared almost impregnable to silent
assault.
Inside everything=
was
primitive and Billy found himself wondering how a week passed without seein=
g a
bank robbery in the town. Possibly the strong rear defenses and the armed g=
uard
in front accounted for it.
Satisfied with wh=
at
he had learned he passed out onto the sidewalk and crossed the street to a
saloon. Some soldiers and citizens were drinking at little tables in front =
of
the bar. A couple of card games were in progress, and through the open rear
doorway Billy saw a little gathering encircling a cock fight.
In none of these
things was Billy interested. What he had wished in entering the saloon was
merely an excuse to place himself upon the opposite side of the street from=
the
bank that he might inspect the front from the outside without arousing
suspicion.
Having purchased =
and
drunk a bottle of poor beer, the temperature of which had probably never be=
en
below eighty since it left the bottling department of the Texas brewery whi=
ch
inflicted it upon the ignorant, he sauntered to the front window and looked
out.
There he saw that=
the
bank building was a two-story affair, the entrance to the second story bein=
g at
the left side of the first floor, opening directly onto the sidewalk in full
view of the sentry who paced to and fro before the structure.
Billy wondered wh=
at
the second floor was utilized for. He saw soiled hangings at the windows wh=
ich
aroused a hope and a sudden inspiration. There was a sign above the entranc=
e to
the second floor; but Billy's knowledge of the language had not progressed
sufficiently to permit him to translate it, although he had his suspicions =
as
to its meaning. He would learn if his guess was correct.
Returning to the =
bar
he ordered another bottle of beer, and as he drank it he practiced upon the
bartender some of his recently acquired Spanish and learned, though not wit=
hout
considerable difficulty, that he might find lodgings for the night upon the=
second
floor of the bank building.
Much elated, Billy
left the saloon and walked along the street until he came to the one general
store of the town. After another heart rending scrimmage with the language =
of
Ferdinand and Isabella he succeeded in making several purchases--two heavy
sacks, a brace, two bits, and a keyhole saw. Placing the tools in one of the
sacks he wrapped the whole in the second sack and made his way back to the =
bank
building.
Upon the second f=
loor
he found the proprietor of the rooming-house and engaged a room in the rear=
of
the building, overlooking the yard. The layout was eminently satisfactory to
Captain Byrne and it was with a feeling of great self-satisfaction that he
descended and sought a restaurant.
He had been sent =
by
Pesita merely to look over the ground and the defenses of the town, that the
outlaw might later ride in with his entire force and loot the bank; but Bil=
ly
Byrne, out of his past experience in such matters, had evolved a much simpl=
er
plan for separating the enemy from his wealth.
Having eaten, Bil=
ly
returned to his room. It was now dark and the bank closed and unlighted sho=
wed
that all had left it. Only the sentry paced up and down the sidewalk in fro=
nt.
Going at once to =
his
room Billy withdrew his tools from their hiding place beneath the mattress,=
and
a moment later was busily engaged in boring holes through the floor at the =
foot
of his bed. For an hour he worked, cautiously and quietly, until he had a r=
ough
circle of holes enclosing a space about two feet in diameter. Then he laid
aside the brace and bit, and took the keyhole saw, with which he patiently
sawed through the wood between contiguous holes, until, the circle complete=
d, he
lifted out a section of the floor leaving an aperture large enough to permit
him to squeeze his body through when the time arrived for him to pass into =
the
bank beneath.
While Billy had
worked three men had ridden into Cuivaca. They were Tony, Benito, and the n=
ew
bookkeeper of El Orobo Rancho. The Mexicans, after eating, repaired at once=
to
the joys of the cantina; while Bridge sought a room in the building to which
his escort directed him.
As chance would h=
ave
it, it was the same building in which Billy labored and the room lay upon t=
he
rear side of it overlooking the same yard. But Bridge did not lie awake to
inspect his surroundings. For years he had not ridden as many miles as he h=
ad
during the past two days, so that long unused muscles cried out for rest and
relaxation. As a result, Bridge was asleep almost as soon as his head touch=
ed
the pillow, and so profound was his slumber that it seemed that nothing sho=
rt
of a convulsion of nature would arouse him.
As Bridge lay down
upon his bed Billy Byrne left his room and descended to the street. The sen=
try
before the bank paid no attention to him, and Billy passed along, unhindere=
d,
to the corral where he had left his horse. Here, as he was saddling the ani=
mal,
he was accosted, much to his disgust, by the proprietor.
In broken English=
the
man expressed surprise that Billy rode out so late at night, and the Americ=
an
thought that he detected something more than curiosity in the other's manner
and tone--suspicion of the strange gringo.
It would never do=
to
leave the fellow in that state of mind, and so Billy leaned close to the
other's ear, and with a broad grin and a wink whispered: "Senorita,&qu=
ot;
and jerked his thumb toward the south. "I'll be back by mornin',"=
he
added.
The Mexican's man=
ner
altered at once. He laughed and nodded, knowingly, and poked Billy in the r=
ibs.
Then he watched him mount and ride out of the corral toward the south--which
was also in the direction of the bank, to the rear of which Billy rode with=
out
effort to conceal his movements.
There he dismount=
ed
and left his horse standing with the bridle reins dragging upon the ground,
while he removed the lariat from the pommel of the saddle, and, stuffing it
inside his shirt, walked back to the street on which the building stood, an=
d so
made his way past the sentry and to his room.
Here he pushed ba=
ck
the bed which he had drawn over the hole in the floor, dropped his two sacks
through into the bank, and tying the brace to one end of the lariat lowered=
it
through after the sacks.
Looping the middl=
e of
the lariat over a bedpost Billy grasped both strands firmly and lowered him=
self
through the aperture into the room beneath. He made no more noise in his
descent than he had made upon other similar occasions in his past life when=
he
had practiced the gentle art of porch-climbing along Ashland Avenue and
Washington Boulevard.
Having gained the
floor he pulled upon one end of the lariat until he had drawn it free of the
bedpost above, when it fell into his waiting hands. Coiling it carefully Bi=
lly
placed it around his neck and under one arm. Billy, acting as a professiona=
l,
was a careful and methodical man. He always saw that every little detail was
properly attended to before he went on to the next phase of his endeavors.
Because of this ingrained caution Billy had long since secured the tops of =
the
two sacks together, leaving only a sufficient opening to permit of their ea=
ch being
filled without delay or inconvenience.
Now he turned his
attention to the rear door. The bar and bolts were easily shot from their s=
eats
from the inside, and Billy saw to it that this was attended to before he we=
nt
further with his labors. It were well to have one's retreat assured at the
earliest possible moment. A single bolt Billy left in place that he might n=
ot
be surprised by an intruder; but first he had tested it and discovered that=
it
could be drawn with ease.
These matters
satisfactorily attended to Billy assaulted the combination knob of the safe
with the metal bit which he had inserted in the brace before lowering it in=
to
the bank.
The work was hard=
and
progressed slowly. It was necessary to withdraw the bit often and lubricate=
it
with a piece of soap which Billy had brought along in his pocket for the
purpose; but eventually a hole was bored through into the tumblers of the
combination lock.
From without Billy
could hear the footsteps of the sentry pacing back and forth within fifty f=
eet
of him, all unconscious that the bank he was guarding was being looted almo=
st
beneath his eyes. Once a corporal came with another soldier and relieved the
sentry. After that Billy heard the footfalls no longer, for the new sentry =
was
barefoot.
The boring finish=
ed,
Billy drew a bit of wire from an inside pocket and inserted it in the hole.
Then, working the wire with accustomed fingers, he turned the combination k=
nob
this way and that, feeling with the bit of wire until the tumblers should a=
ll
be in line.
This, too, was sl=
ow
work; but it was infinitely less liable to attract attention than any other
method of safe cracking with which Billy was familiar.
It was long past
midnight when Captain Byrne was rewarded with success--the tumblers clicked
into position, the handle of the safe door turned and the bolts slipped bac=
k.
To swing open the
door and transfer the contents of the safe to the two sacks was the work of=
but
a few minutes. As Billy rose and threw the heavy burden across a shoulder he
heard a challenge from without, and then a parley. Immediately after the so=
und
of footsteps ascending the stairway to the rooming-house came plainly to his
ears, and then he had slipped the last bolt upon the rear door and was out =
in
the yard beyond.
Now Bridge, sleep=
ing
the sleep of utter exhaustion that the boom of a cannon might not have
disturbed, did that inexplicable thing which every one of us has done a hun=
dred
times in our lives. He awakened, with a start, out of a sound sleep, though=
no
disturbing noise had reached his ears.
Something impelled
him to sit up in bed, and as he did so he could see through the window besi=
de
him into the yard at the rear of the building. There in the moonlight he sa=
w a
man throwing a sack across the horn of a saddle. He saw the man mount, and =
he
saw him wheel his horse around about and ride away toward the north. There
seemed to Bridge nothing unusual about the man's act, nor had there been any
indication either of stealth or haste to arouse the American's suspicions.
Bridge lay back again upon his pillows and sought to woo the slumber which =
the
sudden awakening seemed to have banished for the remainder of the night.
And up the stairw=
ay
to the second floor staggered Tony and Benito. Their money was gone; but th=
ey
had acquired something else which appeared much more difficult to carry and=
not
so easily gotten rid of.
Tony held the key=
to
their room. It was the second room upon the right of the hall. Tony remembe=
red
that very distinctly. He had impressed it upon his mind before leaving the =
room
earlier in the evening, for Tony had feared some such contingency as that w=
hich
had befallen.
Tony fumbled with=
the
handle of a door, and stabbed vainly at an elusive keyhole.
"Wait,"
mumbled Benito. "This is not the room. It was the second door from the
stairway. This is the third."
Tony lurched about
and staggered back. Tony reasoned: "If that was the third door the next
behind me must be the second, and on the right;" but Tony took not int=
o consideration
that he had reversed the direction of his erratic wobbling. He lunged across
the hall--not because he wished to but because the spirits moved him. He ca=
me
in contact with a door. "This, then, must be the second door," he
soliloquized, "and it is upon my right. Ah, Benito, this is the
room!"
Benito was skepti=
cal.
He said as much; but Tony was obdurate. Did he not know a second door when =
he
saw one? Was he, furthermore, not a grown man and therefore entirely capabl=
e of
distinguishing between his left hand and his right? Yes! Tony was all of th=
at,
and more, so Tony inserted the key in the lock--it would have turned any lo=
ck
upon the second floor--and, lo! the door swung inward upon its hinges.
"Ah!
Benito," cried Tony. "Did I not tell you so? See! This is our roo=
m, for
the key opens the door."
The room was dark.
Tony, carried forward by the weight of his head, which had long since grown
unaccountably heavy, rushed his feet rapidly forward that he might keep them
within a few inches of his center of equilibrium.
The distance whic=
h it
took his feet to catch up with his head was equal to the distance between t=
he
doorway and the foot of the bed, and when Tony reached that spot, with Beni=
to
meandering after him, the latter, much to his astonishment, saw in the diff=
used
moonlight which pervaded the room, the miraculous disappearance of his form=
er
enemy and erstwhile friend. Then from the depths below came a wild scream a=
nd a
heavy thud.
The sentry upon t=
he
beat before the bank heard both. For an instant he stood motionless, then he
called aloud for the guard, and turned toward the bank door. But this was
locked and he could but peer in through the windows. Seeing a dark form wit=
hin,
and being a Mexican he raised his rifle and fired through the glass of the
doors.
Tony, who had dro=
pped
through the hole which Billy had used so quietly, heard the zing of a bullet
pass his head, and the impact as it sploshed into the adobe wall behind him.
With a second yell Tony dodged behind the safe and besought Mary to protect
him.
From above Benito
peered through the hole into the blackness below. Down the hall came the
barefoot landlord, awakened by the screams and the shot. Behind him came
Bridge, buckling his revolver belt about his hips as he ran. Not having bee=
n furnished
with pajamas Bridge had not thought it necessary to remove his clothing, an=
d so
he had lost no time in dressing.
When the two, now
joined by Benito, reached the street they found the guard there, battering =
in
the bank doors. Benito, fearing for the life of Tony, which if anyone took
should be taken by him, rushed upon the sergeant of the guard, explaining w=
ith
both lips and hands the remarkable accident which had precipitated Tony into
the bank.
The sergeant
listened, though he did not believe, and when the doors had fallen in, he
commanded Tony to come out with his hands above his head. Then followed an
investigation which disclosed the looting of the safe, and the great hole in
the ceiling through which Tony had tumbled.
The bank president
came while the sergeant and the landlord were in Billy's room investigating.
Bridge had followed them.
"It was the
gringo," cried the excited Boniface. "This is his room. He has cu=
t a
hole in my floor which I shall have to pay to have repaired."
A captain came ne=
xt,
sleepy-eyed and profane. When he heard what had happened and that the wealth
which he had been detailed to guard had been taken while he slept, he tore =
his
hair and promised that the sentry should be shot at dawn.
By the time they =
had
returned to the street all the male population of Cuivaca was there and mos=
t of
the female.
"One-thousand
dollars," cried the bank president, "to the man who stops the thi=
ef
and returns to me what the villain has stolen."
A detachment of
soldiers was in the saddle and passing the bank as the offer was made.
"Which way d=
id
he go?" asked the captain. "Did no one see him leave?"
Bridge was upon t=
he
point of saying that he had seen him and that he had ridden north, when it
occurred to him that a thousand dollars--even a thousand dollars Mex--was a
great deal of money, and that it would carry both himself and Billy to Rio =
and
leave something for pleasure beside.
Then up spoke a t=
all,
thin man with the skin of a coffee bean.
"I saw him,
Senor Capitan," he cried. "He kept his horse in my corral, and at
night he came and took it out saying that he was riding to visit a senorita=
. He
fooled me, the scoundrel; but I will tell you--he rode south. I saw him ride
south with my own eyes."
"Then we sha=
ll
have him before morning," cried the captain, "for there is but one
place to the south where a robber would ride, and he has not had sufficient
start of us that he can reach safety before we overhaul him. Forward!
March!" and the detachment moved down the narrow street. "Trot! M=
arch!"
And as they passed the store: "Gallop! March!"
Bridge almost ran=
the
length of the street to the corral. His pony must be rested by now, and a f=
ew
miles to the north the gringo whose capture meant a thousand dollars to Bri=
dge
was on the road to liberty.
"I hate to do
it," thought Bridge; "because, even if he is a bank robber, he's =
an
American; but I need the money and in all probability the fellow is a scoun=
drel
who should have been hanged long ago."
Over the trail to=
the
north rode Captain Billy Byrne, secure in the belief that no pursuit would
develop until after the opening hour of the bank in the morning, by which t=
ime
he would be halfway on his return journey to Pesita's camp.
"Ol' man
Pesita'll be some surprised when I show him what I got for him," mused
Billy. "Say!" he exclaimed suddenly and aloud, "Why the devil
should I take all this swag back to that yellow-faced yegg? Who pulled this
thing off anyway? Why me, of course, and does anybody think Billy Byrne's b=
oob
enough to split with a guy that didn't have a hand in it at all. Split! Why=
the
nut'll take it all!
"Nix! Me for=
the
border. I couldn't do a thing with all this coin down in Rio, an' Bridgie'l=
l be
along there most any time. We can hit it up some in lil' ol' Rio on this bu=
nch
o' dough. Why, say kid, there must be a million here, from the weight of
it."
A frown suddenly
clouded his face. "Why did I take it?" he asked himself. "Wa=
s I
crackin' a safe, or was I pullin' off something fine fer poor, bleedin' Mex=
ico?
If I was a-doin' that they ain't nothin' criminal in what I done--except to=
the
guy that owned the coin. If I was just plain crackin' a safe on my own hook=
why
then I'm a crook again an' I can't be that--no, not with that face of yours
standin' out there so plain right in front of me, just as though you were t=
here
yourself, askin' me to remember an' be decent. God! Barbara--why wasn't I b=
orn
for the likes of you, and not just a measly, ornery mucker like I am. Oh, h=
ell!
what is that that Bridge sings of Knibbs's:
There ain't no sweet Penelope somewhere
that's longing much for me, But I =
can
smell the blundering sea, and hear the rigging hum; And I can hear the whispering lips that=
fly
before the out-bound ships, And I =
can
hear the breakers on the sand a-calling "Come!"
Billy took off his hat and scratched his=
head.
"Funny,"=
; he
thought, "how a girl and poetry can get a tough nut like me. I wonder =
what
the guys that used to hang out in back of Kelly's 'ud say if they seen what=
was
goin' on in my bean just now. They'd call me Lizzy, eh? Well, they wouldn't
call me Lizzy more'n once. I may be gettin' soft in the head, but I'm all to
the good with my dukes."
Speed is not
conducive to sentimental thoughts and so Billy had unconsciously permitted =
his
pony to drop into a lazy walk. There was no need for haste anyhow. No one k=
new
yet that the bank had been robbed, or at least so Billy argued. He might,
however, have thought differently upon the subject of haste could he have h=
ad a
glimpse of the horseman in his rear--two miles behind him, now, but rapidly
closing up the distance at a keen gallop, while he strained his eyes across=
the
moonlit flat ahead in eager search for his quarry.
So absorbed was B=
illy
Byrne in his reflections that his ears were deaf to the pounding of the hoo=
fs of
the pursuer's horse upon the soft dust of the dry road until Bridge was lit=
tle
more than a hundred yards from him. For the last half-mile Bridge had had t=
he
figure of the fugitive in full view and his mind had been playing rapidly w=
ith
seductive visions of the one-thousand dollars reward--one-thousand dollars =
Mex,
perhaps, but still quite enough to excite pleasant thoughts. At the first
glimpse of the horseman ahead Bridge had reined his mount down to a trot th=
at the
noise of his approach might thereby be lessened. He had drawn his revolver =
from
its holster, and was upon the point of putting spurs to his horse for a sud=
den
dash upon the fugitive when the man ahead, finally attracted by the noise of
the other's approach, turned in his saddle and saw him.
Neither recognized
the other, and at Bridge's command of, "Hands up!" Billy,
lightning-like in his quickness, drew and fired. The bullet raked Bridge's =
hat
from his head but left him unscathed.
Billy had wheeled=
his
pony around until he stood broadside toward Bridge. The latter fired scarce=
a
second after Billy's shot had pinged so perilously close--fired at a perfect
target but fifty yards away.
At the sound of t=
he
report the robber's horse reared and plunged, then, wheeling and tottering =
high
upon its hind feet, fell backward. Billy, realizing that his mount had been
hit, tried to throw himself from the saddle; but until the very moment that=
the
beast toppled over the man was held by his cartridge belt which, as the ani=
mal
first lunged, had caught over the high horn of the Mexican saddle.
The belt slipped =
from
the horn as the horse was falling, and Billy succeeded in throwing himself a
little to one side. One leg, however, was pinned beneath the animal's body =
and
the force of the fall jarred the revolver from Billy's hand to drop just be=
yond
his reach.
His carbine was in
its boot at the horse's side, and the animal was lying upon it. Instantly
Bridge rode to his side and covered him with his revolver.
"Don't
move," he commanded, "or I'll be under the painful necessity of t=
erminating
your earthly endeavors right here and now."
"Well, for t=
he
love o' Mike!" cried the fallen bandit. "You?"
Bridge was off his
horse the instant that the familiar voice sounded in his ears.
"Billy!"=
; he
exclaimed. "Why--Billy--was it you who robbed the bank?"
Even as he spoke
Bridge was busy easing the weight of the dead pony from Billy's leg.
"Anything
broken?" he asked as the bandit struggled to free himself.
"Not so you
could notice it," replied Billy, and a moment later he was on his feet.
"Say, bo," he added, "it's a mighty good thing you dropped l=
ittle
pinto here, for I'd a sure got you my next shot. Gee! it makes me sweat to
think of it. But about this bank robbin' business. You can't exactly say th=
at I
robbed a bank. That money was the enemy's resources, an' I just nicked their
resources. That's war. That ain't robbery. I ain't takin' it for myself--it=
's
for the cause--the cause o' poor, bleedin' Mexico," and Billy grinned a
large grin.
"You took it=
for
Pesita?" asked Bridge.
"Of
course," replied Billy. "I won't get a jitney of it. I wouldn't t=
ake none
of it, Bridge, honest. I'm on the square now."
"I know you =
are,
Billy," replied the other; "but if you're caught you might find it
difficult to convince the authorities of your highmindedness and your
disinterestedness."
"Authorities=
!"
scoffed Billy. "There ain't no authorities in Mexico. One bandit is ju=
st
as good as another, and from Pesita to Carranza they're all bandits at hear=
t.
They ain't a one of 'em that gives two whoops in hell for poor, bleedin'
Mexico--unless they can do the bleedin' themselves. It's dog eat dog here. =
If
they caught me they'd shoot me whether I'd robbed their bank or not. What's
that?" Billy was suddenly alert, straining his eyes back in the direct=
ion
of Cuivaca.
