CHAPTER XVIII.
OLD P. D. LOOKS DOWN OVER THE ROCKS.
Charley was floundering around in the whirl of waters, struggling for dear life to prevent being dragged down into the boiling pot.
Dick was engaged in a struggle of another sort. He was making it decidedly hot for the men who had tackled him, kicking and turning and twisting. They tried hard to throw him over the edge of the bank and might have succeeded if another man had not come running out of the mouth of the canyon, shouting:
“No, no! Don’t pitch him in! Let the other go to thunder, but I want this one, as I told you before.”
It was Tony. As Dick recognized him he was suddenly stretched upon the ground by a stunning blow between the eyes that one of his captors found a chance to get in.
It nearly knocked the breath out of his body and his wits went with it for the moment.
When he came to himself again Tony had him by the collar and was lifting him up, while three tough-looking specimens stood around ready to help.
The Boiling Pot had stopped boiling now and Charley was nowhere to be seen.
“Say, Dick Darrell, brace up! Pull yourself together!” cried Tony. “Where’s Mudd and the gal?”
“Find out,” panted Dick. “I’m not telling. What have you done with my friend?”
“Oh, he’s gone back in the cave all right, I reckon,” chuckled Tony. “You’re a slick fighter, you are. See the black eye you have given my friend here? Never mind, though, you’ll be paid up for this.”
Dick was silent. There was no chance for any further struggles, for his hands had been tied behind him and he knew by the feeling that his revolver had been taken away.
“I guess Mudd is up to the hut all right, and the gal, too,” said Tony. “Hustle him along, boys. I’ll go ahead and make sure.”
Tony ran on and by the time Dick reached the hut Martin Mudd came out to meet him, with Tony by his side.
“Yes, that’s the right boy,” he said, glancing at Dick. “I knew you wouldn’t desert me, Tony. I shan’t forget this.”
“Well, you see I fell in with these here friends of mine,” said Tony. “Old cow punchers, every one on ’em. I was going down to Node Ranch for help, but thought I might as well come back and help you out when I met them.”
“Help me out still further by giving me a chance to talk to this boy,” said Mudd. “I’ve got something very important to say to him. With the girl stowed away in my place up in the loft the hut gives me just my chance.”
“And you want us to stay out—is that the idea?” asked Tony.
“Why, yes.”
“The boys won’t never consent to it while the whisky jug is inside, as they happen to know it is.”
“Go in and get the jug and help yourselves. Here’s the key to the locker,” replied Mudd, thrusting his hand into his pocket, adding:
“No, by Jove, it isn’t, either. I must have left it in the pocket of my other coat. Come on in and we’ll all have a drink.”
“But what about the boy?” asked Tony.
“Oh, tumble him over on the ground. He can’t get up with his hands tied.”
“Yes he can, too.”
“Then tie his feet into the bargain and make sure. We won’t be gone ten minutes anyhow.”
And this was just the way they served poor Dick.
Tied hand and foot, he lay there on the shore of the lake filled with anxiety for his friends and forced to listen to the drunken songs and wild shouts of Mudd and his crew inside the hut.
The proposed ten minutes had lengthened into an hour and still no one came out of the hut.
Mudd seemed to have forgotten all about his proposed talk with Dick, until at last the door of the hut flew open and he came staggering along with his rusty old plug tilted back on his head and his necktie twisted around under his chin.
“Hello, Dick—Dick Darrell,” he said, thickly. “Are you there?”
“Can’t you see me?” replied Dick. “You could if you weren’t drunk.”
“Don’t sass me, boy, for it won’t pay you,” replied Mudd, staggering up to Dick and sitting down upon the ground beside him.
His back was now against a pile of rocks, which at this point cropped out upon the shore.
“Let me free, Mudd,” said Dick. “Come, now, no use in us two quarreling. Let me free.”
“Not a bit of use in our quarreling,” hiccoughed Mudd, “but I won’t set you free yet. Say, Dick Darrell, here’s the—here’s the—hic—the whole business in a clam shell. Clara’s father robbed your father of the big Gold Queen mine up in the Black Hills and hired a man to do your father up and he did.”
“Do you know this,” cried Dick. “You are pretty drunk, Mudd; do you feel sure you are speaking the truth?”
“Sure!” cried Mudd. “Why, of course, I’m sure! Hain’t I the—well, never mind. I was paid $5,000 to do you up all right, though, and Tom Eglinton is the man who paid the plunks. Burn him! He’s no good. That Gold Queen mine belongs to you, young feller, and it’s worth more’n a million, by Jove! Sign that air paper ’bout the hundred thousand dollars and I’ll give you evidence against Tom Eglinton what will hold good in any court—oh, great snakes, what’s this?”
Dick was scarcely listening now—he was staring up at the rocks above Martin Mudd’s head.
Over the edge of the rocks a monstrous head had just been thrust—it was the head of a Plesiosaurus—it dropped down and knocked off the battered plug.
Mudd looked up and sprang to his feet with a frightened yell.
“Got ’em again!” he bellowed loud enough to rival old P. D.