"They're com=
ing,
Billy," said Bridge. "Take my horse--quick! You must get out of h=
ere
in a hurry. The whole post is searching for you. I thought that they went
toward the south, though. Some of them must have circled."
"What'll you=
do
if I take your horse?" asked Billy.
"I can walk
back," said Bridge, "it isn't far to town. I'll tell them that I =
had
come only a short distance when my horse threw me and ran away. They'll bel=
ieve
it for they think I'm a rotten horseman--the two vaqueros who escorted me to
town I mean."
Billy hesitated.
"I hate to do it, Bridge," he said.
"You must,
Billy," urged the other.
"If they fin=
d us
here together it'll merely mean that the two of us will get it, for I'll st=
ick
with you, Billy, and we can't fight off a whole troop of cavalry out here in
the open. If you take my horse we can both get out of it, and later I'll see
you in Rio. Good-bye, Billy, I'm off for town," and Bridge turned and
started back along the road on foot.
Billy watched him=
in
silence for a moment. The truth of Bridge's statement of fact was so appare=
nt
that Billy was forced to accept the plan. A moment later he transferred the
bags of loot to Bridge's pony, swung into the saddle, and took a last backw=
ard
look at the diminishing figure of the man swinging along in the direction of
Cuivaca.
"Say," =
he
muttered to himself; "but you're a right one, bo," and wheeling to
the north he clapped his spurs to his new mount and loped easily off into t=
he
night.
IT was a week lat=
er,
yet Grayson still was growling about the loss of "that there Brazos
pony." Grayson, the boss, and the boss's daughter were sitting upon the
veranda of the ranchhouse when the foreman reverted to the subject.
"I knew I di=
dn't
have no business hirin' a man thet can't ride," he said. "Why thet
there Brazos pony never did stumble, an' if he'd of stumbled he'd a-stood
aroun' a year waitin' to be caught up agin. I jest cain't figger it out no =
ways
how thet there tenderfoot bookkeeper lost him. He must a-shooed him away wi=
th a
stick. An' saddle an' bridle an' all gone too. Doggone it!"
"I'm the one=
who
should be peeved," spoke up the girl with a wry smile. "Brazos wa=
s my
pony. He's the one you picked out for me to ride while I am here; but I am =
sure
poor Mr. Bridge feels as badly about it as anyone, and I know that he could=
n't
help it. We shouldn't be too hard on him. We might just as well attempt to =
hold
him responsible for the looting of the bank and the loss of the pay-roll mo=
ney."
"Well,"
said Grayson, "I give him thet horse 'cause I knew he couldn't ride, a=
n'
thet was the safest horse in the cavvy. I wisht I'd given him Santa Anna
instid--I wouldn't a-minded losin' him. There won't no one ride him anyhow =
he's
thet ornery."
"The thing t=
hat
surprises me most," remarked the boss, "is that Brazos doesn't co=
me
back. He was foaled on this range, and he's never been ridden anywhere else,
has he?"
"He was foal=
ed
right here on this ranch," Grayson corrected him, "and he ain't n=
ever
been more'n a hundred mile from it. If he ain't dead or stolen he'd a-ben b=
ack
afore the bookkeeper was. It's almighty queer."
"What sort of
bookkeeper is Mr. Bridge?" asked the girl.
"Oh, he's all
right I guess," replied Grayson grudgingly. "A feller's got to be
some good at something. He's probably one of these here paper-collar,
cracker-fed college dudes thet don't know nothin' else 'cept writin' in
books."
The girl rose,
smiled, and moved away.
"I like Mr.
Bridge, anyhow," she called back over her shoulder, "for whatever=
he
may not be he is certainly a well-bred gentleman," which speech did not
tend to raise Mr. Bridge in the estimation of the hard-fisted ranch foreman=
.
"Funny them
greasers don't come in from the north range with thet bunch o' steers. They=
ben
gone all day now," he said to the boss, ignoring the girl's parting sa=
lly.
Bridge sat tip-ti=
lted
against the front of the office building reading an ancient magazine which =
he
had found within. His day's work was done and he was but waiting for the go=
ng
that would call him to the evening meal with the other employees of the ran=
ch.
The magazine failed to rouse his interest. He let it drop idly to his knees=
and
with eyes closed reverted to his never-failing source of entertainment.
And then that slim, poetic guy he turne=
d and
looked me in the eye, "....It=
's
overland and overland and overseas to--where?" "Most anywhere that isn't here,&quo=
t; I
says. His face went kind of queer.=
"The place we're in is always here.=
The other place is there."
Bridge stretched luxuriously.
"'There,'" he repeated. "I've been searching for THERE for m=
any
years; but for some reason I can never get away from HERE. About two weeks =
of
any place on earth and that place is just plain HERE to me, and I'm longing
once again for THERE."
His musings were
interrupted by a sweet feminine voice close by. Bridge did not open his eye=
s at
once--he just sat there, listening.
As I was hiking past the woods, the cool=
and
sleepy summer woods, I saw a guy
a-talking to the sunshine in the air, Thinks I, "He's going to have a fit=
--I'll
stick around and watch a bit," But he paid no attention, hardly knowi=
ng I
was there.
Then the girl broke into a merry laugh a=
nd
Bridge opened his eyes and came to his feet.
"I didn't kn=
ow
you cared for that sort of stuff," he said. "Knibbs writes man-ve=
rse.
I shouldn't have imagined that it would appeal to a young lady."
"But it does,
though," she replied; "at least to me. There's a swing to it and a
freedom that 'gets me in the eye.'"
Again she laughed,
and when this girl laughed, harder-headed and much older men than Mr. L. Br=
idge
felt strange emotions move within their breasts.
For a week Barbara
had seen a great deal of the new bookkeeper. Aside from her father he was t=
he
only man of culture and refinement of which the rancho could boast, or, as =
the
rancho would have put it, be ashamed of.
She had often sou=
ght
the veranda of the little office and lured the new bookkeeper from his work,
and on several occasions had had him at the ranchhouse. Not only was he an
interesting talker; but there was an element of mystery about him which
appealed to the girl's sense of romance.
She knew that he =
was
a gentleman born and reared, and she often found herself wondering what tra=
gic
train of circumstances had set him adrift among the flotsam of humanity's
wreckage. Too, the same persistent conviction that she had known him somewh=
ere
in the past that possessed her father clung to her mind; but she could not
place him.
"I overheard
your dissertation on HERE AND THERE," said the girl. "I could not
very well help it--it would have been rude to interrupt a conversation.&quo=
t;
Her eyes sparkled mischievously and her cheeks dimpled.
"You wouldn't
have been interrupting a conversation," objected Bridge, smiling;
"you would have been turning a monologue into a conversation."
"But it was a
conversation," insisted the girl. "The wanderer was conversing wi=
th
the bookkeeper. You are a victim of wanderlust, Mr. L. Bridge--don't deny i=
t.
You hate bookkeeping, or any other such prosaic vocation as requires perman=
ent
residence in one place."
"Come now,&q=
uot;
expostulated the man. "That is hardly fair. Haven't I been here a whole
week?"
They both laughed=
.
"What in the
world can have induced you to remain so long?" cried Barbara. "How
very much like an old timer you must feel--one of the oldest inhabitants.&q=
uot;
"I am a regu=
lar
aborigine," declared Bridge; but his heart would have chosen another
reply. It would have been glad to tell the girl that there was a very real =
and
a very growing inducement to remain at El Orobo Rancho. The man was too
self-controlled, however, to give way to the impulses of his heart.
At first he had j=
ust
liked the girl, and been immensely glad of her companionship because there =
was
so much that was common to them both--a love for good music, good pictures,=
and
good literature--things Bridge hadn't had an opportunity to discuss with
another for a long, long time.
And slowly he had
found delight in just sitting and looking at her. He was experienced enough=
to
realize that this was a dangerous symptom, and so from the moment he had be=
en
forced to acknowledge it to himself he had been very careful to guard his
speech and his manner in the girl's presence.
He found pleasure=
in
dreaming of what might have been as he sat watching the girl's changing
expression as different moods possessed her; but as for permitting a hope,
even, of realization of his dreams--ah, he was far too practical for that,
dreamer though he was.
As the two talked
Grayson passed. His rather stern face clouded as he saw the girl and the new
bookkeeper laughing there together.
"Ain't you g=
ot
nothin' to do?" he asked Bridge.
"Yes,
indeed," replied the latter.
"Then why do=
n't
you do it?" snapped Grayson.
"I am,"
said Bridge.
"Mr. Bridge =
is
entertaining me," interrupted the girl, before Grayson could make any
rejoinder. "It is my fault--I took him from his work. You don't mind, =
do
you, Mr. Grayson?"
Grayson mumbled an
inarticulate reply and went his way.
"Mr. Grayson
does not seem particularly enthusiastic about me," laughed Bridge.
"No,"
replied the girl, candidly; "but I think it's just because you can't
ride."
"Can't
ride!" ejaculated Bridge. "Why, haven't I been riding ever since I
came here?"
"Mr. Grayson
doesn't consider anything in the way of equestrianism riding unless the rid=
den
is perpetually seeking the life of the rider," explained Barbara.
"Just at present he is terribly put out because you lost Brazos. He sa=
ys
Brazos never stumbled in his life, and even if you had fallen from his back=
he
would have stood beside you waiting for you to remount him. You see he was =
the
kindest horse on the ranch--especially picked for me to ride. However in the
world DID you lose him, Mr. Bridge?"
The girl was look=
ing
full at the man as she propounded her query. Bridge was silent. A faint flu=
sh
overspread his face. He had not before known that the horse was hers. He
couldn't very well tell her the truth, and he wouldn't lie to her, so he ma=
de
no reply.
Barbara saw the f=
lush
and noted the man's silence. For the first time her suspicions were aroused,
yet she would not believe that this gentle, amiable drifter could be guilty=
of
any crime greater than negligence or carelessness. But why his evident
embarrassment now? The girl was mystified. For a moment or two they sat in
silence, then Barbara rose.
"I must run
along back now," she explained. "Papa will be wondering what has
become of me."
"Yes," =
said
Bridge, and let her go. He would have been glad to tell her the truth; but =
he
couldn't do that without betraying Billy. He had heard enough to know that
Francisco Villa had been so angered over the bold looting of the bank in the
face of a company of his own soldiers that he would stop at nothing to secu=
re
the person of the thief once his identity was known. Bridge was perfectly
satisfied with the ethics of his own act on the night of the bank robbery. =
He
knew that the girl would have applauded him, and that Grayson himself would
have done what Bridge did had a like emergency confronted the ranch foreman;
but to have admitted complicity in the escape of the fugitive would have be=
en to
have exposed himself to the wrath of Villa, and at the same time revealed t=
he
identity of the thief. "Nor," thought Bridge, "would it get =
Brazos
back for Barbara."
It was after dark
when the vaqueros Grayson had sent to the north range returned to the ranch.
They came empty-handed and slowly for one of them supported a wounded comra=
de
on the saddle before him. They rode directly to the office where Grayson and
Bridge were going over some of the business of the day, and when the former=
saw
them his brow clouded for he knew before he heard their story what had
happened.
"Who done
it?" he asked, as the men filed into the office, half carrying the wou=
nded
man.
"Some of
Pesita's followers," replied Benito.
"Did they git
the steers, too?" inquired Grayson.
"Part of
them--we drove off most and scattered them. We saw the Brazos pony, too,&qu=
ot;
and Benito looked from beneath heavy lashes in the direction of the bookkee=
per.
"Where?"
asked Grayson.
"One of Pesi=
ta's
officers rode him--an Americano. Tony and I saw this same man in Cuivaca the
night the bank was robbed, and today he was riding the Brazos pony." A=
gain
the dark eyes turned toward Bridge.
Grayson was quick=
to
catch the significance of the Mexican's meaning. The more so as it was dire=
ctly
in line with suspicions which he himself had been nursing since the robbery=
.
During the colloq=
uy
the boss entered the office. He had heard the returning vaqueros ride into =
the
ranch and noting that they brought no steers with them had come to the offi=
ce
to hear their story. Barbara, spurred by curiosity, accompanied her father.=
"You heard w=
hat
Benito says?" asked Grayson, turning toward his employer.
The latter nodded.
All eyes were upon Bridge.
"Well,"
snapped Grayson, "what you gotta say fer yourself? I ben suspectin' you
right along. I knew derned well that that there Brazos pony never run off by
hisself. You an' that other crook from the States framed this whole thing up
pretty slick, didn'tcha? Well, we'll--"
"Wait a mome=
nt,
wait a moment, Grayson," interrupted the boss. "Give Mr. Bridge a
chance to explain. You're making a rather serious charge against him without
any particularly strong proof to back your accusation."
"Oh, that's =
all
right," exclaimed Bridge, with a smile. "I have known that Mr.
Grayson suspected me of implication in the robbery; but who can blame him--a
man who can't ride might be guilty of almost anything."
Grayson sniffed.
Barbara took a step nearer Bridge. She had been ready to doubt him herself =
only
an hour or so ago; but that was before he had been accused. Now that she fo=
und
others arrayed against him her impulse was to come to his defense.
"You didn't =
do
it, did you, Mr. Bridge?" Her tone was almost pleading.
"If you mean
robbing the bank," he replied; "I did not, Miss Barbara. I knew no
more about it until after it was over than Benito or Tony--in fact they were
the ones who discovered it while I was still asleep in my room above the
bank."
"Well, how d=
id
the robber git thet there Brazos pony then?" demanded Grayson savagely.
"Thet's what I want to know."
"You'll have=
to
ask him, Mr. Grayson," replied Bridge.
"Villa'll ask
him, when he gits holt of him," snapped Grayson; "but I reckon he=
'll
git all the information out of you thet he wants first. He'll be in Cuivaca
tomorrer, an' so will you."
"You mean th=
at
you are going to turn me over to General Villa?" asked Bridge. "Y=
ou
are going to turn an American over to that butcher knowing that he'll be sh=
ot
inside of twenty-four hours?"
"Shootin's t=
oo
damned good fer a horse thief," replied Grayson.
Barbara turned
impulsively toward her father. "You won't let Mr. Grayson do that?&quo=
t;
she asked.
"Mr. Grayson
knows best how to handle such an affair as this, Barbara," replied her
father. "He is my superintendent, and I have made it a point never to
interfere with him."
"You will let
Mr. Bridge be shot without making an effort to save him?" she demanded=
.
"We do not k=
now
that he will be shot," replied the ranch owner. "If he is innocent
there is no reason why he should be punished. If he is guilty of implicatio=
n in
the Cuivaca bank robbery he deserves, according to the rules of war, to die,
for General Villa, I am told, considers that a treasonable act. Some of the
funds upon which his government depends for munitions of war were there--th=
ey
were stolen and turned over to the enemies of Mexico."
"And if we
interfere we'll turn Villa against us," interposed Grayson. "He a=
in't
any too keen for Americans as it is. Why, if this fellow was my brother I'd=
hev
to turn him over to the authorities."
"Well, I tha=
nk
God," exclaimed Bridge fervently, "that in addition to being shot=
by
Villa I don't have to endure the added disgrace of being related to you, and
I'm not so sure that I shall be hanged by Villa," and with that he wip=
ed
the oil lamp from the table against which he had been leaning, and leaped
across the room for the doorway.
Barbara and her
father had been standing nearest the exit, and as the girl realized the bold
break for liberty the man was making, she pushed her father to one side and
threw open the door.
Bridge was throug=
h it
in an instant, with a parting, "God bless you, little girl!" as he
passed her. Then the door was closed with a bang. Barbara turned the key, w=
ithdrew
it from the lock and threw it across the darkened room.
Grayson and the
unwounded Mexicans leaped after the fugitive only to find their way barred =
by
the locked door. Outside Bridge ran to the horses standing patiently with
lowered heads awaiting the return of their masters. In an instant he was
astride one of them, and lashing the others ahead of him with a quirt he
spurred away into the night.
By the time Grays=
on
and the Mexicans had wormed their way through one of the small windows of t=
he
office the new bookkeeper was beyond sight and earshot.
As the ranch fore=
man
was saddling up with several of his men in the corral to give chase to the
fugitive the boss strolled in and touched him on the arm.
"Mr.
Grayson," he said, "I have made it a point never to interfere wit=
h you;
but I am going to ask you now not to pursue Mr. Bridge. I shall be glad if =
he
makes good his escape. Barbara was right--he is a fellow-American. We cannot
turn him over to Villa, or any other Mexican to be murdered."
Grumblingly Grays=
on
unsaddled. "Ef you'd seen what I've seen around here," he said,
"I guess you wouldn't be so keen to save this feller's hide."
"What do you
mean?" asked the boss.
"I mean that
he's ben tryin' to make love to your daughter."
The older man lau=
ghed.
"Don't be a fool, Grayson," he said, and walked away.
An hour later Bar=
bara
was strolling up and down before the ranchhouse in the cool and refreshing =
air
of the Chihuahua night. Her mind was occupied with disquieting reflections =
of
the past few hours. Her pride was immeasurably hurt by the part impulse had
forced her to take in the affair at the office. Not that she regretted that=
she
had connived in the escape of Bridge; but it was humiliating that a girl of=
her
position should have been compelled to play so melodramatic a part before
Grayson and his Mexican vaqueros.
Then, too, was she
disappointed in Bridge. She had looked upon him as a gentleman whom misfort=
une
and wanderlust had reduced to the lowest stratum of society. Now she feared
that he belonged to that substratum which lies below the lowest which socie=
ty
recognizes as a part of itself, and which is composed solely of the criminal
class.
It was hard for
Barbara to realize that she had associated with a thief--just for a moment =
it
was hard, until recollection forced upon her the unwelcome fact of the stat=
us
of another whom she had known--to whom she had given her love. The girl did=
not
wince at the thought--instead she squared her shoulders and raised her chin=
.
"I am proud =
of
him, whatever he may have been," she murmured; but she was not thinkin=
g of
the new bookkeeper. When she did think again of Bridge it was to be glad th=
at
he had escaped--"for he is an American, like myself."
"Well!"
exclaimed a voice behind her. "You played us a pretty trick, Miss
Barbara."
The girl turned to
see Grayson approaching. To her surprise he seemed to hold no resentment
whatsoever. She greeted him courteously.
"I couldn't =
let
you turn an American over to General Villa," she said, "no matter
what he had done."
"I liked your
spirit," said the man. "You're the kind o' girl I ben lookin' fer=
all
my life--one with nerve an' grit, an' you got 'em both. You liked thet
bookkeepin' critter, an' he wasn't half a man. I like you an' I am a man, e=
f I
do say so myself."
The girl drew bac=
k in
astonishment.
"Mr.
Grayson!" she exclaimed. "You are forgetting yourself."
"No I
ain't," he cried hoarsely. "I love you an' I'm goin' to have you.=
You'd
love me too ef you knew me better."
He took a step
forward and grasped her arm, trying to draw her to him. The girl pushed him
away with one hand, and with the other struck him across the face.
Grayson dropped h=
er
arm, and as he did so she drew herself to her full height and looked him
straight in the eyes.
"You may go
now," she said, her voice like ice. "I shall never speak of this =
to
anyone--provided you never attempt to repeat it."
The man made no
reply. The blow in the face had cooled his ardor temporarily, but had it not
also served another purpose?--to crystallize it into a firm and inexorable
resolve.
When he had depar=
ted
Barbara turned and entered the house.
IT WAS nearly ten
o'clock the following morning when Barbara, sitting upon the veranda of the
ranchhouse, saw her father approaching from the direction of the office. His
face wore a troubled expression which the girl could not but note.
"What's the
matter, Papa?" she asked, as he sank into a chair at her side.
"Your
self-sacrifice of last evening was all to no avail," he replied. "=
;Bridge
has been captured by Villistas."
"What?"
cried the girl. "You can't mean it--how did you learn?"
"Grayson just
had a phone message from Cuivaca," he explained. "They only repai=
red
the line yesterday since Pesita's men cut it last month. This was our first
message. And do you know, Barbara, I can't help feeling sorry. I had hoped =
that
he would get away."
"So had I,&q=
uot;
said the girl.
Her father was ey=
eing
her closely to note the effect of his announcement upon her; but he could s=
ee
no greater concern reflected than that which he himself felt for a fellow-m=
an
and an American who was doomed to death at the hands of an alien race, far =
from
his own land and his own people.
"Can nothing=
be
done?" she asked.
"Absolutely,=
"
he replied with finality. "I have talked it over with Grayson and he
assures me that an attempt at intervention upon our part might tend to
antagonize Villa, in which case we are all as good as lost. He is none too =
fond
of us as it is, and Grayson believes, and not without reason, that he would
welcome the slightest pretext for withdrawing the protection of his favor.
Instantly he did that we should become the prey of every marauding band that
infests the mountains. Not only would Pesita swoop down upon us, but those
companies of freebooters which acknowledge nominal loyalty to Villa would be
about our ears in no time. No, dear, we may do nothing. The young man has m=
ade
his bed, and now I am afraid that he will have to lie in it alone."
For awhile the gi=
rl
sat in silence, and presently her father arose and entered the house. Short=
ly
after she followed him, reappearing soon in riding togs and walking rapidly=
to
the corrals. Here she found an American cowboy busily engaged in whittling a
stick as he sat upon an upturned cracker box and shot accurate streams of
tobacco juice at a couple of industrious tumble bugs that had had the great
impudence to roll their little ball of provender within the whittler's rang=
e.
"O Eddie!&qu=
ot;
she cried.
The man looked up,
and was at once electrified into action. He sprang to his feet and whipped =
off
his sombrero. A broad smile illumined his freckled face.
"Yes,
miss," he answered. "What can I do for you?"
"Saddle a po=
ny
for me, Eddie," she explained. "I want to take a little ride.&quo=
t;
"Sure!"=
he
assured her cheerily. "Have it ready in a jiffy," and away he wen=
t,
uncoiling his riata, toward the little group of saddle ponies which stood in
the corral against necessity for instant use.
In a couple of
minutes he came back leading one, which he tied to the corral bars.
"But I can't
ride that horse," exclaimed the girl. "He bucks."
"Sure,"
said Eddie. "I'm a-goin' to ride him."
"Oh, are you
going somewhere?" she asked.
"I'm goin' w=
ith
you, miss," announced Eddie, sheepishly.
"But I didn't
ask you, Eddie, and I don't want you--today," she urged.
"Sorry,
miss," he threw back over his shoulder as he walked back to rope a sec=
ond
pony; "but them's orders. You're not to be allowed to ride no place
without a escort. 'Twouldn't be safe neither, miss," he almost pleaded,
"an' I won't hinder you none. I'll ride behind far enough to be there =
ef
I'm needed."
Directly he came =
back
with another pony, a sad-eyed, gentle-appearing little beast, and commenced
saddling and bridling the two.
"Will you
promise," she asked, after watching him in silence for a time, "t=
hat
you will tell no one where I go or whom I see?"
"Cross my he=
art
hope to die," he assured her.
"All right,
Eddie, then I'll let you come with me, and you can ride beside me, instead =
of
behind."
Across the flat t=
hey rode,
following the windings of the river road, one mile, two, five, ten. Eddie h=
ad
long since been wondering what the purpose of so steady a pace could be. Th=
is
was no pleasure ride which took the boss's daughter--"heifer," Ed=
die
would have called her--ten miles up river at a hard trot. Eddie was worried,
too. They had passed the danger line, and were well within the stamping gro=
und
of Pesita and his retainers. Here each little adobe dwelling, and they were
scattered at intervals of a mile or more along the river, contained a rabid=
partisan
of Pesita, or it contained no one--Pesita had seen to this latter condition
personally.
At last the young
lady drew rein before a squalid and dilapidated hut. Eddie gasped. It was
Jose's, and Jose was a notorious scoundrel whom old age alone kept from the
active pursuit of the only calling he ever had known--brigandage. Why should
the boss's daughter come to Jose? Jose was hand in glove with every cutthro=
at
in Chihuahua, or at least within a radius of two hundred miles of his abode=
.
Barbara swung her=
self
from the saddle, and handed her bridle reins to Eddie.
"Hold him,
please," she said. "I'll be gone but a moment."
"You're not
goin' in there to see old Jose alone?" gasped Eddie.
"Why not?&qu=
ot;
she asked. "If you're afraid you can leave my horse and ride along
home."
Eddie colored to =
the
roots of his sandy hair, and kept silent. The girl approached the doorway of
the mean hovel and peered within. At one end sat a bent old man, smoking. He
looked up as Barbara's figure darkened the doorway.
"Jose!"
said the girl.
The old man rose =
to
his feet and came toward her.
"Eh? Senorit=
a,
eh?" he cackled.
"You are
Jose?" she asked.
"Si,
senorita," replied the old Indian. "What can poor old Jose do to =
serve
the beautiful senorita?"
"You can car=
ry a
message to one of Pesita's officers," replied the girl. "I have h=
eard
much about you since I came to Mexico. I know that there is not another man=
in
this part of Chihuahua who may so easily reach Pesita as you." She rai=
sed
her hand for silence as the Indian would have protested. Then she reached i=
nto
the pocket of her riding breeches and withdrew a handful of silver which she
permitted to trickle, tinklingly, from one palm to the other. "I wish =
you
to go to the camp of Pesita," she continued, "and carry word to t=
he
man who robbed the bank at Cuivaca--he is an American--that his friend, Sen=
or
Bridge has been captured by Villa and is being held for execution in Cuivac=
a.
You must go at once--you must get word to Senor Bridge's friend so that help
may reach Senor Bridge before dawn. Do you understand?"
The Indian nodded
assent.
"Here,"
said the girl, "is a payment on account. When I know that you delivered
the message in time you shall have as much more. Will you do it?"
"I will
try," said the Indian, and stretched forth a clawlike hand for the mon=
ey.
"Good!"
exclaimed Barbara. "Now start at once," and she dropped the silver
coins into the old man's palm.
It was dusk when Captain Billy Byrne was
summoned to the tent of Pesita. There he found a weazened, old Indian squat=
ting
at the side of the outlaw.
"Jose,"
said Pesita, "has word for you."
Billy Byrne turned
questioningly toward the Indian.
"I have been
sent, Senor Capitan," explained Jose, "by the beautiful senorita =
of
El Orobo Rancho to tell you that your friend, Senor Bridge, has been captur=
ed
by General Villa, and is being held at Cuivaca, where he will doubtless be
shot--if help does not reach him before tomorrow morning."
Pesita was looking
questioningly at Byrne. Since the gringo had returned from Cuivaca with the
loot of the bank and turned the last penny of it over to him the outlaw had
looked upon his new captain as something just short of superhuman. To have
robbed the bank thus easily while Villa's soldiers paced back and forth bef=
ore
the doorway seemed little short of an indication of miraculous powers, whil=
e to
have turned the loot over intact to his chief, not asking for so much as a =
peso
of it, was absolutely incredible.
Pesita could not
understand this man; but he admired him greatly and feared him, too. Such a=
man
was worth a hundred of the ordinary run of humanity that enlisted beneath
Pesita's banners. Byrne had but to ask a favor to have it granted, and now,
when he called upon Pesita to furnish him with a suitable force for the res=
cue
of Bridge the brigand enthusiastically acceded to his demands.
"I will
come," he exclaimed, "and all my men shall ride with me. We will =
take
Cuivaca by storm. We may even capture Villa himself."
"Wait a minu=
te,
bo," interrupted Billy Byrne. "Don't get excited. I'm lookin' to =
get
my pal outen' Cuivaca. After that I don't care who you capture; but I'm goi=
n'
to get Bridgie out first. I ken do it with twenty-five men--if it ain't too
late. Then, if you want to, you can shoot up the town. Lemme have the
twenty-five, an' you hang around the edges with the rest of 'em 'til I'm do=
ne.
Whaddaya say?"
Pesita was willin=
g to
agree to anything, and so it came that half an hour later Billy Byrne was
leading a choice selection of some two dozen cutthroats down through the hi=
lls
toward Cuivaca. While a couple of miles in the rear followed Pesita with the
balance of his band.
Billy rode until =
the
few remaining lights of Cuivaca shone but a short distance ahead and they c=
ould
hear plainly the strains of a grating graphophone from beyond the open wind=
ows
of a dance hall, and the voices of the sentries as they called the hour.
"Stay
here," said Billy to a sergeant at his side, "until you hear a ho=
ot
owl cry three times from the direction of the barracks and guardhouse, then
charge the opposite end of the town, firing off your carbines like hell an'
yellin' yer heads off. Make all the racket you can, an' keep it up 'til you=
get
'em comin' in your direction, see? Then turn an' drop back slowly, eggin' '=
em
on, but holdin' 'em to it as long as you can. Do you get me, bo?"
From the mixture =
of
Spanish and English and Granavenooish the sergeant gleaned enough of the in=
tent
of his commander to permit him to salute and admit that he understood what =
was
required of him.
Having given his
instructions Billy Byrne rode off to the west, circled Cuivaca and came clo=
se
up upon the southern edge of the little village. Here he dismounted and left
his horse hidden behind an outbuilding, while he crept cautiously forward to
reconnoiter.
He knew that the
force within the village had no reason to fear attack. Villa knew where the
main bodies of his enemies lay, and that no force could approach Cuivaca
without word of its coming reaching the garrison many hours in advance of t=
he foe.
That Pesita, or another of the several bandit chiefs in the neighborhood wo=
uld
dare descend upon a garrisoned town never for a moment entered the calculat=
ions
of the rebel leader.
For these reasons
Billy argued that Cuivaca would be poorly guarded. On the night he had spent
there he had seen sentries before the bank, the guardhouse, and the barrack=
s in
addition to one who paced to and fro in front of the house in which the
commander of the garrison maintained his headquarters. Aside from these the
town was unguarded.
Nor were conditio=
ns
different tonight. Billy came within a hundred yards of the guardhouse befo=
re
he discovered a sentinel. The fellow lolled upon his gun in front of the
building--an adobe structure in the rear of the barracks. The other three s=
ides
of the guardhouse appeared to be unwatched.
Billy threw himse=
lf
upon his stomach and crawled slowly forward stopping often. The sentry seem=
ed
asleep. He did not move. Billy reached the shadow at the side of the struct=
ure
and some fifty feet from the soldier without detection. Then he rose to his
feet directly beneath a barred window.
Within Bridge pac=
ed
back and forth the length of the little building. He could not sleep. Tomor=
row
he was to be shot! Bridge did not wish to die. That very morning General Vi=
lla
in person had examined him. The general had been exceedingly wroth--the sti=
ng
of the theft of his funds still irritated him; but he had given Bridge no
inkling as to his fate. It had remained for a fellow-prisoner to do that. T=
his
man, a deserter, was to be shot, so he said, with Bridge, a fact which gave=
him
an additional twenty-four hours of life, since, he asserted, General Villa
wished to be elsewhere than in Cuivaca when an American was executed. Thus =
he could
disclaim responsibility for the act.
The general was to
depart in the morning. Shortly after, Bridge and the deserter would be led =
out
and blindfolded before a stone wall--if there was such a thing, or a brick
wall, or an adobe wall. It made little difference to the deserter, or to Br=
idge
either. The wall was but a trivial factor. It might go far to add romance to
whomever should read of the affair later; but in so far as Bridge and the
deserter were concerned it meant nothing. A billboard, thought Bridge, bear=
ing the
slogan: "Eventually! Why not now?" would have been equally as eff=
icacious
and far more appropriate.
The room in which=
he
was confined was stuffy with the odor of accumulated filth. Two small barred
windows alone gave means of ventilation. He and the deserter were the only
prisoners. The latter slept as soundly as though the morrow held nothing mo=
re
momentous in his destiny than any of the days that had preceded it. Bridge =
was
moved to kick the fellow into consciousness of his impending fate. Instead =
he walked
to the south window to fill his lungs with the free air beyond his prison p=
en,
and gaze sorrowfully at the star-lit sky which he should never again behold=
.
In a low tone Bri=
dge
crooned a snatch of the poem that he and Billy liked best:
And you, my sweet Penelope, out there
somewhere you wait for me, With b=
uds of
roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.
Bridge's mental
vision was concentrated upon the veranda of a white-walled ranchhouse to the
east. He shook his head angrily.
"It's just as
well," he thought. "She's not for me."
Something moved u=
pon
the ground beyond the window. Bridge became suddenly intent upon the thing.=
He
saw it rise and resolve itself into the figure of a man, and then, in a low
whisper, came a familiar voice:
"There ain't no roses in my hair, b=
ut
there's a barker in my shirt, an' another at me side. Here's one of 'em. Th=
ey
got kisses beat a city block. How's the door o' this thing fastened?" =
The
speaker was quite close to the window now, his face but a few inches from
Bridge's.
"Billy!"
ejaculated the condemned man.
"Surest thing
you know; but about the door?"
"Just a heavy
bar on the outside," replied Bridge.
"Easy,"
commented Billy, relieved. "Get ready to beat it when I open the door.=
I
got a pony south o' town that'll have to carry double for a little way
tonight."
"God bless y=
ou,
Billy!" whispered Bridge, fervently.
"Lay low a f=
ew
minutes," said Billy, and moved away toward the rear of the guardhouse=
.
A few minutes lat=
er
there broke upon the night air the dismal hoot of an owl. At intervals of a=
few
seconds it was repeated twice. The sentry before the guardhouse shifted his
position and looked about, then he settled back, transferring his weight to=
the
other foot, and resumed his bovine meditations.
The man at the re=
ar of
the guardhouse moved silently along the side of the structure until he stood
within a few feet of the unsuspecting sentinel, hidden from him by the corn=
er
of the building. A heavy revolver dangled from his right hand. He held it
loosely by the barrel, and waited.
For five minutes =
the
silence of the night was unbroken, then from the east came a single shot,
followed immediately by a scattering fusillade and a chorus of hoarse cries=
.
Billy Byrne smile=
d.
The sentry resumed indications of quickness. From the barracks beyond the
guardhouse came sharp commands and the sounds of men running. From the oppo=
site
end of the town the noise of battle welled up to ominous proportions.
Billy heard the
soldiers stream from their quarters and a moment later saw them trot up the
street at the double. Everyone was moving toward the opposite end of the to=
wn
except the lone sentinel before the guardhouse. The moment seemed propitious
for his attempt.
Billy peered arou=
nd
the corner of the guardhouse. Conditions were just as he had pictured they
would be. The sentry stood gazing in the direction of the firing, his back
toward the guardhouse door and Billy.
With a bound the American cleared the space between himself and the unsuspecting and unfortu= nate soldier. The butt of the heavy revolver fell, almost noiselessly, upon the = back of the sentry's head, and the man sank to the ground without even a moan. <= o:p>
Turning to the do=
or
Billy knocked the bar from its place, the door swung in and Bridge slipped
through to liberty.
"Quick!"=
; said
Billy. "Follow me," and turned at a rapid run toward the south ed=
ge
of the town. He made no effort now to conceal his movements. Speed was the =
only
essential, and the two covered the ground swiftly and openly without any
attempt to take advantage of cover.
They reached Bill=
y's
horse unnoticed, and a moment later were trotting toward the west to circle=
the
town and regain the trail to the north and safety.
To the east they
heard the diminishing rifle fire of the combatants as Pesita's men fell ste=
adily
back before the defenders, and drew them away from Cuivaca in accordance wi=
th
Billy's plan.
"Like takin'
candy from a baby," said Billy, when the flickering lights of Cuivaca
shone to the south of them, and the road ahead lay clear to the rendezvous =
of the
brigands.
"Yes,"
agreed Bridge; "but what I'd like to know, Billy, is how you found out=
I
was there."
"Penelope,&q=
uot;
said Byrne, laughing.
"Penelope!&q= uot; queried Bridge. "I'm not at all sure that I follow you, Billy." <= o:p>
"Well, seein=
' as
you're sittin' on behind you can't be leadin' me," returned Billy;
"but cuttin' the kid it was a skirt tipped it off to me where you was-=
-the
beautiful senorita of El Orobo Rancho, I think Jose called her. Now are you
hep?"
Bridge gave an
exclamation of astonishment. "God bless her!" he said. "She =
did
that for me?"
"She sure
did," Billy assured him, "an' I'll bet an iron case she's a-waiti=
n'
for you there with buds o' roses in her hair an' kisses on her mouth, you o=
ld
son-of-a-gun, you." Billy laughed happily. He was happy anyway at havi=
ng
rescued Bridge, and the knowledge that his friend was in love and that the =
girl
reciprocated his affection--all of which Billy assumed as the only explanat=
ion
of her interest in Bridge--only added to his joy. "She ain't a greaser=
is
she?" he asked presently.
"I should say
not," replied Bridge. "She's a perfect queen from New York City; =
but,
Billy, she's not for me. What she did was prompted by a generous heart. She
couldn't care for me, Billy. Her father is a wealthy man--he could have the
pick of the land--of many lands--if she cared to marry. You don't think for=
a
minute she'd want a hobo, do you?"
"You can't m=
ost
always tell," replied Billy, a trifle sadly. "I knew such a queen
once who would have chosen a mucker, if he'd a-let her. You're stuck on her,
ol' man?"
"I'm afraid I
am, Billy," Bridge admitted; "but what's the use? Let's forget it.
Oh, say, is this the horse I let you take the night you robbed the bank?&qu=
ot;
"Yes," =
said
Billy; "same little pony, an' a mighty well-behaved one, too. Why?&quo=
t;
"It's
hers," said Bridge.
"An' she wan=
ts
it back?"
"She didn't =
say
so; but I'd like to get it to her some way," said Bridge.
"You ride it
back when you go," suggested Billy.
"But I can't=
go
back," said Bridge; "it was Grayson, the foreman, who made it so =
hot
for me I had to leave. He tried to arrest me and send me to Villa."
"What for?&q=
uot;
asked Billy.
"He didn't l=
ike
me, and wanted to get rid of me." Bridge wouldn't say that his relatio=
ns
with Billy had brought him into trouble.
"Oh, well, I=
'll
take it back myself then, and at the same time I'll tell Penelope what a
regular fellow you are, and punch in the foreman's face for good luck."=
;
"No, you mus=
tn't
go there. They know you now. It was some of El Orobo's men you shot up day
before yesterday when you took their steers from them. They recognized the
pony, and one of them had seen you in Cuivaca the night of the robbery. They
would be sure to get you, Billy."
Shortly the two c=
ame
in touch with the retreating Pesitistas who were riding slowly toward their
mountain camp. Their pursuers had long since given up the chase, fearing th=
at
they might be being lured into the midst of a greatly superior force, and h=
ad
returned to Cuivaca.
It was nearly mor=
ning
when Bridge and Billy threw themselves down upon the latter's blankets, fag=
ged.
"Well,
well," murmured Billy Byrne; "li'l ol' Bridgie's found his Penelo=
pe,"
and fell asleep.
CHAPTER XIII. BARBARA AGAIN
CAPTAIN BILLY BYR=
NE
rode out of the hills the following afternoon upon a pinto pony that showed=
the
whites of its eyes in a wicked rim about the iris and kept its ears perpetu=
ally
flattened backward.
At the end of a
lariat trailed the Brazos pony, for Billy, laughing aside Bridge's pleas, w=
as
on his way to El Orobo Rancho to return the stolen horse to its fair owner.=
At the moment of
departure Pesita had asked Billy to ride by way of Jose's to instruct the o=
ld
Indian that he should bear word to one Esteban that Pesita required his
presence.
It is a long ride
from the retreat of the Pesitistas to Jose's squalid hut, especially if one=
be
leading an extra horse, and so it was that darkness had fallen long before
Billy arrived in sight of Jose's. Dismounting some distance from the hut, B=
illy
approached cautiously, since the world is filled with dangers for those who=
are
beyond the law, and one may not be too careful.
Billy could see a
light showing through a small window, and toward this he made his way. A sh=
ort
distance from Jose's is another, larger structure from which the former
inhabitants had fled the wrath of Pesita. It was dark and apparently
tenantless; but as a matter of fact a pair of eyes chanced at the very mome=
nt
of Billy's coming to be looking out through the open doorway.
The owner turned =
and
spoke to someone behind him.
"Jose has an=
other
visitor," he said. "Possibly this one is less harmless than the
other. He comes with great caution. Let us investigate."
Three other men r=
ose
from their blankets upon the floor and joined the speaker. They were all ar=
med,
and clothed in the nondescript uniforms of Villistas. Billy's back was towa=
rd
them as they sneaked from the hut in which they were intending to spend the
night and crept quietly toward him.
Billy was busily
engaged in peering through the little window into the interior of the old I=
ndian's
hovel. He saw an American in earnest conversation with Jose. Who could the =
man
be? Billy did not recognize him; but presently Jose answered the question. =
"It shall be
done as you wish, Senor Grayson," he said.
"Ah!"
thought Billy; "the foreman of El Orobo. I wonder what business he has
with this old scoundrel--and at night."
What other though=
ts
Billy might have had upon the subject were rudely interrupted by four energ=
etic
gentlemen in his rear, who leaped upon him simultaneously and dragged him to
the ground. Billy made no outcry; but he fought none the less strenuously f=
or
his freedom, and he fought after the manner of Grand Avenue, which is not a
pretty, however effective, way it may be.
But four against =
one
when all the advantages lie with the four are heavy odds, and when Grayson =
and
Jose ran out to investigate, and the ranch foreman added his weight to that=
of
the others Billy was finally subdued. That each of his antagonists would ca=
rry
mementos of the battle for many days was slight compensation for the loss of
liberty. However, it was some.
After disarming t=
heir
captive and tying his hands at his back they jerked him to his feet and
examined him.
"Who are
you?" asked Grayson. "What you doin' sneakin' 'round spyin' on me,
eh?"
"If you wanna
know who I am, bo," replied Billy, "go ask de Harlem Hurricane, a=
n'
as fer spyin' on youse, I wasn't; but from de looks I guess youse need spyi=
n,
yuh tinhorn."
A pony whinnied a
short distance from the hut.
"That must be
his horse," said one of the Villistas, and walked away to investigate,
returning shortly after with the pinto pony and Brazos.
The moment Grayson
saw the latter he gave an exclamation of understanding.
"I know him
now," he said. "You've made a good catch, Sergeant. This is the f=
ellow
who robbed the bank at Cuivaca. I recognize him from the descriptions I've =
had
of him, and the fact that he's got the Brazos pony makes it a cinch. Villa
oughter promote you for this."
"Yep,"
interjected Billy, "he orter make youse an admiral at least; but youse
ain't got me home yet, an' it'll take more'n four Dagos an' a tin-horn to do
it."
"They'll get=
you
there all right, my friend," Grayson assured him. "Now come
along."
They bundled Billy
into his own saddle, and shortly after the little party was winding southwa=
rd
along the river in the direction of El Orobo Rancho, with the intention of
putting up there for the balance of the night where their prisoner could be
properly secured and guarded. As they rode away from the dilapidated hut of=
the
Indian the old man stood silhouetted against the rectangle of dim light whi=
ch
marked the open doorway, and shook his fist at the back of the departing ra=
nch
foreman.
"El
cochino!" he cackled, and turned back into his hut.
At El Orobo Rancho
Barbara walked to and fro outside the ranchhouse. Within her father sat rea=
ding
beneath the rays of an oil lamp. From the quarters of the men came the stra=
ins
of guitar music, and an occasional loud laugh indicated the climax of some =
of
Eddie Shorter's famous Kansas farmer stories.
Barbara was upon =
the
point of returning indoors when her attention was attracted by the approach=
of
a half-dozen horsemen. They reined into the ranchyard and dismounted before=
the
office building. Wondering a little who came so late, Barbara entered the
house, mentioning casually to her father that which she had just seen.
The ranch owner, =
now
always fearful of attack, was upon the point of investigating when Grayson =
rode
up to the veranda and dismounted. Barbara and her father were at the door a=
s he
ascended the steps.
"Good
news!" exclaimed the foreman. "I've got the bank robber, and Braz=
os,
too. Caught the sneakin' coyote up to--up the river a bit." He had alm=
ost
said "Jose's;" but caught himself in time. "Someone's been c=
uttin'
the wire at the north side of the north pasture, an' I was ridin' up to see=
ef
I could catch 'em at it," he explained.
"He is an
American?" asked the boss.
"Looks like =
it;
but he's got the heart of a greaser," replied Grayson. "Some of
Villa's men are with me, and they're a-goin' to take him to Cuivaca
tomorrow."
Neither Barbara n=
or
her father seemed to enthuse much. To them an American was an American here=
in
Mexico, where every hand was against their race. That at home they might ha=
ve
looked with disgust upon this same man did not alter their attitude here, t=
hat
no American should take sides against his own people. Barbara said as much =
to
Grayson.
"Why this
fellow's one of Pesita's officers," exclaimed Grayson. "He don't
deserve no sympathy from us nor from no other Americans. Pesita has sworn to
kill every American that falls into his hands, and this fellow's with him to
help him do it. He's a bad un."
"I can't help
what he may do," insisted Barbara. "He's an American, and I for o=
ne
would never be a party to his death at the hands of a Mexican, and it will =
mean
death to him to be taken to Cuivaca."
"Well,
miss," said Grayson, "you won't hev to be responsible--I'll take =
all
the responsibility there is and welcome. I just thought you'd like to know =
we
had him." He was addressing his employer. The latter nodded, and Grays=
on
turned and left the room. Outside he cast a sneering laugh back over his
shoulder and swung into his saddle.
In front of the m=
en's
quarters he drew rein again and shouted Eddie's name. Shorter came to the d=
oor.
"Get your
six-shooter an' a rifle, an' come on over to the office. I want to see you a
minute."
Eddie did as he w=
as
bid, and when he entered the little room he saw four Mexicans lolling about
smoking cigarettes while Grayson stood before a chair in which sat a man wi=
th
his arms tied behind his back. Grayson turned to Eddie.
"This party =
here
is the slick un that robbed the bank, and got away on thet there Brazos pony
thet miserable bookkeepin' dude giv him. The sergeant here an' his men are
a-goin' to take him to Cuivaca in the mornin'. You stand guard over him 'til
midnight, then they'll relieve you. They gotta get a little sleep first,
though, an' I gotta get some supper. Don't stand fer no funny business now,
Eddie," Grayson admonished him, and was on the point of leaving the of=
fice
when a thought occurred to him. "Say, Shorter," he said, "th=
ey
ain't no way of gettin' out of the little bedroom in back there except thro=
ugh
this room. The windows are too small fer a big man to get through. I'll tel=
l you
what, we'll lock him up in there an' then you won't hev to worry none an'
neither will we. You can jest spread out them Navajos there and go to sleep
right plump ag'in the door, an' there won't nobody hev to relieve you all
night."
"Sure,"=
said
Eddie, "leave it to me--I'll watch the slicker."
Satisfied that th=
eir
prisoner was safe for the night the Villistas and Grayson departed, after
seeing him safely locked in the back room.
At the mention by=
the
foreman of his guard's names--Eddie and Shorter--Billy had studied the face=
of
the young American cowpuncher, for the two names had aroused within his mem=
ory
a tantalizing suggestion that they should be very familiar. Yet he could
connect them in no way with anyone he had known in the past and he was quite
sure that he never before had set eyes upon this man.
Sitting in the da=
rk
with nothing to occupy him Billy let his mind dwell upon the identity of his
jailer, until, as may have happened to you, nothing in the whole world seem=
ed
equally as important as the solution of the mystery. Even his impending fate
faded into nothingness by comparison with the momentous question as to wher=
e he
had heard the name Eddie Shorter before.
As he sat puzzling
his brain over the inconsequential matter something stirred upon the floor
close to his feet, and presently he jerked back a booted foot that a rat had
commenced to gnaw upon.
"Helluva pla=
ce
to stick a guy," mused Billy, "in wit a bunch o' man-eatin' rats.
Hey!" and he turned his face toward the door. "You, Eddie! Come
here!"
Eddie approached =
the
door and listened.
"Wot do you
want?" he asked. "None o' your funny business, you know. I'm from
Shawnee, Kansas, I am, an' they don't come no slicker from nowhere on earth.
You can't fool me."
Shawnee, Kansas! =
Eddie
Shorter! The whole puzzle was cleared in Billy's mind in an instant.
"So you're E=
ddie
Shorter of Shawnee, Kansas, are you?" called Billy. "Well I know =
your
maw, Eddie, an' ef I had such a maw as you got I wouldn't be down here wast=
in'
my time workin' alongside a lot of Dagos; but that ain't what I started out=
to
say, which was that I want a light in here. The damned rats are tryin' to c=
haw
off me kicks an' when they're done wit them they'll climb up after me an' o=
ld
man Villa'll be sore as a pup."
"You know my
maw?" asked Eddie, and there was a wistful note in his voice. "Aw
shucks! you don't know her--that's jest some o' your funny, slicker busines=
s.
You wanna git me in there an' then you'll try an' git aroun' me some sort o'
way to let you escape; but I'm too slick for that."
"On the level
Eddie, I know your maw," persisted Billy. "I ben in your maw's ho=
use
jest a few weeks ago. 'Member the horsehair sofa between the windows? 'Memb=
er
the Bible on the little marble-topped table? Eh? An' Tige? Well, Tige's
croaked; but your maw an' your paw ain't an' they want you back, Eddie. I d=
on't
care ef you believe me, son, or not; but your maw was mighty good to me, an'
you promise me you'll write her an' then go back home as fast as you can. It
ain't everybody's got a swell maw like that, an' them as has ought to be go=
od
to 'em."
Beyond the closed
door Eddie's jaw was commencing to tremble. Memory was flooding his heart a=
nd
his eyes with sweet recollections of an ample breast where he used to pillow
his head, of a big capable hand that was wont to smooth his brow and stroke
back his red hair. Eddie gulped.
"You ain't
joshin' me?" he asked. Billy Byrne caught the tremor in the voice.
"I ain't kid=
din'
you son," he said. "Wotinell do you take me fer--one o' these gre=
asy
Dagos? You an' I're Americans--I wouldn't string a home guy down here in th=
is
here Godforsaken neck o' the woods."
Billy heard the l=
ock
turn, and a moment later the door was cautiously opened revealing Eddie saf=
ely
ensconced behind two six-shooters.
"That's righ=
t,
Eddie," said Billy, with a laugh. "Don't you take no chances, no
matter how much sob stuff I hand you, fer, I'll give it to you straight, ef=
I
get the chanct I'll make my get-away; but I can't do it wit my flippers
trussed, an' you wit a brace of gats sittin' on me. Let's have a light, Edd=
ie.
That won't do nobody any harm, an' it may discourage the rats."
Eddie backed acro=
ss
the office to a table where stood a small lamp. Keeping an eye through the =
door
on his prisoner he lighted the lamp and carried it into the back room, sett=
ing
it upon a commode which stood in one corner.
"You really =
seen
maw?" he asked. "Is she well?"
"Looked well
when I seen her," said Billy; "but she wants her boy back a whole
lot. I guess she'd look better still ef he walked in on her some day."=
"I'll do
it," cried Eddie. "The minute they get money for the pay I'll hik=
e.
Tell me your name. I'll ask her ef she remembers you when I get home. Gee! =
but
I wish I was walkin' in the front door now."
"She never k=
new
my name," said Billy; "but you tell her you seen the bo that muss=
ed
up the two yeggmen who rolled her an' were tryin' to croak her wit a butcher
knife. I guess she ain't fergot. Me an' my pal were beatin' it--he was on t=
he
square but the dicks was after me an' she let us have money to make our
get-away. She's all right, kid."
There came a knoc=
k at
the outer office door. Eddie sprang back into the front room, closing and
locking the door after him, just as Barbara entered.
"Eddie,"
she asked, "may I see the prisoner? I want to talk to him."
"You want to
talk with a bank robber?" exclaimed Eddie. "Why you ain't crazy a=
re
you, Miss Barbara?"
"No, I'm not
crazy; but I want to speak with him alone for just a moment,
Eddie--please."
Eddie hesitated. =
He
knew that Grayson would be angry if he let the boss's daughter into that ba=
ck
room alone with an outlaw and a robber, and the boss himself would probably=
be
inclined to have Eddie drawn and quartered; but it was hard to refuse Miss
Barbara anything.
"Where is
he?" she asked.
Eddie jerked a th=
umb
in the direction of the door. The key still was in the lock.
"Go to the
window and look at the moon, Eddie," suggested the girl. "It's
perfectly gorgeous tonight. Please, Eddie," as he still hesitated.
Eddie shook his h=
ead
and moved slowly toward the window.
"There can't
nobody refuse you nothin', miss," he said; "'specially when you g=
ot
your heart set on it."
"That's a de=
ar,
Eddie," purred the girl, and moved swiftly across the room to the lock=
ed
door.
As she turned the=
key
in the lock she felt a little shiver of nervous excitement run through her.
"What sort of man would he be--this hardened outlaw and robber--this
renegade American who had cast his lot with the avowed enemies of his own
people?" she wondered.
Only her desire to
learn of Bridge's fate urged her to attempt so distasteful an interview; but
she dared not ask another to put the question for her, since should her
complicity in Bridge's escape--provided of course that he had escaped--beco=
me
known to Villa the fate of the Americans at El Orobo would be definitely
sealed.
She turned the kn=
ob
and pushed the door open, slowly. A man was sitting in a chair in the cente=
r of
the room. His back was toward her. He was a big man. His broad shoulders lo=
omed
immense above the back of the rude chair. A shock of black hair, rumpled and
tousled, covered a well-shaped head.
At the sound of t=
he
door creaking upon its hinges he turned his face in her direction, and as h=
is
eyes met hers all four went wide in surprise and incredulity.
"Billy!"
she cried.
"Barbara!--y=
ou?"
and Billy rose to his feet, his bound hands struggling to be free.
The girl closed t=
he
door behind her and crossed to him.
"You robbed =
the
bank, Billy?" she asked. "It was you, after the promises you made=
me
to live straight always--for my sake?" Her voice trembled with emotion.
The man could see that she suffered, and yet he felt his own anguish, too. =
"But you are
married," he said. "I saw it in the papers. What do you care, now,
Barbara? I'm nothing to you."
"I'm not
married, Billy," she cried. "I couldn't marry Mr. Mallory. I trie=
d to
make myself believe that I could; but at last I knew that I did not love him
and never could, and I wouldn't marry a man I didn't love.
"I never dre=
amed
that it was you here, Billy," she went on. "I came to ask you abo=
ut
Mr. Bridge. I wanted to know if he escaped, or if--if--oh, this awful count=
ry!
They think no more of human life here than a butcher thinks of the life of =
the
animal he dresses."
A sudden light
illumined Billy's mind. Why had it not occurred to him before? This was
Bridge's Penelope! The woman he loved was loved by his best friend. And she=
had
sent a messenger to him, to Billy, to save her lover. She had come here to =
the
office tonight to question a stranger--a man she thought an outlaw and a
robber--because she could not rest without word from the man she loved. Bil=
ly
stiffened. He was hurt to the bottom of his heart; but he did not blame
Bridge--it was fate. Nor did he blame Barbara because she loved Bridge. Bri=
dge
was more her kind anyway. He was a college guy. Billy was only a mucker.
"Bridge got =
away
all right," he said. "And say, he didn't have nothin' to do with
pullin' off that safe crackin'. I done it myself. He didn't know I was in t=
own
an' I didn't know he was there. He's the squarest guy in the world, Bridge =
is.
He follered me that night an' took a shot at me, thinkin' I was the robber =
all
right but not knowin' I was me. He got my horse, an' when he found it was m=
e,
he made me take your pony an' make my get-away, fer he knew Villa's men wou=
ld
croak me sure if they caught me. You can't blame him fer that, can you? Him=
an'
I were good pals--he couldn't do nothin' else. It was him that made me bring
your pony back to you. It's in the corral now, I reckon. I was a-bringin' i=
t back
when they got me. Now you better go. This ain't no place fer you, an' I ain=
't
had no sleep fer so long I'm most dead." His tones were cool. He appea=
red
bored by her company; though as a matter of fact his heart was breaking with
love for her--love that he believed unrequited--and he yearned to tear loose
his bonds and crush her in his arms.
It was Barbara's =
turn
now to be hurt. She drew herself up.
"I am sorry =
that
I have disturbed your rest," she said, and walked away, her head in the
air; but all the way back to the ranchhouse she kept repeating over and ove=
r to
herself: "Tomorrow they will shoot him! Tomorrow they will shoot him!
Tomorrow they will shoot him!"
FOR an hour Barba=
ra
Harding paced the veranda of the ranchhouse, pride and love battling for the
ascendency within her breast. She could not let him die, that she knew; but=
how
might she save him?
The strains of mu=
sic
and the laughter from the bunkhouse had ceased. The ranch slept. Over the b=
row
of the low bluff upon the opposite side of the river a little party of sile=
nt
horsemen filed downward to the ford. At the bluff's foot a barbed-wire fence
marked the eastern boundary of the ranch's enclosed fields. The foremost
horseman dismounted and cut the strands of wire, carrying them to one side =
from
the path of the feet of the horses which now passed through the opening he =
had
made.
Down into the riv=
er
they rode following the ford even in the darkness with an assurance which
indicated long familiarity. Then through a fringe of willows out across a
meadow toward the ranch buildings the riders made their way. The manner of
their approach, their utter silence, the hour, all contributed toward the
sinister.
Upon the veranda =
of
the ranchhouse Barbara Harding came to a sudden halt. Her entire manner
indicated final decision, and determination. A moment she stood in thought =
and
then ran quickly down the steps and in the direction of the office. Here she
found Eddie dozing at his post. She did not disturb him. A glance through t=
he
window satisfied her that he was alone with the prisoner. From the office
building Barbara passed on to the corral. A few horses stood within the
enclosure, their heads drooping dejectedly. As she entered they raised their
muzzles and sniffed suspiciously, ears a-cock, and as the girl approached
closer to them they moved warily away, snorting, and passed around her to t=
he opposite
side of the corral. As they moved by her she scrutinized them and her heart
dropped, for Brazos was not among them. He must have been turned out into t=
he
pasture.
She passed over to
the bars that closed the opening from the corral into the pasture and wormed
her way between two of them. A hackamore with a piece of halter rope attach=
ed
to it hung across the upper bar. Taking it down she moved off across the
pasture in the direction the saddle horses most often took when liberated f=
rom
the corral.
If they had not
crossed the river she felt that she might find and catch Brazos, for lumps =
of
sugar and bits of bread had inspired in his equine soul a wondrous attachme=
nt
for his temporary mistress.
Down the beaten t=
rail
the animals had made to the river the girl hurried, her eyes penetrating the
darkness ahead and to either hand for the looming bulks that would be the
horses she sought, and among which she might hope to discover the gentle li=
ttle
Brazos.
The nearer she ca=
me
to the river the lower dropped her spirits, for as yet no sign of the anima=
ls
was to be seen. To have attempted to place a hackamore upon any of the wild
creatures in the corral would have been the height of foolishness--only a
well-sped riata in the hands of a strong man could have captured one of the=
se.
Closer and closer=
to
the fringe of willows along the river she came, until, at their very edge,
there broke upon her already taut nerves the hideous and uncanny scream of a
wildcat. The girl stopped short in her tracks. She felt the chill of fear c=
reep
through her skin, and a twitching at the roots of her hair evidenced to her=
the
extremity of her terror. Should she turn back? The horses might be between =
her
and the river, but judgment told her that they had crossed. Should she brave
the nervous fright of a passage through that dark, forbidding labyrinth of =
gloom
when she knew that she should not find the horses within reach beyond?
She turned to ret=
race
her steps. She must find another way!
But was there ano=
ther
way? And "Tomorrow they will shoot him!" She shuddered, bit her l=
ower
lip in an effort to command her courage, and then, wheeling, plunged into t=
he
thicket.
Again the cat
screamed--close by--but the girl never hesitated in her advance, and a few
moments later she broke through the willows a dozen paces from the river ba=
nk.
Her eyes strained through the night; but no horses were to be seen.
The trail, cut by=
the
hoofs of many animals, ran deep and straight down into the swirling water. =
Upon
the opposite side Brazos must be feeding or resting, just beyond reach.
Barbara dug her n=
ails
into her palms in the bitterness of her disappointment. She followed down to
the very edge of the water. It was black and forbidding. Even in the daytime
she would not have been confident of following the ford--by night it would =
be
madness to attempt it.
She choked down a
sob. Her shoulders drooped. Her head bent forward. She was the picture of
disappointment and despair.
"What can I
do?" she moaned. "Tomorrow they will shoot him!"
The thought seeme=
d to
electrify her.
"They shall =
not
shoot him!" she cried aloud. "They shall not shoot him while I li=
ve
to prevent it!"
Again her head wa=
s up
and her shoulders squared. Tying the hackamore about her waist, she took a
single deep breath of reassurance and stepped out into the river. For a doz=
en
paces she found no difficulty in following the ford. It was broad and strai=
ght;
but toward the center of the river, as she felt her way along a step at a t=
ime,
she came to a place where directly before her the ledge upon which she cros=
sed
shelved off into deep water. She turned upward, trying to locate the direct=
ion of
the new turn; but here too there was no footing. Down river she felt solid =
rock
beneath her feet. Ah! this was the way, and boldly she stepped out, the wat=
er
already above her knees. Two, three steps she took, and with each one her
confidence and hope arose, and then the fourth step--and there was no footi=
ng.
She felt herself lunging into the stream, and tried to draw back and regain=
the
ledge; but the force of the current was too much for her, and, so suddenly =
it
seemed that she had thrown herself in, she was in the channel swimming for =
her
life.
The trend of the
current there was back in the direction of the bank she had but just quitte=
d,
yet so strong was her determination to succeed for Billy Byrne's sake that =
she
turned her face toward the opposite shore and fought to reach the seemingly
impossible goal which love had set for her. Again and again she was swept u=
nder
by the force of the current. Again and again she rose and battled, not for =
her
own life; but for the life of the man she once had loathed and whom she lat=
er
had come to love. Inch by inch she won toward the shore of her desire, and =
inch
by inch of her progress she felt her strength failing. Could she win? Ah! if
she were but a man, and with the thought came another: Thank God that I am a
woman with a woman's love which gives strength to drive me into the clutche=
s of
death for his sake!
Her heart thunder=
ed
in tumultuous protest against the strain of her panting lungs. Her limbs fe=
lt
cold and numb; but she could not give up even though she was now convinced =
that
she had thrown her life away uselessly. They would find her body; but no one
would ever guess what had driven her to her death. Not even he would know t=
hat
it was for his sake. And then she felt the tugging of the channel current
suddenly lessen, an eddy carried her gently inshore, her feet touched the s=
and and
gravel of the bottom.
Gasping for breat=
h,
staggering, stumbling, she reeled on a few paces and then slipped down
clutching at the river's bank. Here the water was shallow, and here she lay
until her strength returned. Then she urged herself up and onward, climbed =
to
the top of the bank with success at last within reach.
To find the horses
now required but a few minutes' search. They stood huddled in a black mass
close to the barbed-wire fence at the extremity of the pasture. As she
approached them they commenced to separate slowly, edging away while they f=
aced
her in curiosity. Softly she called: "Brazos! Come, Brazos!" unti=
l a
unit of the moving mass detached itself and came toward her, nickering.
"Good
Brazos!" she cooed. "That's a good pony," and walked forward=
to meet
him.
The animal let her
reach up and stroke his forehead, while he muzzled about her for the expect=
ed
tidbit. Gently she worked the hackamore over his nose and above his ears, a=
nd
when it was safely in place she breathed a deep sigh of relief and throwing=
her
arms about his neck pressed her cheek to his.
"You dear old
Brazos," she whispered.
The horse stood
quietly while the girl wriggled herself to his back, and then at a word and=
a
touch from her heels moved off at a walk in the direction of the ford. The
crossing this time was one of infinite ease, for Barbara let the rope lie l=
oose
and Brazos take his own way.
Through the willo=
ws
upon the opposite bank he shouldered his path, across the meadow still at a
walk, lest they arouse attention, and through a gate which led directly from
the meadow into the ranchyard. Here she tied him to the outside of the corr=
al,
while she went in search of saddle and bridle. Whose she took she did not k=
now,
nor care, but that the saddle was enormously heavy she was perfectly aware =
long
before she had dragged it halfway to where Brazos stood.
Three times she essayed to lift it to his back before she succeeded in accomplishing the Herculean task, and had it been any other horse upon the ranch than Brazos = the thing could never have been done; but the kindly little pony stood in statuesque resignation while the heavy Mexican tree was banged and thumped against his legs and ribs, until a lucky swing carried it to his withers. <= o:p>
Saddled and bridl=
ed
Barbara led him to the rear of the building and thus, by a roundabout way, =
to
the back of the office building. Here she could see a light in the room in
which Billy was confined, and after dropping the bridle reins to the ground=
she
made her way to the front of the structure.
Creeping stealthi=
ly
to the porch she peered in at the window. Eddie was stretched out in cramped
though seeming luxury in an office chair. His feet were cocked up on the de=
sk
before him. In his lap lay his six-shooter ready for any emergency. Another
reposed in its holster at his belt.
Barbara tiptoed to
the door. Holding her breath she turned the knob gently. The door swung open
without a sound, and an instant later she stood within the room. Again her =
eyes
were fixed upon Eddie Shorter. She saw his nerveless fingers relax their ho=
ld
upon the grip of his revolver. She saw the weapon slip farther down into his
lap. He did not move, other than to the deep and regular breathing of profo=
und
slumber.
Barbara crossed t=
he
room to his side.
Behind the ranchh=
ouse
three figures crept forward in the shadows. Behind them a matter of a hundr=
ed
yards stood a little clump of horses and with them were the figures of more
men. These waited in silence. The other three crept toward the house. It was
such a ranchhouse as you might find by the scores or hundreds throughout Te=
xas.
Grayson, evidently, or some other Texan, had designed it. There was nothing
Mexican about it, nor anything beautiful. It stood two storied, verandaed a=
nd
hideous, a blot upon the soil of picturesque Mexico.
To the roof of the
veranda clambered the three prowlers, and across it to an open window. The
window belonged to the bedroom of Miss Barbara Harding. Here they paused and
listened, then two of them entered the room. They were gone for but a few
minutes. When they emerged they showed evidences, by their gestures to the
third man who had awaited outside, of disgust and disappointment.
Cautiously they d=
escended
as they had come and made their way back to those other men who had remained
with the horses. Here there ensued a low-toned conference, and while it
progressed Barbara Harding reached forth a steady hand which belied the ter=
ror
in her soul and plucked the revolver from Eddie Shorter's lap. Eddie slept =
on.
Again on tiptoe t=
he
girl recrossed the office to the locked door leading into the back room. The
key was in the lock. Gingerly she turned it, keeping a furtive eye upon the
sleeping guard, and the muzzle of his own revolver leveled menacingly upon =
him.
Eddie Shorter stirred in his sleep and raised a hand to his face. The heart=
of
Barbara Harding ceased to beat while she stood waiting for the man to open =
his
eyes and discover her; but he did nothing of the kind. Instead his hand dro=
pped
limply at his side and he resumed his regular breathing.
The key turned in=
the
lock beneath the gentle pressure of her fingers, the bolt slipped quietly b=
ack
and she pushed the door ajar. Within, Billy Byrne turned inquiring eyes in =
the
direction of the opening door, and as he saw who it was who entered surprise
showed upon his face; but he spoke no word for the girl held a silencing fi=
nger
to her lips.
Quickly she came =
to
his side and motioned him to rise while she tugged at the knots which held =
the
bonds in place about his arms. Once she stopped long enough to recross the =
room
and close the door which she had left open when she entered.
It required fully
five minutes--the longest five minutes of Barbara Harding's life, she
thought--before the knots gave to her efforts; but at last the rope fell to=
the
floor and Billy Byrne was free.
He started to spe=
ak,
to thank her, and, perhaps, to scold her for the rash thing she had underta=
ken
for him; but she silenced him again, and with a whispered, "Come!"
turned toward the door.
As she opened it a
crack to reconnoiter she kept the revolver pointed straight ahead of her in=
to
the adjoining room. Eddie, however, still slept on in peaceful ignorance of=
the
trick which was being played upon him.
Now the two start=
ed
forward for the door which opened from the office upon the porch, and as th=
ey
did so Barbara turned again toward Billy to caution him to silence for his
spurs had tinkled as he moved. For a moment their eyes were not upon Eddie
Shorter and Fate had it that at that very moment Eddie awoke and opened his=
own
eyes.
The sight that met
them was so astonishing that for a second the Kansan could not move. He saw
Barbara Harding, a revolver in her hand, aiding the outlaw to escape, and in
the instant that surprise kept him motionless Eddie saw, too, another
picture--the picture of a motherly woman in a little farmhouse back in Kans=
as,
and Eddie realized that this man, this outlaw, had been the means of arousi=
ng
within him a desire and a determination to return again to those loving arm=
s.
Too, the man had saved his mother from injury, and possible death.
Eddie shut his ey=
es
quickly and thought hard and fast. Miss Barbara had always been kind to him=
. In
his boyish heart he had loved her, hopelessly of course, in a boyish way. S=
he
wanted the outlaw to escape. Eddie realized that he would do anything that =
Miss
Barbara wanted, even if he had to risk his life at it.
The girl and the =
man
were at the door. She pushed him through ahead of her while she kept the
revolver leveled upon Eddie, then she passed out after him and closed the d=
oor,
while Eddie Shorter kept his eyes tightly closed and prayed to his God that
Billy Byrne might get safely away.
Outside and in the
rear of the office building Barbara pressed the revolver upon Billy.
"You will ne=
ed
it," she said. "There is Brazos--take him. God bless and guard yo=
u,
Billy!" and she was gone.
Billy swallowed b=
ard.
He wanted to run after her and take her in his arms; but he recalled Bridge,
and with a sigh turned toward the patient Brazos. Languidly he gathered up =
the
reins and mounted, and then unconcernedly as though he were an honored guest
departing by daylight he rode out of the ranchyard and turned Brazos' head
north up the river road.
And as Billy
disappeared in the darkness toward the north Barbara Harding walked slowly
toward the ranchhouse, while from a little group of men and horses a hundred
yards away three men detached themselves and crept toward her, for they had
seen her in the moonlight as she left Billy outside the office and strolled
slowly in the direction of the house.
They hid in the
shadow at the side of the house until the girl had turned the corner and was
approaching the veranda, then they ran quickly forward and as she mounted t=
he
steps she was seized from behind and dragged backward. A hand was clapped o=
ver
her mouth and a whispered threat warned her to silence.
Half dragging and
half carrying her the three men bore her back to where their confederates
awaited them. A huge fellow mounted his pony and Barbara was lifted to the =
horn
of the saddle before him. Then the others mounted and as silently as they h=
ad
come they rode away, following the same path.
Barbara Harding h=
ad
not cried out nor attempted to, for she had seen very shortly after her cap=
ture
that she was in the hands of Indians and she judged from what she had heard=
of
the little band of Pimans who held forth in the mountains to the east that =
they
would as gladly knife her as not.
Jose was a Piman,=
and
she immediately connected Jose with the perpetration, or at least the plann=
ing
of her abduction. Thus she felt assured that no harm would come to her, sin=
ce
Jose had been famous in his time for the number and size of the ransoms he =
had
collected.
Her father would =
pay
what was demanded, she would be returned and, aside from a few days of
discomfort and hardship, she would be none the worse off for her experience.
Reasoning thus it was not difficult to maintain her composure and presence =
of
mind.
As Barbara was bo=
rne
toward the east, Billy Byrne rode steadily northward. It was his intention =
to
stop at Jose's hut and deliver the message which Pesita had given him for t=
he
old Indian. Then he would disappear into the mountains to the west, join Pe=
sita
and urge a new raid upon some favored friend of General Francisco Villa, for
Billy had no love for Villa.
He should have be=
en
glad to pay his respects to El Orobo Rancho and its foreman; but the fact t=
hat
Anthony Harding owned it and that he and Barbara were there was sufficient
effectually to banish all thoughts of revenge along that line.
"Maybe I can=
get
his goat later," he thought, "when he's away from the ranch. I do=
n't
like that stiff, anyhow. He orter been a harness bull."
It was four o'clo=
ck
in the morning when Billy dismounted in front of Jose's hut. He pounded on =
the
door until the man came and opened it.
"Eh!"
exclaimed Jose as he saw who his early morning visitor was, "you got a=
way
from them. Fine!" and the old man chuckled. "I send word to Pesita
two, four hours ago that Villistas capture Capitan Byrne and take him to
Cuivaca."
"Thanks,&quo=
t;
said Billy. "Pesita wants you to send Esteban to him. I didn't have no
chance to tell you last night while them pikers was stickin' aroun', so I s=
tops
now on my way back to the hills."
"I will send
Esteban tonight if I can get him; but I do not know. Esteban is working for=
the
pig, Grayson."
"Wot's he do=
in'
fer Grayson?" asked Billy. "And what was the Grayson guy doin' up
here with you, Jose? Ain't you gettin' pretty thick with Pesita's
enemies?"
"Jose good
friends everybody," and the old man grinned. "Grayson have a job =
he
want good men for. Jose furnish men. Grayson pay well. Job got nothin' do
Pesita, Villa, Carranza, revolution--just private job. Grayson want senorit=
a.
He pay to get her. That all."
"Oh," s=
aid
Billy, and yawned. He was not interested in Mr. Grayson's amours. "Why
didn't the poor boob go get her himself?" he inquired disinterestedly.
"He must be a yap to hire a bunch o' guys to go cop off a siwash girl =
fer
him."
"It is not a
siwash girl, Senor Capitan," said Jose. "It is one beautiful
senorita--the daughter of the owner of El Orobo Rancho."
"What?"
cried Billy Byrne. "What's that you say?"
"Yes, Senor
Capitan, what of it?" inquired Jose. "Grayson he pay me furnish t=
he
men. Esteban he go with his warriors. I get Esteban. They go tonight take a=
way
the senorita; but not for Grayson," and the old fellow laughed. "I
can no help can I? Grayson pay me money get men. I get them. I no help if t=
hey
keep girl," and he shrugged.
"They're com=
in'
for her tonight?" cried Billy.
"Si,
senor," replied Jose. "Doubtless they already take her."
"Hell!"
muttered Billy Byrne, as he swung Brazos about so quickly that the little p=
ony
pivoted upon his hind legs and dashed away toward the south over the same t=
rail
he had just traversed.
THE Brazos pony h=
ad
traveled far that day but for only a trifle over ten miles had he carried a
rider upon his back. He was, consequently, far from fagged as he leaped for=
ward
to the lifted reins and tore along the dusty river trail back in the direct=
ion
of Orobo.
Never before had
Brazos covered ten miles in so short a time, for it was not yet five o'clock
when, reeling with fatigue, he stopped, staggered and fell in front of the
office building at El Orobo.
Eddie Shorter had=
sat
in the chair as Barbara and Billy had last seen him waiting until Byrne sho=
uld
have an ample start before arousing Grayson and reporting the prisoner's
escape. Eddie had determined that he would give Billy an hour. He grinned a=
s he
anticipated the rage of Grayson and the Villistas when they learned that th=
eir
bird had flown, and as he mused and waited he fell asleep.
It was broad dayl=
ight
when Eddie awoke, and as he looked up at the little clock ticking against t=
he
wall, and saw the time he gave an exclamation of surprise and leaped to his
feet. Just as he opened the outer door of the office he saw a horseman leap
from a winded pony in front of the building. He saw the animal collapse and
sink to the ground, and then he recognized the pony as Brazos, and another
glance at the man brought recognition of him, too.
"You?"
cried Eddie. "What are you doin' back here? I gotta take you now,"
and he started to draw his revolver; but Billy Byrne had him covered before
ever his hand reached the grip of his gun.
"Put 'em
up!" admonished Billy, "and listen to me. This ain't no time fer
gunplay or no such foolishness. I ain't back here to be took--get that out =
o'
your nut. I'm tipped off that a bunch o' siwashes was down here last night =
to
swipe Miss Harding. Come! We gotta go see if she's here or not, an' don't t=
ry
any funny business on me, Eddie. I ain't a-goin' to be taken again, an' who=
ever
tries it gets his, see?"
Eddie was down of=
f the
porch in an instant, and making for the ranchhouse.
"I'm with
you," he said. "Who told you? And who done it?"
"Never mind =
who
told me; but a siwash named Esteban was to pull the thing off for Grayson.
Grayson wanted Miss Harding an' he was goin' to have her stolen for him.&qu=
ot;
"The
hound!" muttered Eddie.
The two men dashe=
d up
onto the veranda of the ranchhouse and pounded at the door until a Chinaman
opened it and stuck out his head, inquiringly.
"Is Miss Har=
ding
here?" demanded Billy.
"Mlissy Hard=
ie Kleep,"
snapped the servant. "Wally wanee here flo blekfas?", and would h=
ave
shut the door in their faces had not Billy intruded a heavy boot. The next
instant he placed a large palm over the celestial's face and pushed the man
back into the house. Once inside he called Mr. Harding's name aloud.
"What is
it?" asked the gentleman a moment later as he appeared in a bedroom
doorway off the living-room clad in his pajamas. "What's the matter? W=
hy,
gad man, is that you? Is this really Billy Byrne?"
"Sure,"=
replied
Byrne shortly; "but we can't waste any time chinnin'. I heard that Miss
Barbara was goin' to be swiped last night--I heard that she had been. Now h=
urry
and see if she is here."
Anthony Harding
turned and leaped up the narrow stairway to the second floor four steps at a
time. He hadn't gone upstairs in that fashion in forty years. Without even
pausing to rap he burst into his daughter's bedroom. It was empty. The bed =
was
unruffled. It had not been slept in. With a moan the man turned back and ran
hastily to the other rooms upon the second floor--Barbara was nowhere to be
found. Then he hastened downstairs to the two men awaiting him.
As he entered the room from one end Grayson entered it from the other through the doorway lea= ding out upon the veranda. Billy Byrne had heard footsteps upon the boards witho= ut and he was ready, so that as Grayson entered he found himself looking strai= ght at the business end of a sixshooter. The foreman halted, and stood looking = in surprise first at Billy Byrne, and then at Eddie Shorter and Mr. Harding. <= o:p>
"What does t=
his
mean?" he demanded, addressing Eddie. "What you doin' here with y=
our
prisoner? Who told you to let him out, eh?"
"Can the
chatter," growled Billy Byrne. "Shorter didn't let me out. I esca=
ped
hours ago, and I've just come back from Jose's to ask you where Miss Harding
is, you low-lived cur, you. Where is she?"
"What has Mr.
Grayson to do with it?" asked Mr. Harding. "How should he know
anything about it? It's all a mystery to me--you here, of all men in the wo=
rld,
and Grayson talking about you as the prisoner. I can't make it out. Quick,
though, Byrne, tell me all you know about Barbara."
Billy kept Grayson
covered as he replied to the request of Harding.
"This guy hi=
res
a bunch of Pimans to steal Miss Barbara," he said. "I got it stra=
ight
from the fellow he paid the money to for gettin' him the right men to pull =
off
the job. He wants her it seems," and Billy shot a look at the ranch
foreman that would have killed if looks could. "She can't have been go=
ne
long. I seen her after midnight, just before I made my getaway, so they can=
't
have taken her very far. This thing here can't help us none neither, for he
don't know where she is any more'n we do. He thinks he does; but he don't. =
The
siwashes framed it on him, an' they've doubled-crossed him. I got that stra=
ight
too; but, Gawd! I don't know where they've taken her or what they're goin' =
to
do with her."
As he spoke he tu=
rned
his eyes for the first time away from Grayson and looked full in Anthony
Harding's face. The latter saw beneath the strong character lines of the
other's countenance the agony of fear and doubt that lay heavy upon his hea=
rt.
In the brief inst=
ant
that Billy's watchful gaze left the figure of the ranch foreman the latter =
saw
the opportunity he craved. He was standing directly in the doorway--a single
step would carry him out of range of Byrne's gun, placing a wall between it=
and
him, and Grayson was not slow in taking that step.
When Billy turned=
his
eyes back the Texan had disappeared, and by the time the former reached the
doorway Grayson was halfway to the office building on the veranda of which
stood the four soldiers of Villa grumbling and muttering over the absence of
their prisoner of the previous evening.
Billy Byrne stepp=
ed
out into the open. The ranch foreman called aloud to the four Mexicans that
their prisoner was at the ranchhouse and as they looked in that direction t=
hey
saw him, revolver in hand, coming slowly toward them. There was a smile upon
his lips which they could not see because of the distance, and which, not
knowing Billy Byrne, they would not have interpreted correctly; but the
revolver they did understand, and at sight of it one of them threw his carb=
ine
to his shoulder. His finger, however, never closed upon the trigger, for th=
ere
came the sound of a shot from beyond Billy Byrne and the Mexican staggered
forward, pitching over the edge of the porch to the ground.
Billy turned his =
head
in the direction from which the shot had come and saw Eddie Shorter running
toward him, a smoking six-shooter in his right hand.
"Go back,&qu=
ot;
commanded Byrne; "this is my funeral."
"Not on your
life," replied Eddie Shorter. "Those greasers don't take no white=
man
off'n El Orobo, while I'm here. Get busy! They're comin'."
And sure enough t=
hey
were coming, and as they came their carbines popped and the bullets whizzed
about the heads of the two Americans. Grayson, too, had taken a hand upon t=
he
side of the Villistas. From the bunkhouse other men were running rapidly in=
the
direction of the fight, attracted by the first shots.
Billy and Eddie s=
tood
their ground, a few paces apart. Two more of Villa's men went down. Grayson=
ran
for cover. Then Billy Byrne dropped the last of the Mexicans just as the men
from the bunkhouse came panting upon the scene. There were both Americans a=
nd
Mexicans among them. All were armed and weapons were ready in their hands. =
They paused a sho=
rt
distance from the two men. Eddie's presence upon the side of the stranger s=
aved
Billy from instant death, for Eddie was well liked by both his Mexican and
American fellow-workers.
"What's the
fuss?" asked an American.
Eddie told them, =
and
when they learned that the boss's daughter had been spirited away and that =
the
ranch foreman was at the bottom of it the anger of the Americans rose to a
dangerous pitch.
"Where is
he?" someone asked. They were gathered in a little cluster now about B=
illy
Byrne and Shorter.
"I saw him d=
uck
behind the office building," said Eddie.
"Come on,&qu=
ot;
said another. "We'll get him."
"Someone get=
a
rope." The men spoke in low, ordinary tones--they appeared unexcited.
Determination was the most apparent characteristic of the group. One of them
ran back toward the bunkhouse for his rope. The others walked slowly in the
direction of the rear of the office building. Grayson was not there. The se=
arch
proceeded. The Americans were in advance. The Mexicans kept in a group by
themselves a little in rear of the others--it was not their trouble. If the
gringos wanted to lynch another gringo, well and good--that was the gringos'
business. They would keep out of it, and they did.
Down past the
bunkhouse and the cookhouse to the stables the searchers made their way.
Grayson could not be found. In the stables one of the men made a discovery-=
-the
foreman's saddle had vanished. Out in the corrals they went. One of the men
laughed--the bars were down and the saddle horses gone. Eddie Shorter prese=
ntly
pointed out across the pasture and the river to the skyline of the low bluf=
fs
beyond. The others looked. A horseman was just visible urging his mount upw=
ard
to the crest, the two stood in silhouette against the morning sky pink with=
the
new sun.
"That's
him," said Eddie.
"Let him
go," said Billy Byrne. "He won't never come back and he ain't wor=
th
chasin'. Not while we got Miss Barbara to look after. My horse is down there
with yours. I'm goin' down to get him. Will you come, Shorter? I may need
help--I ain't much with a rope yet."
He started off
without waiting for a reply, and all the Americans followed. Together they
circled the horses and drove them back to the corral. When Billy had saddled
and mounted he saw that the others had done likewise.
"We're goin'
with you," said one of the men. "Miss Barbara b'longs to us."=
;
Billy nodded and
moved off in the direction of the ranchhouse. Here he dismounted and with E=
ddie
Shorter and Mr. Harding commenced circling the house in search of some mann=
er
of clue to the direction taken by the abductors. It was not long before they
came upon the spot where the Indians' horses had stood the night before. Fr=
om
there the trail led plainly down toward the river. In a moment ten Americans
were following it, after Mr. Harding had supplied Billy Byrne with a carbin=
e,
another six-shooter, and ammunition.
Through the river=
and
the cut in the barbed-wire fence, then up the face of the bluff and out acr=
oss
the low mesa beyond the trail led. For a mile it was distinct, and then
disappeared as though the riders had separated.
"Well,"
said Billy, as the others drew around him for consultation, "they'd be
goin' to the hills there. They was Pimans--Esteban's tribe. They got her up
there in the hills somewheres. Let's split up an' search the hills for her.
Whoever comes on 'em first'll have to do some shootin' and the rest of us c=
an
close in an' help. We can go in pairs--then if one's killed the other can r=
ide
out an' lead the way back to where it happened."
The men seemed
satisfied with the plan and broke up into parties of two. Eddie Shorter pai=
red
off with Billy Byrne.
"Spread
out," said the latter to his companions. "Eddie an' I'll ride str=
aight
ahead--the rest of you can fan out a few miles on either side of us. S'long=
an'
good luck," and he started off toward the hills, Eddie Shorter at his
side.
Back at the ranch=
the
Mexican vaqueros lounged about, grumbling. With no foreman there was nothin=
g to
do except talk about their troubles. They had not been paid since the looti=
ng
of the bank at Cuivaca, for Mr. Harding had been unable to get any silver f=
rom
elsewhere until a few days since. He now had assurances that it was on the =
way
to him; but whether or not it would reach El Orobo was a question.
"Why should =
we
stay here when we are not paid?" asked one of them.
"Yes, why?&q=
uot;
chorused several others.
"There is
nothing to do here," said another. "We will go to Cuivaca. I, for
one, am tired of working for the gringos."
This met with the
unqualified approval of all, and a few moments later the men had saddled th=
eir
ponies and were galloping away in the direction of sun-baked Cuivaca. They =
sang
now, and were happy, for they were as little boys playing hooky from
school--not bad men; but rather irresponsible children.
Once in Cuivaca t=
hey
swooped down upon the drinking-place, where, with what little money a few of
them had left they proceeded to get drunk.
Later in the day =
an
old, dried-up Indian entered. He was hot and dusty from a long ride.
"Hey,
Jose!" cried one of the vaqueros from El Orobo Rancho; "you old r=
ascal,
what are you doing here?"
Jose looked around
upon them. He knew them all--they represented the Mexican contingent of the
riders of El Orobo. Jose wondered what they were all doing here in Cuivaca =
at
one time. Even upon a pay day it never had been the rule of El Orobo to all=
ow
more than four men at a time to come to town.
"Oh, Jose co=
me
to buy coffee and tobacco," he replied. He looked about searchingly.
"Where are the others?" he asked, "--the gringos?"
"They have
ridden after Esteban," explained one of the vaqueros. "He has run=
off
with Senorita Harding."
Jose raised his
eyebrows as though this was all news.
"And Senor
Grayson has gone with them?" he asked. "He was very fond of the
senorita."
"Senor Grays= on has run away," went on the other speaker. "The other gringos wish= ed to hang him, for it is said he has bribed Esteban to do this thing." <= o:p>
Again Jose raised=
his
eyebrows. "Impossible!" he ejaculated. "And who then guards =
the
ranch?" he asked presently.
"Senor Hardi=
ng,
two Mexican house servants, and a Chinaman," and the vaquero laughed. =
"I must be
going," Jose announced after a moment. "It is a long ride for an =
old
man from my poor home to Cuivaca, and back again."
The vaqueros were
paying no further attention to him, and the Indian passed out and sought his
pony; but when he had mounted and ridden from town he took a strange direct=
ion
for one whose path lies to the east, since he turned his pony's head toward=
the
northwest.
Jose had ridden f=
ar
that day, since Billy had left his humble hut. He had gone to the west to t=
he
little rancho of one of Pesita's adherents who had dispatched a boy to carry
word to the bandit that his Captain Byrne had escaped the Villistas, and th=
en
Jose had ridden into Cuivaca by a circuitous route which brought him up from
the east side of the town.
Now he was riding
once again for Pesita; but this time he would bear the information himself.=
He
found the chief in camp and after begging tobacco and a cigarette paper the
Indian finally reached the purpose of his visit.
"Jose has ju=
st
come from Cuivaca," he said, "and there he drank with all the Mex=
ican
vaqueros of El Orobo Rancho--ALL, my general, you understand. It seems that
Esteban has carried off the beautiful senorita of El Orobo Rancho, and the
vaqueros tell Jose that ALL the American vaqueros have ridden in search of
her--ALL, my general, you understand. In such times of danger it is odd that
the gringos should leave El Orobo thus unguarded. Only the rich Senor Hardi=
ng,
two house servants, and a Chinaman remain."
A man lay stretch=
ed
upon his blankets in a tent next to that occupied by Pesita. At the sound of
the speaker's voice, low though it was, he raised his head and listened. He
heard every word, and a scowl settled upon his brow. Barbara stolen! Mr Har=
ding
practically alone upon the ranch! And Pesita in possession of this informat=
ion!
Bridge rose to his
feet. He buckled his cartridge belt about his waist and picked up his carbi=
ne,
then he crawled under the rear wall of his tent and walked slowly off in the
direction of the picket line where the horses were tethered.
"Ah, Senor
Bridge," said a pleasant voice in his ear; "where to?"
Bridge turned qui=
ckly
to look into the smiling, evil face of Rozales.
"Oh," he
replied, "I'm going out to see if I can't find some shooting. It's awf=
ully
dull sitting around here doing nothing."
"Si,
senor," agreed Rozales; "I, too, find it so. Let us go together--=
I know
where the shooting is best."
"I don't dou=
bt
it," thought Bridge; "probably in the back;" but aloud he sa=
id:
"Certainly, that will be fine," for he guessed that Rozales had b=
een
set to watch his movements and prevent his escape, and, perchance, to be the
sole witness of some unhappy event which should carry Senor Bridge to the a=
rms
of his fathers.
Rozales called a
soldier to saddle and bridle their horses and shortly after the two were ri=
ding
abreast down the trail out of the hills. Where it was necessary that they r=
ide
in single file Bridge was careful to see that Rozales rode ahead, and the
Mexican graciously permitted the American to fall behind.
If he was inspire=
d by
any other motive than simple espionage he was evidently content to bide his
time until chance gave him the opening he desired, and it was equally evide=
nt
that he felt as safe in front of the American as behind him.
At a point where a
ravine down which they had ridden debauched upon a mesa Rozales suggested t=
hat
they ride to the north, which was not at all the direction in which Bridge
intended going. The American demurred.
"But there i=
s no
shooting down in the valley," urged Rozales.
"I think the=
re
will be," was Bridge's enigmatical reply, and then, with a sudden
exclamation of surprise he pointed over Rozales' shoulder. "What's
that?" he cried in a voice tense with excitement.
The Mexican turned
his head quickly in the direction Bridge's index finger indicated.
"I see
nothing," said Rozales, after a moment.
"You do now,
though," replied Bridge, and as the Mexican's eyes returned in the
direction of his companion he was forced to admit that he did see something=
--the
dismal, hollow eye of a six-shooter looking him straight in the face.
"Senor
Bridge!" exclaimed Rozales. "What are you doing? What do you mean=
?"
"I mean,&quo=
t;
said Bridge, "that if you are at all solicitous of your health you'll
climb down off that pony, not forgetting to keep your hands above your head
when you reach the ground. Now climb!"
Rozales dismounte=
d.
"Turn your b=
ack
toward me," commanded the American, and when the other had obeyed him,
Bridge dismounted and removed the man's weapons from his belt. "Now you
may go, Rozales," he said, "and should you ever have an American =
in
your power again remember that I spared your life when I might easily have
taken it--when it would have been infinitely safer for me to have done
it."
The Mexican made =
no
reply, but the black scowl that clouded his face boded ill for the next gri=
ngo
who should be so unfortunate as to fall into his hands. Slowly he wheeled a=
bout
and started back up the trail in the direction of the Pesita camp.
"I'll be hal=
fway
to El Orobo," thought Bridge, "before he gets a chance to tell Pe=
sita
what happened to him," and then he remounted and rode on down into the
valley, leading Rozales' horse behind him.
It would never do=
, he
knew, to turn the animal loose too soon, since he would doubtless make his =
way
back to camp, and in doing so would have to pass Rozales who would catch hi=
m.
Time was what Bridge wanted--to be well on his way to Orobo before Pesita
should learn of his escape.
Bridge knew nothi=
ng
of what had happened to Billy, for Pesita had seen to it that the informati=
on
was kept from the American. The latter had, nevertheless, been worrying not=
a
little at the absence of his friend for he knew that he had taken his liber=
ty
and his life in his hands in riding down to El Orobo among avowed enemies. =
Far to his rear
Rozales plodded sullenly up the steep trail through the mountains, revolvin=
g in
his mind various exquisite tortures he should be delighted to inflict upon =
the
next gringo who came into his power.
BILLY BYRNE and E=
ddie
Shorter rode steadily in the direction of the hills. Upon either side and at
intervals of a mile or more stretched the others of their party, occasional=
ly
visible; but for the most part not. Once in the hills the two could no long=
er
see their friends or be seen by them.
Both Byrne and Ed=
die
felt that chance had placed them upon the right trail for a well-marked and
long-used path wound upward through a canyon along which they rode. It was =
an
excellent location for an ambush, and both men breathed more freely when th=
ey
had passed out of it into more open country upon a narrow tableland between=
the
first foothills and the main range of mountains.
Here again was the
trail well marked, and when Eddie, looking ahead, saw that it appeared to l=
ead
in the direction of a vivid green spot close to the base of the gray brown
hills he gave an exclamation of assurance.
"We're on the
right trail all right, old man," he said. "They's water there,&qu=
ot;
and he pointed ahead at the green splotch upon the gray. "That's where
they'd be havin' their village. I ain't never been up here so I ain't famil=
iar
with the country. You see we don't run no cattle this side the river--the
Pimans won't let us. They don't care to have no white men pokin' round in t=
heir
country; but I'll bet a hat we find a camp there."
Onward they rode
toward the little spot of green. Sometimes it was in sight and again as they
approached higher ground, or wound through gullies and ravines it was lost =
to
their sight; but always they kept it as their goal. The trail they were upon
led to it--of that there could be no longer the slightest doubt. And as they
rode with their destination in view black, beady eyes looked down upon them
from the very green oasis toward which they urged their ponies--tiring now =
from
the climb.
A lithe, brown bo=
dy
lay stretched comfortably upon a bed of grasses at the edge of a little ris=
e of
ground beneath which the riders must pass before they came to the cluster of
huts which squatted in a tiny natural park at the foot of the main peak. Far
above the watcher a spring of clear, pure water bubbled out of the
mountain-side, and running downward formed little pools among the rocks whi=
ch
held it. And with this water the Pimans irrigated their small fields before=
it
sank from sight again into the earth just below their village. Beside the b=
rown
body lay a long rifle. The man's eyes watched, unblinking, the two specks f=
ar
below him whom he knew and had known for an hour were gringos.
Another brown body
wormed itself forward to his side and peered over the edge of the declivity
down upon the white men. He spoke a few words in a whisper to him who watch=
ed
with the rifle, and then crawled back again and disappeared. And all the wh=
ile,
onward and upward came Billy Byrne and Eddie Shorter, each knowing in his h=
eart
that if not already, then at any moment a watcher would discover them and a
little later a bullet would fly that would find one of them, and they took =
the
chance for the sake of the American girl who lay hidden somewhere in these
hills, for in no other way could they locate her hiding place more quickly.=
Any
one of the other eight Americans who rode in pairs into the hills at other =
points
to the left and right of Billy Byrne and his companion would have and was e=
ven
then cheerfully taking the same chances that Eddie and Billy took, only the
latter were now assured that to one of them would fall the sacrifice, for as
they had come closer Eddie had seen a thin wreath of smoke rising from among
the trees of the oasis. Now, indeed, were they sure that they had chanced u=
pon
the trail to the Piman village.
"We gotta ke=
ep
our eyes peeled," said Eddie, as they wound into a ravine which from i=
ts
location evidently led directly up to the village. "We ain't far from =
'em
now, an' if they get us they'll get us about here."
As though to punc=
tuate
his speech with the final period a rifle cracked above them. Eddie jumped
spasmodically and clutched his breast.
"I'm hit,&qu=
ot;
he said, quite unemotionally.
Billy Byrne's
revolver had answered the shot from above them, the bullet striking where B=
illy
had seen a puff of smoke following the rifle shot. Then Billy turned toward
Eddie.
"Hit bad?&qu=
ot;
he asked.
"Yep, I guess
so," said Eddie. "What'll we do? Hide up here, or ride back after=
the
others?"
Another shot rang=
out
above them, although Billy had been watching for a target at which to shoot
again--a target which he had been positive he would get when the man rose to
fire again. And Billy did see the fellow at last--a few paces from where he=
had
first fired; but not until the other had dropped Eddie's horse beneath him.
Byrne fired again, and this time he had the satisfaction of seeing a brown =
body
rise, struggle a moment, and then roll over once upon the grass before it c=
ame
to rest.
"I reckon we=
'll
stay here," said Billy, looking ruefully at Eddie's horse.
Eddie rose and as=
he
did so he staggered and grew very white. Billy dismounted and ran forward,
putting an arm about him. Another shot came from above and Billy Byrne's po=
ny
grunted and collapsed.
"Hell!"
exclaimed Byrne. "We gotta get out of this," and lifting his woun=
ded
comrade in his arms he ran for the shelter of the bluff from the summit of
which the snipers had fired upon them. Close in, hugging the face of the
perpendicular wall of tumbled rock and earth, they were out of range of the
Indians; but Billy did not stop when he had reached temporary safety. Farth=
er
up toward the direction in which lay the village, and halfway up the side of
the bluff Billy saw what he took to be excellent shelter. Here the face of =
the
bluff was less steep and upon it lay a number of large bowlders, while othe=
rs
protruded from the ground about them.
Toward these Billy
made his way. The wounded man across his shoulder was suffering indescribab=
le
agonies; but he bit his lip and stifled the cries that each step his comrade
took seemed to wrench from him, lest he attract the enemy to their position=
.
Above them all was
silence, yet Billy knew that alert, red foemen were creeping to the edge of=
the
bluff in search of their prey. If he could but reach the shelter of the bow=
lders
before the Pimans discovered them!
The minutes that =
were
consumed in covering the hundred yards seemed as many hours to Billy Byrne;=
but
at last he dragged the fainting cowboy between two large bowlders close und=
er
the edge of the bluff and found himself in a little, natural fortress, well
adapted to defense.
From above they w=
ere
protected from the fire of the Indians upon the bluff by the height of the
bowlder at the foot of which they lay, while another just in front hid them
from possible marksmen across the canyon. Smaller rocks scattered about gave
promise of shelter from flank fire, and as soon as he had deposited Eddie in
the comparative safety of their retreat Byrne commenced forming a low
breastwork upon the side facing the village--the direction from which they
might naturally expect attack. This done he turned his attention to the ope=
ning
upon the opposite side and soon had a similar defense constructed there, th=
en
he turned his attention to Eddie, though keeping a watchful eye upon both a=
pproaches
to their stronghold.
The Kansan lay up=
on
his side, moaning. Blood stained his lips and nostrils, and when Billy Byrne
opened his shirt and found a gaping wound in his right breast he knew how
serious was his companion's injury. As he felt Billy working over him the b=
oy
opened his eyes.
"Do you think
I'm done for?" he asked in a tortured whisper.
"Nothin'
doin'," lied Billy cheerfully. "Just a scratch. You'll be all rig=
ht
in a day or two."
Eddie shook his h=
ead
wearily. "I wish I could believe you," he said. "I ben figge=
rin'
on goin' back to see maw. I ain't thought o' nothin' else since you told me
'bout how she missed me. I ken see her right now just like I was there. I'll
bet she's scrubbin' the kitchen floor. Maw was always a-scrubbin' somethin'.
Gee! but it's tough to cash in like this just when I was figgerin' on goin'
home."
Billy couldn't th=
ink
of anything to say. He turned to look up and down the canyon in search of t=
he
enemy.
"Home!"
whispered Eddie. "Home!"
"Aw,
shucks!" said Billy kindly. "You'll get home all right, kid. The =
boys
must a-heard the shootin' an' they'll be along in no time now. Then we'll c=
lean
up this bunch o' coons an' have you back to El Orobo an' nursed into shape =
in
no time."
Eddie tried to sm=
ile
as he looked up into the other's face. He reached a hand out and laid it on
Billy's arm.
"You're all
right, old man," he whispered. "I know you're lyin' an' so do you;
but it makes me feel better anyway to have you say them things."
Billy felt as one=
who
has been caught stealing from a blind man. The only adequate reply of which=
he
could think was, "Aw, shucks!"
"Say," =
said
Eddie after a moment's silence, "if you get out o' here an' ever go ba=
ck
to the States promise me you'll look up maw and paw an' tell 'em I was comi=
n'
home--to stay. Tell 'em I died decent, too, will you--died like paw was alw=
ays
a-tellin' me my granddad died, fightin' Injuns 'round Fort Dodge
somewheres."
"Sure,"
said Billy; "I'll tell 'em. Gee! Look who's comin' here," and as =
he
spoke he flattened himself to the ground just as a bullet pinged against the
rock above his head and the report of a rifle sounded from up the canyon.
"That guy most got me. I'll have to be 'tendin' to business better'n
this."
He drew himself
slowly up upon his elbows, his carbine ready in his hand, and peered throug=
h a
small aperture between two of the rocks which composed his breastwork. Then=
he
stuck the muzzle of the weapon through, took aim and pulled the trigger.
"Didje get
him?" asked Eddie.
"Yep," =
said
Billy, and fired again. "Got that one too. Say, they're tough-lookin'
guys; but I guess they won't come so fast next time. Those two were right in
the open, workin' up to us on their bellies. They must a-thought we was
sleepin'."
For an hour Billy
neither saw nor heard any sign of the enemy, though several times he raised=
his
hat above the breastwork upon the muzzle of his carbine to draw their fire.=
It was midafterno=
on
when the sound of distant rifle fire came faintly to the ears of the two men
from somewhere far below them.
"The boys mu=
st
be comin'," whispered Eddie Shorter hopefully.
For half an hour =
the
firing continued and then silence again fell upon the mountains. Eddie bega=
n to
wander mentally. He talked much of Kansas and his old home, and many times =
he
begged for water.
"Buck up,
kid," said Billy; "the boys'll be along in a minute now an' then
we'll get you all the water you want."
But the boys did =
not
come. Billy was standing up now, stretching his legs, and searching up and =
down
the canyon for Indians. He was wondering if he could chance making a break =
for
the valley where they stood some slight chance of meeting with their
companions, and even as he considered the matter seriously there came a
staccato report and Billy Byrne fell forward in a heap.
"God!"
cried Eddie. "They got him now, they got him."
Byrne stirred and
struggled to rise.
"Like'll they
got me," he said, and staggered to his knees.
Over the breastwo=
rk
he saw a half-dozen Indians running rapidly toward the shelter--he saw them=
in
a haze of red that was caused not by blood but by anger. With an oath Billy
Byrne leaped to his feet. From his knees up his whole body was exposed to t=
he
enemy; but Billy cared not. He was in a berserker rage. Whipping his carbin=
e to
his shoulder he let drive at the advancing Indians who were now beyond hope=
of
cover. They must come on or be shot down where they were, so they came on,
yelling like devils and stopping momentarily to fire upon the rash white man
who stood so perfect a target before them.
But their haste
spoiled their marksmanship. The bullets zinged and zipped against the rocky
little fortress, they nicked Billy's shirt and trousers and hat, and all the
while he stood there pumping lead into his assailants--not hysterically; but
with the cool deliberation of a butcher slaughtering beeves.
One by one the Pi=
mans
dropped until but a single Indian rushed frantically upon the white man, and
then the last of the assailants lunged forward across the breastwork with a
bullet from Billy's carbine through his forehead.
Eddie Shorter had
raised himself painfully upon an elbow that he might witness the battle, and
when it was over he sank back, the blood welling from between his set teeth=
.
Billy turned to l=
ook
at him when the last of the Pimans was disposed of, and seeing his condition
kneeled beside him and took his head in the hollow of an arm.
"You orter l=
ie
still," he cautioned the Kansan. "Tain't good for you to move aro=
und
much."
"It was worth
it," whispered Eddie. "Say, but that was some scrap. You got your
nerve standin' up there against the bunch of 'em; but if you hadn't they'd =
have
rushed us and some of 'em would a-got in."
"Funny the b=
oys
don't come," said Billy.
"Yes,"
replied Eddie, with a sigh; "it's milkin' time now, an' I figgered on
goin' to Shawnee this evenin'. Them's nice cookies, maw. I--"
Billy Byrne was
bending low to catch his feeble words, and when the voice trailed out into
nothingness he lowered the tousled red head to the hard earth and turned aw=
ay.
Could it be that =
the
thing which glistened on the eyelid of the toughest guy on the West Side wa=
s a
tear?
The afternoon wan=
ed
and night came, but it brought to Billy Byrne neither renewed attack nor
succor. The bullet which had dropped him momentarily had but creased his
forehead. Aside from the fact that he was blood covered from the wound it h=
ad
inconvenienced him in no way, and now that darkness had fallen he commenced=
to
plan upon leaving the shelter.
First he transfer=
red
Eddie's ammunition to his own person, and such valuables and trinkets as he
thought "maw" might be glad to have, then he removed the breechbl=
ock
from Eddie's carbine and stuck it in his pocket that the weapon might be
valueless to the Indians when they found it.
"Sorry I can=
't
bury you old man," was Billy's parting comment, as he climbed over the
breastwork and melted into the night.
Billy Byrne moved
cautiously through the darkness, and he moved not in the direction of escape
and safety but directly up the canyon in the way that the village of the Pi=
mans
lay.
Soon he heard the
sound of voices and shortly after saw the light of cook fires playing upon
bronzed faces and upon the fronts of low huts. Some women were moaning and
wailing. Billy guessed that they mourned for those whom his bullets had fou=
nd
earlier in the day. In the darkness of the night, far up among the rough,
forbidding mountains it was all very weird and uncanny.
Billy crept close=
r to
the village. Shelter was abundant. He saw no sign of sentry and wondered why
they should be so lax in the face of almost certain attack. Then it occurre=
d to
him that possibly the firing he and Eddie had heard earlier in the day far =
down
among the foothills might have meant the extermination of the Americans fro=
m El
Orobo.
"Well, I'll =
be
next then," mused Billy, and wormed closer to the huts. His eyes were =
on
the alert every instant, as were his ears; but no sign of that which he sou=
ght
rewarded his keenest observation.
Until midnight he=
lay
in concealment and all that time the mourners continued their dismal wailin=
g.
Then, one by one, they entered their huts, and silence reigned within the
village.
Billy crept close=
r.
He eyed each hut with longing, wondering gaze. Which could it be? How could=
he
determine? One seemed little more promising than the others. He had noted t=
hose
to which Indians had retired. There were three into which he had seen none =
go.
These, then, should be the first to undergo his scrutiny.
The night was dar=
k.
The moon had not yet risen. Only a few dying fires cast a wavering and
uncertain light upon the scene. Through the shadows Billy Byrne crept closer
and closer. At last he lay close beside one of the huts which was to be the
first to claim his attention.
For several momen=
ts
he lay listening intently for any sound which might come from within; but t=
here
was none. He crawled to the doorway and peered within. Utter darkness shrou=
ded
and hid the interior.
Billy rose and wa=
lked
boldly inside. If he could see no one within, then no one could see him onc=
e he
was inside the door. Therefore, so reasoned Billy Byrne, he would have as g=
ood
a chance as the occupants of the hut, should they prove to be enemies.
He crossed the fl=
oor
carefully, stopping often to listen. At last he heard a rustling sound just
ahead of him. His fingers tightened upon the revolver he carried in his rig=
ht
hand, by the barrel, clublike. Billy had no intention of making any more no=
ise
than necessary.
Again he heard a
sound from the same direction. It was not at all unlike the frightened gasp=
of
a woman. Billy emitted a low growl, in fair imitation of a prowling dog that
has been disturbed.
Again the gasp, a=
nd a
low: "Go away!" in liquid feminine tones--and in English!
Billy uttered a l=
ow:
"S-s-sh!" and tiptoed closer. Extending his hands they presently =
came
in contact with a human body which shrank from him with another smothered c=
ry.
"Barbara!&qu=
ot;
whispered Billy, bending closer.
A hand reached out
through the darkness, found him, and closed upon his sleeve.
"Who are
you?" asked a low voice.
"Billy,"=
; he
replied. "Are you alone in here?"
"No, an old
woman guards me," replied the girl, and at the same time they both hea=
rd a
movement close at hand, and something scurried past them to be silhouetted =
for
an instant against the path of lesser darkness which marked the location of=
the
doorway.
"There she
goes!" cried Barbara. "She heard you and she has gone for help.&q=
uot;
"Then
come!" said Billy, seizing the girl's arm and dragging her to her feet;
but they had scarce crossed half the distance to the doorway when the cries=
of
the old woman without warned them that the camp was being aroused.
Billy thrust a revolver into Barbara's hand. "We gotta make a fight of it, little girl," he said. "But you'd better die than be here alone." <= o:p>
As they emerged f=
rom
the hut they saw warriors running from every doorway. The old woman stood
screaming in Piman at the top of her lungs. Billy, keeping Barbara in front=
of
him that he might shield her body with his own, turned directly out of the
village. He did not fire at first hoping that they might elude detection and
thus not draw the fire of the Indians upon them; but he was doomed to
disappointment, and they had taken scarcely a dozen steps when a rifle spoke
above the noise of human voices and a bullet whizzed past them.
Then Billy replie=
d,
and Barbara, too, from just behind his shoulder. Together they backed away
toward the shadow of the trees beyond the village and as they went they pou=
red
shot after shot into the village.
The Indians, but =
just
awakened and still half stupid from sleep, did not know but that they were
attacked by a vastly superior force, and this fear held them in check for
several minutes--long enough for Billy and Barbara to reach the summit of t=
he
bluff from which Billy and Eddie had first been fired upon.
Here they were hi=
dden
from the view of the Indians, and Billy broke at once into a run, half carr=
ying
the girl with a strong arm about her waist.
"If we can r=
each
the foothills," he said, "I think we can dodge 'em, an' by goin' =
all
night we may reach the river and El Orobo by morning. It's a long hike,
Barbara, but we gotta make it--we gotta, for if daylight finds us in the Pi=
man
country we won't never make it. Anyway," he concluded optimistically,
"it's all down hill."
"We'll make =
it,
Billy," she replied, "if we can get past the sentry."
"What
sentry?" asked Billy. "I didn't see no sentry when I come in.&quo=
t;
"They keep a
sentry way down the trail all night," replied the girl. "In the
daytime he is nearer the village--on the top of this bluff, for from here he
can see the whole valley; but at night they station him farther away in a
narrow part of the trail."
"It's a migh=
ty
good thing you tipped me off," said Billy; "for I'd a-run right i=
nto
him. I thought they was all behind us now."
After that they w=
ent
more cautiously, and when they reached the part of the trail where the sent=
ry
might be expected to be found, Barbara warned Billy of the fact. Like two
thieves they crept along in the shadow of the canyon wall. Inwardly Billy
cursed the darkness of the night which hid from view everything more than a=
few
paces from them; yet it may have been this very darkness which saved them,
since it hid them as effectually from an enemy as it hid the enemy from the=
m.
They had reached the point where Barbara was positive the sentry should be.=
The
girl was clinging tightly to Billy's left arm. He could feel the pressure of
her fingers as they sunk into his muscles, sending little tremors and thril=
ls
through his giant frame. Even in the face of death Billy Byrne could sense =
the
ecstasies of personal contact with this girl--the only woman he ever had lo=
ved
or ever would.
And then a black
shadow loomed before them, and a rifle flashed in their faces without a wor=
d or
a sign of warning.
MR. ANTHONY HARDI=
NG
was pacing back and forth the length of the veranda of the ranchhouse at El
Orobo waiting for some word of hope from those who had ridden out in search=
of
his daughter, Barbara. Each swirling dust devil that eddied across the dry =
flat
on either side of the river roused hopes within his breast that it might ha=
ve
been spurred into activity by the hoofs of a pony bearing a messenger of go=
od
tidings; but always his hopes were dashed, for no horseman emerged from the
heat haze of the distance where the little dust devils raced playfully among
the cacti and the greasewood.
But at last, in t=
he
northwest, a horseman, unheralded by gyrating dust column, came into sight.=
Mr.
Harding shook his head sorrowfully. It had not been from this direction tha=
t he
had expected word of Barbara, yet he kept his eyes fastened upon the rider
until the latter reined in at the ranchyard and loped a tired and sweating =
pony
to the foot of the veranda steps. Then Mr. Harding saw who the newcomer was=
.
"Bridge!&quo=
t;
he exclaimed. "What brings you back here? Don't you know that you enda=
nger
us as well as yourself by being seen here? General Villa will think that we
have been harboring you."
Bridge swung from=
the
saddle and ran up onto the veranda. He paid not the slightest attention to
Anthony Harding's protest.
"How many men
you got here that you can depend on?" he asked.
"None,"
replied the Easterner. "What do you mean?"
"None!"
cried Bridge, incredulity and hopelessness showing upon his countenance.
"Isn't there a Chinaman and a couple of faithful Mexicans?"
"Oh, yes, of
course," assented Mr. Harding; "but what are you driving at?"=
;
"Pesita is on
his way here to clean up El Orobo. He can't be very far behind me. Call the=
men
you got, and we'll get together all the guns and ammunition on the ranch, a=
nd
barricade the ranchhouse. We may be able to stand 'em off. Have you heard
anything of Miss Barbara?"
Anthony Harding s=
hook
his head sadly.
"Then we'll =
have
to stay right here and do the best we can," said Bridge. "I was
thinking we might make a run for it if Miss Barbara was here; but as she's =
not
we must wait for those who went out after her."
Mr. Harding summo=
ned
the two Mexicans while Bridge ran to the cookhouse and ordered the Chinaman=
to
the ranchhouse. Then the erstwhile bookkeeper ransacked the bunkhouse for a=
rms
and ammunition. What little he found he carried to the ranchhouse, and with=
the
help of the others barricaded the doors and windows of the first floor.
"We'll have =
to
make our fight from the upper windows," he explained to the ranch owne=
r.
"If Pesita doesn't bring too large a force we may be able to stand them
off until you can get help from Cuivaca. Call up there now and see if you c=
an
get Villa to send help--he ought to protect you from Pesita. I understand t=
hat
there is no love lost between the two."
Anthony Harding w=
ent
at once to the telephone and rang for the central at Cuivaca.
"Tell it to =
the
operator," shouted Bridge who stood peering through an opening in the
barricade before a front window; "they are coming now, and the chances=
are
that the first thing they'll do is cut the telephone wires."
The Easterner pou=
red
his story and appeal for help into the ears of the girl at the other end of=
the
line, and then for a few moments there was silence in the room as he listen=
ed
to her reply.
"Impossible!=
"
and "My God! it can't be true," Bridge heard the older man ejacul=
ate,
and then he saw him hang up the receiver and turn from the instrument, his =
face
drawn and pinched with an expression of utter hopelessness.
"What's
wrong?" asked Bridge.
"Villa has
turned against the Americans," replied Harding, dully. "The opera=
tor
evidently feels friendly toward us, for she warned me not to appeal to Villa
and told me why. Even now, this minute, the man has a force of twenty-five
hundred ready to march on Columbus, New Mexico. Three Americans were hanged=
in
Cuivaca this afternoon. It's horrible, sir! It's horrible! We are as good as
dead this very minute. Even if we stand off Pesita we can never escape to t=
he
border through Villa's forces."
"It looks
bad," admitted Bridge. "In fact it couldn't look much worse; but =
here
we are, and while our ammunition holds out about all we can do is stay here=
and
use it. Will you men stand by us?" he addressed the Chinaman and the t=
wo
Mexicans, who assured him that they had no love for Pesita and would fight =
for
Anthony Harding in preference to going over to the enemy.
"Good!"
exclaimed Bridge, "and now for upstairs. They'll be howling around her=
e in
about five minutes, and we want to give them a reception they won't
forget."
He led the way to=
the
second floor, where the five took up positions near the front windows. A sh=
ort
distance from the ranchhouse they could see the enemy, consisting of a
detachment of some twenty of Pesita's troopers riding at a brisk trot in th=
eir
direction.
"Pesita's wi=
th
them," announced Bridge, presently. "He's the little fellow on the
sorrel. Wait until they are close up, then give them a few rounds; but go e=
asy
on the ammunition--we haven't any too much."
Pesita, expecting=
no
resistance, rode boldly into the ranchyard. At the bunkhouse and the office=
his
little force halted while three or four troopers dismounted and entered the
buildings in search of victims. Disappointed there they moved toward the
ranchhouse.
"Lie low!&qu=
ot;
Bridge cautioned his companions. "Don't let them see you, and wait til=
l I
give the word before you fire."
On came the horse=
men
at a slow walk. Bridge waited until they were within a few yards of the hou=
se,
then he cried: "Now! Let 'em have it!" A rattle of rifle fire bro=
ke
from the upper windows into the ranks of the Pesitistas. Three troopers ree=
led
and slipped from their saddles. Two horses dropped in their tracks. Cursing=
and
yelling, the balance of the horsemen wheeled and galloped away in the direc=
tion
of the office building, followed by the fire of the defenders.
"That wasn't=
so
bad," cried Bridge. "I'll venture a guess that Mr. Pesita is some
surprised--and sore. There they go behind the office. They'll stay there a =
few
minutes talking it over and getting up their courage to try it again. Next =
time
they'll come from another direction. You two," he continued, turning to
the Mexicans, "take positions on the east and south sides of the house.
Sing can remain here with Mr. Harding. I'll take the north side facing the
office. Shoot at the first man who shows his head. If we can hold them off
until dark we may be able to get away. Whatever happens don't let one of th=
em
get close enough to fire the house. That's what they'll try for."
It was fifteen
minutes before the second attack came. Five dismounted troopers made a dash=
for
the north side of the house; but when Bridge dropped the first of them befo=
re
he had taken ten steps from the office building and wounded a second the ot=
hers
retreated for shelter.
Time and again as=
the
afternoon wore away Pesita made attempts to get men close up to the house; =
but
in each instance they were driven back, until at last they desisted from th=
eir
efforts to fire the house or rush it, and contented themselves with firing =
an
occasional shot through the windows opposite them.
"They're wai=
ting
for dark," said Bridge to Mr. Harding during a temporary lull in the
hostilities, "and then we're goners, unless the boys come back from ac=
ross
the river in time."
"Couldn't we=
get
away after dark?" asked the Easterner.
"It's our on=
ly
hope if help don't reach us," replied Bridge.
But when night
finally fell and the five men made an attempt to leave the house upon the s=
ide
away from the office building they were met with the flash of carbines and =
the
ping of bullets. One of the Mexican defenders fell, mortally wounded, and t=
he
others were barely able to drag him within and replace the barricade before=
the
door when five of Pesita's men charged close up to their defenses. These we=
re
finally driven off and again there came a lull; but all hope of escape was
gone, and Bridge reposted the defenders at the upper windows where they mig=
ht watch
every approach to the house.
As the hours drag=
ged
on the hopelessness of their position grew upon the minds of all. Their
ammunition was almost gone--each man had but a few rounds remaining--and it=
was
evident that Pesita, through an inordinate desire for revenge, would persist
until he had reduced their fortress and claimed the last of them as his vic=
tim.
It was with such
cheerful expectations that they awaited the final assault which would see t=
hem
without ammunition and defenseless in the face of a cruel and implacable fo=
e.
It was just before
daylight that the anticipated rush occurred. From every side rang the repor=
ts
of carbines and the yells of the bandits. There were scarcely more than a d=
ozen
of the original twenty left; but they made up for their depleted numbers by=
the
rapidity with which they worked their firearms and the loudness and ferocit=
y of
their savage cries.
And this time they
reached the shelter of the veranda and commenced battering at the door.
At the report of =
the
rifle so close to them Billy Byrne shoved Barbara quickly to one side and
leaped forward to close with the man who barred their way to liberty.
That they had
surprised him even more than he had them was evidenced by the wildness of h=
is
shot which passed harmlessly above their heads as well as by the fact that =
he
had permitted them to come so close before engaging them.
To the latter eve=
nt
was attributable his undoing, for it permitted Billy Byrne to close with him
before the Indian could reload his antiquated weapon. Down the two men went,
the American on top, each striving for a death-hold; but in weight and stre=
ngth
and skill the Piman was far outclassed by the trained fighter, a part of wh=
ose
daily workouts had consisted in wrestling with proficient artists of the ma=
t.
Barbara Harding r=
an
forward to assist her champion but as the men rolled and tumbled over the
ground she could find no opening for a blow that might not endanger Billy B=
yrne
quite as much as it endangered his antagonist; but presently she discovered
that the American required no assistance. She saw the Indian's head bending
slowly forward beneath the resistless force of the other's huge muscles, she
heard the crack that announced the parting of the vertebrae and saw the limp
thing which had but a moment before been a man, pulsing with life and vigor,
roll helplessly aside--a harmless and inanimate lump of clay.
Billy Byrne leape=
d to
his feet, shaking himself as a great mastiff might whose coat had been ruff=
led
in a fight.
"Come!"=
he
whispered. "We gotta beat it now for sure. That guy's shot'll lead 'em
right down to us," and once more they took up their flight down toward=
the
valley, along an unknown trail through the darkness of the night.
For the most part they moved in silence, Billy holding the girl's arm or hand to steady her o= ver the rough and dangerous portions of the path. And as they went there grew in Billy's breast a love so deep and so resistless that he found himself wonde= ring that he had ever imagined that his former passion for this girl was love. <= o:p>
This new thing su=
rged
through him and over him with all the blind, brutal, compelling force of a =
mighty
tidal wave. It battered down and swept away the frail barriers of his new-f=
ound
gentleness. Again he was the Mucker--hating the artificial wall of social c=
aste
which separated him from this girl; but now he was ready to climb the wall,=
or,
better still, to batter it down with his huge fists. But the time was not y=
et--first
he must get Barbara to a place of safety.
On and on they we=
nt.
The night grew cold. Far ahead there sounded the occasional pop of a rifle.
Billy wondered what it could mean and as they approached the ranch and he
discovered that it came from that direction he hastened their steps to even
greater speed than before.
"Somebody's
shootin' up the ranch," he volunteered. "Wonder who it could be.&=
quot;
"Suppose it =
is
your friend and general?" asked the girl.
Billy made no rep=
ly.
They reached the river and as Billy knew not where the fords lay he plunged=
in
at the point at which the water first barred their progress and dragging the
girl after him, plowed bull-like for the opposite shore. Where the water was
above his depth he swam while Barbara clung to his shoulders. Thus they made
the passage quickly and safely.
Billy stopped long
enough to shake the water out of his carbine, which the girl had carried
across, and then forged ahead toward the ranchhouse from which the sounds of
battle came now in increased volume.
And at the ranchh=
ouse
"hell was popping." The moment Bridge realized that some of the
attackers had reached the veranda he called the surviving Mexican and the
Chinaman to follow him to the lower floor where they might stand a better
chance to repel this new attack. Mr. Harding he persuaded to remain upstair=
s.
Outside a dozen m=
en
were battering to force an entrance. Already one panel had splintered, and =
as
Bridge entered the room he could see the figures of the bandits through the
hole they had made. Raising his rifle he fired through the aperture. There =
was
a scream as one of the attackers dropped; but the others only increased the=
ir
efforts, their oaths, and their threats of vengeance.
The three defende=
rs
poured a few rounds through the sagging door, then Bridge noted that the
Chinaman ceased firing.
"What's the
matter?" he asked.
"Allee
gonee," replied Sing, pointing to his ammunition belt.
At the same insta=
nt
the Mexican threw down his carbine and rushed for a window on the opposite =
side
of the room. His ammunition was exhausted and with it had departed his cour=
age.
Flight seemed the only course remaining. Bridge made no effort to stop him.=
He
would have been glad to fly, too; but he could not leave Anthony Harding, a=
nd
he was sure that the older man would prove unequal to any sustained flight =
on
foot.
"You better =
go,
too, Sing," he said to the Chinaman, placing another bullet through the
door; "there's nothing more that you can do, and it may be that they a=
re
all on this side now--I think they are. You fellows have fought splendidly.
Wish I could give you something more substantial than thanks; but that's al=
l I
have now and shortly Pesita won't even leave me that much."
"Allee
light," replied Sing cheerfully, and a second later he was clambering
through the window in the wake of the loyal Mexican.
And then the door
crashed in and half a dozen troopers followed by Pesita himself burst into =
the
room.
Bridge was standi=
ng
at the foot of the stairs, his carbine clubbed, for he had just spent his l=
ast
bullet. He knew that he must die; but he was determined to make them purcha=
se
his life as dearly as he could, and to die in defense of Anthony Harding, t=
he
father of the girl he loved, even though hopelessly.
Pesita saw from t=
he
American's attitude that he had no more ammunition. He struck up the carbin=
e of
a trooper who was about to shoot Bridge down.
"Wait!"
commanded the bandit. "Cease firing! His ammunition is gone. Will you =
surrender?"
he asked of Bridge.
"Not until I
have beaten from the heads of one or two of your friends," he replied,
"that which their egotism leads them to imagine are brains. No, if you
take me alive, Pesita, you will have to kill me to do it."
Pesita shrugged.
"Very well," he said, indifferently, "it makes little differ=
ence
to me--that stairway is as good as a wall. These brave defenders of the lib=
erty
of poor, bleeding Mexico will make an excellent firing squad. Attention, my
children! Ready! Aim!"
Eleven carbines w=
ere
leveled at Bridge. In the ghastly light of early dawn the sallow complexion=
s of
the Mexicans took on a weird hue. The American made a wry face, a slight
shudder shook his slender frame, and then he squared his shoulders and look=
ed
Pesita smilingly in the face.
The figure of a m=
an
appeared at the window through which the Chinaman and the loyal Mexican had
escaped. Quick eyes took in the scene within the room.
"Hey!" =
he
yelled. "Cut the rough stuff!" and leaped into the room.
Pesita, surprised=
by
the interruption, turned toward the intruder before he had given the comman=
d to
fire. A smile lit his features when he saw who it was.
"Ah!" he
exclaimed, "my dear Captain Byrne. Just in time to see a traitor and a=
spy
pay the penalty for his crimes."
"Nothin'
doin'," growled Billy Byrne, and then he threw his carbine to his shou=
lder
and took careful aim at Pesita's face.
How easy it would
have been to have hesitated a moment in the window before he made his prese=
nce
known--just long enough for Pesita to speak the single word that would have
sent eleven bullets speeding into the body of the man who loved Barbara and
whom Billy believed the girl loved. But did such a thought occur to Billy B=
yrne
of Grand Avenue? It did not. He forgot every other consideration beyond his
loyalty to a friend. Bridge and Pesita were looking at him in wide-eyed
astonishment.
"Lay down yo=
ur
carbines!" Billy shot his command at the firing squad. "Lay 'em d=
own
or I'll bore Pesita. Tell 'em to lay 'em down, Pesita. I gotta bead on your
beezer."
Pesita did as he =
was
bid, his yellow face pasty with rage.
"Now their
cartridge belts!" snapped Billy, and when these had been deposited upon
the floor he told Bridge to disarm the bandit chief.
"Is Mr. Hard=
ing
safe?" he asked of Bridge, and receiving an affirmative he called upst=
airs
for the older man to descend.
As Mr. Harding
reached the foot of the stairs Barbara entered the room by the window throu=
gh
which Billy had come--a window which opened upon the side veranda.
"Now we gotta
hike," announced Billy. "It won't never be safe for none of you h=
ere
after this, not even if you do think Villa's your friend--which he ain't the
friend of no American."
"We know that
now," said Mr. Harding, and repeated to Billy that which the telephone
operator had told him earlier in the day.
Marching Pesita a=
nd
his men ahead of them Billy and the others made their way to the rear of the
office building where the horses of the bandits were tethered. They were ea=
ch
armed now from the discarded weapons of the raiders, and well supplied with
ammunition. The Chinaman and the loyal Mexican also discovered themselves w=
hen
they learned that the tables had been turned upon Pesita. They, too, were a=
rmed
and all were mounted, and when Billy had loaded the remaining weapons upon =
the balance
of the horses the party rode away, driving Pesita's live stock and arms ahe=
ad
of them.
"I
imagine," remarked Bridge, "that you've rather discouraged pursuit
for a while at least," but pursuit came sooner than they had anticipat=
ed.
They had reached a
point on the river not far from Jose's when a band of horsemen appeared
approaching from the west. Billy urged his party to greater speed that they
might avoid a meeting if possible; but it soon became evident that the
strangers had no intention of permitting them to go unchallenged, for they
altered their course and increased their speed so that they were soon beari=
ng
down upon the fugitives at a rapid gallop.
"I guess,&qu=
ot;
said Billy, "that we'd better open up on 'em. It's a cinch they ain't =
no
friends of ours anywhere in these parts."
"Hadn't we
better wait a moment," said Mr. Harding; "we do not want to chance
making any mistake."
"It ain't ne=
ver
a mistake to shoot a Dago," replied Billy. His eyes were fastened upon=
the
approaching horsemen, and he presently gave an exclamation of recognition.
"There's Rozales," he said. "I couldn't mistake that beanpole
nowheres. We're safe enough in takin' a shot at 'em if Rosie's with 'em. He=
's
Pesita's head guy," and he drew his revolver and took a single shot in=
the
direction of his former comrades. Bridge followed his example. The oncoming
Pesitistas reined in. Billy returned his revolver to its holster and drew h=
is
carbine.
"You ride on
ahead," he said to Mr. Harding and Barbara. "Bridge and I'll brin=
g up
the rear."
Then he stopped h=
is
pony and turning took deliberate aim at the knot of horsemen to their left.=
A
bandit tumbled from his saddle and the fight was on.
Fortunately for t=
he
Americans Rozales had but a handful of men with him and Rozales himself was
never keen for a fight in the open.
All morning he
hovered around the rear of the escaping Americans; but neither side did much
damage to the other, and during the afternoon Billy noticed that Rozales me=
rely
followed within sight of them, after having dispatched one of his men back =
in
the direction from which they had come.
"After
reinforcements," commented Byrne.
All day they rode
without meeting with any roving bands of soldiers or bandits, and the
explanation was all too sinister to the Americans when coupled with the
knowledge that Villa was to attack an American town that night.
"I wish we c=
ould
reach the border in time to warn 'em," said Billy; "but they ain'=
t no
chance. If we cross before sunup tomorrow morning we'll be doin' well."=
;
He had scarcely
spoken to Barbara Harding all day, for his duties as rear guard had kept him
busy; nor had he conversed much with Bridge, though he had often eyed the
latter whose gaze wandered many times to the slender, graceful figure of th=
e girl
ahead of them.
Billy was thinkin=
g as
he never had thought before. It seemed to him a cruel fate that had so shap=
ed
their destinies that his best friend loved the girl Billy loved. That Bridge
was ignorant of Billy's infatuation for her the latter well knew. He could =
not
blame Bridge, nor could he, upon the other hand, quite reconcile himself to=
the
more than apparent adoration which marked his friend's attitude toward Barb=
ara.
As daylight waned=
the
fugitives realized from the shuffling gait of their mounts, from drooping h=
eads
and dull eyes that rest was imperative. They themselves were fagged, too, a=
nd
when a ranchhouse loomed in front of them they decided to halt for much-nee=
ded recuperation.
Here they found t=
hree
Americans who were totally unaware of Villa's contemplated raid across the
border, and who when they were informed of it were doubly glad to welcome s=
ix
extra carbines, for Barbara not only was armed but was eminently qualified =
to
expend ammunition without wasting it.
Rozales and his s=
mall
band halted out of range of the ranch; but they went hungry while their qua=
rry
fed themselves and their tired mounts.
The Clark brothers
and their cousin, a man by the name of Mason, who were the sole inhabitants=
of
the ranch counseled a long rest--two hours at least, for the border was sti=
ll
ten miles away and speed at the last moment might be their sole means of
salvation.
Billy was for mov=
ing
on at once before the reinforcements, for which he was sure Rozales had
dispatched his messenger, could overtake them. But the others were tired and
argued, too, that upon jaded ponies they could not hope to escape and so th=
ey
waited, until, just as they were ready to continue their flight, flight bec=
ame
impossible.
Darkness had fall=
en
when the little party commenced to resaddle their ponies and in the midst of
their labors there came a rude and disheartening interruption. Billy had ke=
pt
either the Chinaman or Bridge constantly upon watch toward the direction in
which Rozales' men lolled smoking in the dark, and it was the crack of Brid=
ge's
carbine which awoke the Americans to the fact that though the border lay bu=
t a
few miles away they were still far from safety.
As he fired Bridge
turned in his saddle and shouted to the others to make for the shelter of t=
he
ranchhouse.
"There are t=
wo
hundred of them," he cried. "Run for cover!"
Billy and the Cla=
rk
brothers leaped to their saddles and spurred toward the point where Bridge =
sat
pumping lead into the advancing enemy. Mason and Mr. Harding hurried Barbar=
a to
the questionable safety of the ranchhouse. The Mexican followed them, and
Bridge ordered Sing back to assist in barricading the doors and windows, wh=
ile
he and Billy and the Clark boys held the bandits in momentary check.
Falling back slow=
ly
and firing constantly as they came the four approached the house while Pesi=
ta
and his full band advanced cautiously after them. They had almost reached t=
he
house when Bridge lunged forward from his saddle. The Clark boys had dismou=
nted
and were leading their ponies inside the house. Billy alone noted the wound=
ing
of his friend. Without an instant's hesitation he slipped from his saddle, =
ran
back to where Bridge lay and lifted him in his arms. Bullets were pattering=
thick
about them. A horseman far in advance of his fellows galloped forward with
drawn saber to cut down the gringos.
Billy, casting an
occasional glance behind, saw the danger in time to meet it--just, in fact,=
as
the weapon was cutting through the air toward his head. Dropping Bridge and
dodging to one side he managed to escape the cut, and before the swordsman
could recover Billy had leaped to his pony's side and seizing the rider abo=
ut
the waist dragged him to the ground.
"Rozales!&qu=
ot;
he exclaimed, and struck the man as he had never struck another in all his
life, with the full force of his mighty muscles backed by his great weight,
with clenched fist full in the face.
There was a spurt=
ing
of blood and a splintering of bone, and Captain Guillermo Rozales sank
senseless to the ground, his career of crime and rapine ended forever.
Again Billy lifted
Bridge in his arms and this time he succeeded in reaching the ranchhouse
without opposition though a little crimson stream trickled down his left ar=
m to
drop upon the face of his friend as he deposited Bridge upon the floor of t=
he
house.
All night the
Pesitistas circled the lone ranchhouse. All night they poured their volleys
into the adobe walls and through the barricaded windows. All night the litt=
le
band of defenders fought gallantly for their lives; but as day approached t=
he
futility of their endeavors was borne in upon them, for of the nine one was
dead and three wounded, and the numbers of their assailants seemed
undiminished.
Billy Byrne had b=
een
lying all night upon his stomach before a window firing out into the darkne=
ss
at the dim forms which occasionally showed against the dull, dead backgroun=
d of
the moonless desert.
Presently he leap=
ed
to his feet and crossed the floor to the room in which the horses had been
placed.
"Everybody f=
ire
toward the rear of the house as fast as they can," said Billy. "I
want a clear space for my getaway."
"Where you
goin?" asked one of the Clark brothers.
"North,"
replied Billy, "after some of Funston's men on the border."
"But they wo=
n't
cross," said Mr. Harding. "Washington won't let them."
"They
gotta," snapped Billy Byrne, "an' they will when they know there'=
s an
American girl here with a bunch of Dagos yappin' around."
"You'll be
killed," said Price Clark. "You can't never get through."
"Leave it to
me," replied Billy. "Just get ready an' open that back door when I
give the word, an' then shut it again in a hurry when I've gone through.&qu=
ot;
He led a horse fr=
om
the side room, and mounted it.
"Open her up,
boes!" he shouted, and "S'long everybody!"
Price Clark swung=
the
door open. Billy put spurs to his mount and threw himself forward flat agai=
nst
the animal's neck. Another moment he was through and a rattling fusillade of
shots proclaimed the fact that his bold feat had not gone unnoted by the fo=
e.
The little Mexican
pony shot like a bolt from a crossbow out across the level desert. The ratt=
ling
of carbines only served to add speed to its frightened feet. Billy sat erec=
t in
the saddle, guiding the horse with his left hand and working his revolver
methodically with his right.
At a window behind
him Barbara Harding stood breathless and spellbound until he had disappeared
into the gloom of the early morning darkness to the north, then she turned =
with
a weary sigh and resumed her place beside the wounded Bridge whose head she=
bathed
with cool water, while he tossed in the delirium of fever.
The first streaks=
of
daylight were piercing the heavens, the Pesitistas were rallying for a deci=
sive
charge, the hopes of the little band of besieged were at low ebb when from =
the
west there sounded the pounding of many hoofs.
"Villa,"
moaned Westcott Clark, hopelessly. "We're done for now, sure enough. He
must be comin' back from his raid on the border."
In the faint ligh=
t of
dawn they saw a column of horsemen deploy suddenly into a long, thin line w=
hich
galloped forward over the flat earth, coming toward them like a huge,
relentless engine of destruction.
The Pesitistas we=
re
watching too. They had ceased firing and sat in their saddles forgetful of
their contemplated charge.
The occupants of =
the
ranchhouse were gathered at the small windows.
"What's
them?" cried Mason--"them things floating over 'em."
"They're
guidons!" exclaimed Price Clark "--the guidons of the United Stat=
es
cavalry regiment. See 'em! See 'em? God! but don't they look good?"
There was a wild
whoop from the lungs of the advancing cavalrymen. Pesita's troops answered =
it
with a scattering volley, and a moment later the Americans were among them =
in
that famous revolver charge which is now history.
Daylight had come
revealing to the watchers in the ranchhouse the figures of the combatants. =
In
the thick of the fight loomed the giant figure of a man in nondescript garb
which more closely resembled the apparel of the Pesitistas than it did the
uniforms of the American soldiery, yet it was with them he fought. Barbara's
eyes were the first to detect him.
"There's Mr.
Byrne," she cried. "It must have been he who brought the troops.&=
quot;
"Why, he has=
n't
had time to reach the border yet," remonstrated one of the Clark boys,
"much less get back here with help."
"There he is
though," said Mr. Harding. "It's certainly strange. I can't under=
stand
what American troops are doing across the border--especially under the pres=
ent
administration."
The Pesitistas he=
ld
their ground for but a moment then they wheeled and fled; but not before Pe=
sita
himself had forced his pony close to that of Billy Byrne.
"Traitor!&qu=
ot;
screamed the bandit. "You shall die for this," and fired point-bl=
ank
at the American.
Billy felt a burn=
ing
sensation in his already wounded left arm; but his right was still good.
"For poor,
bleeding Mexico!" he cried, and put a bullet through Pesita's forehead=
.
Under escort of the men of the Thirteenth
Cavalry who had pursued Villa's raiders into Mexico and upon whom Billy Byr=
ne had
stumbled by chance, the little party of fugitives came safely to United Sta=
tes
soil, where all but one breathed sighs of heartfelt relief.
Bridge was given
first aid by members of the hospital corps, who assured Billy that his frie=
nd
would not die. Mr. Harding and Barbara were taken in by the wife of an offi=
cer,
and it was at the quarters of the latter that Billy Byrne found her alone in
the sitting-room.
The girl looked u=
p as
he entered, a sad smile upon her face. She was about to ask him of his woun=
d;
but he gave her no opportunity.
"I've come f=
or
you," he said. "I gave you up once when I thought it was better f=
or
you to marry a man in your own class. I won't give you up again. You're
mine--you're my girl, and I'm goin' to take you with me. Were goin' to
Galveston as fast as we can, and from there we're goin' to Rio. You belonge=
d to
me long before Bridge saw you. He can't have you. Nobody can have you but m=
e,
and if anyone tries to keep me from taking you they'll get killed."
He took a step ne=
arer
that brought him close to her. She did not shrink--only looked up into his =
face
with wide eyes filled with wonder. He seized her roughly in his arms.
"You are my
girl!" he cried hoarsely. "Kiss me!"
"Wait!"=
she
said. "First tell me what you meant by saying that Bridge couldn't have
me. I never knew that Bridge wanted me, and I certainly have never wanted
Bridge. O Billy! Why didn't you do this long ago? Months ago in New York I
wanted you to take me; but you left me to another man whom I didn't love. I=
thought
you had ceased to care, Billy, and since we have been together here--since =
that
night in the room back of the office--you have made me feel that I was noth=
ing
to you. Take me, Billy! Take me anywhere in the world that you go. I love y=
ou
and I'll slave for you--anything just to be with you."
"Barbara!&qu=
ot;
cried Billy Byrne, and then his voice was smothered by the pressure of warm,
red lips against his own.
A half hour later
Billy stepped out into the street to make his way to the railroad station t=
hat
he might procure transportation for three to Galveston. Anthony Harding was
going with them. He had listened to Barbara's pleas, and had finally
volunteered to back Billy Byrne's flight from the jurisdiction of the law, =
or
at least to a place where, under a new name, he could start life over again=
and
live it as the son-in-law of old Anthony Harding should live.
Among the crowd
viewing the havoc wrought by the raiders the previous night was a large man
with a red face. It happened that he turned suddenly about as Billy Byrne w=
as
on the point of passing behind him. Both men started as recognition lighted
their faces and he of the red face found himself looking down the barrel of=
a
six-shooter.
"Put it up,
Byrne," he admonished the other coolly. "I didn't know you were so
good on the draw."
"I'm good on=
the
draw all right, Flannagan," said Billy, "and I ain't drawin' for
amusement neither. I gotta chance to get away and live straight, and have a
little happiness in life, and, Flannagan, the man who tries to crab my game=
is
goin' to get himself croaked. I'll never go back to stir alive. See?" =
"Yep," =
said
Flannagan, "I see; but I ain't tryin' to crab your game. I ain't down =
here
after you this trip. Where you been, anyway, that you don't know the war's
over? Why Coke Sheehan confessed a month ago that it was him that croaked
Schneider, and the governor pardoned you about ten days ago."
"You stringi=
n'
me?" asked Billy, a vicious glint in his eyes.
"On the
level," Flannagan assured him. "Wait, I gotta clippin' from the T=
rib
in my clothes somewheres that gives all the dope."
He drew some pape=
rs
from his coat pocket and handed one to Billy.
"Turn your b=
ack
and hold up your hands while I read," said Byrne, and as Flannagan did=
as
he was bid Billy unfolded the soiled bit of newspaper and read that which s=
et
him a-trembling with nervous excitement.
A moment later
Detective Sergeant Flannagan ventured a rearward glance to note how Byrne w=
as
receiving the joyful tidings which the newspaper article contained.
"Well, I'll
be!" ejaculated the sleuth, for Billy Byrne was already a hundred yards
away and breaking all records in his dash for the sitting-room he had quitt=
ed
but a few minutes before.
It was a happy and
contented trio who took the train the following day on their way back to New
York City after bidding Bridge good-bye in the improvised hospital and exac=
ting
his promise that he would visit them in New York in the near future.
It was a month later; spring was filling=
the
southland with new, sweet life. The joy of living was reflected in the song=
of
birds and the opening of buds. Beside a slow-moving stream a man squatted
before a tiny fire. A battered tin can, half filled with water stood close =
to
the burning embers. Upon a sharpened stick the man roasted a bit of meat, a=
nd
as he watched it curling at the edges as the flame licked it he spoke aloud
though there was none to hear:
Just for a con I'd like to know (yes, he
crossed over long ago; And he was =
right,
believe me, bo!) if somewhere in the South, Down where the clouds lie on the sea, he
found his sweet Penelope With buds=
of
roses in her hair and kisses on her mouth.
"Which is what they will be singing=
about
me one of these days," he commented.