A few minutes later a drizzling rain began falling, but, although they passed a house near the road, they did not stop, and kept on until their clothing was saturated. They were cold, chilly, and hungry, for noon had gone and all ate lightly in the morning.
“I’m tired out,” said Billy, at last; “let’s stop yonder and warm ourselves; maybe the folks will give us something to eat.”
The dwelling stood a little way from the road, with which it communicated by means of a lane lined on both sides with tall trees. No one was visible around it, but they turned through the broad gate and hurried through the rain, which was still falling, with its cold, dismal patter, every drop of which seemed to force its way through the clothing to their bodies.
About half the distance was passed when Tommy, who was slightly in advance of his companions, wheeled about and dashed for the highway again.
“There’s a dog coming!” was his exclamation.
The others heard the threatening growl, and descried an immense canine coming down the lane like a runaway steam engine.
Nothing but a hurried flight was left to them, and they ran with the desperation of despair. Billy, being the younger and shorter, was unable to keep up with the others. His dumpy legs worked fast, but he fell behind, and his terrified yells a moment later announced that the dog had overtaken him and was attending to business.
His horrified companions stopped to give what help they could, but the dog, having extracted a goodly piece from Billy’s garments, was satisfied to turn about and trot back to the house to receive the commendation of his master, who was standing on the porch and viewing the proceedings with much complacency.
An examination of Billy, who was still crying, showed that the skin had only been scratched, though his trousers had suffered frightfully. All had received such a scare that they determined to apply to no more houses for relief, even if the rain descended in torrents and they were starving.
And so they tramped wearily onward through the mud and wet, hungry and utterly miserable. It seemed to them that their homes were a thousand miles distant and they would never see them again.
They could not help picturing their warm, comfortable firesides, where their kind parents denied them nothing, and where they had spent so many happy days, with no thought of what they owed those loving ones whom they were treating with such ingratitude.
Tears were in the eyes of all three, and, though they grew so weary that they could hardly drag one foot after the other, they plodded along until the gathering darkness told them night was closing in.
They had met wagons, horsemen, and several persons on foot. From some of the last they made inquiries and learned that, although they had passed through several towns, they were yet south of Rahway. Their hunger became so gnawing that Tommy spent all their money in buying a lot of cakes, which they devoured with the avidity of savages, and felt hungry when none was left to eat.
To the inquiries made of them they returned evasive answers, and when they reached any one of the numerous towns and villages between New Brunswick and the Hudson, they hurried through them and into the open country, where the people viewed them with less curiosity.
When the darkness became so deep that they could not very well see their way, it was necessary to decide where and how they were to spend the night. The drizzling rain was still falling; they were chilled to the bone, and so tired that they could hardly walk.
In the gathering gloom, they observed a barn near the highway, in which they concluded to take refuge, for it was impossible to walk farther, and no better shelter was likely to present itself.
But for the cruel reception received at the first house earlier in the afternoon, they would have asked for charity of some of the neighbors, and doubtless would have received kind treatment, for it would be unjust to describe all the people of that section as unfeeling and heartless.
Had they made their predicament known in any one of the towns, they would have been taken care of until their families could be communicated with; but they were too frightened to think of anything of that nature.
Halting a short way from the barn, Tommy cautiously advanced to make a reconnoissance. He walked timidly around it, but discovered nothing of any person, nor did he hear the growl of a watch-dog. The dwelling-house stood so far off that it was distinguished only by the lights twinkling from within.
When Tommy came to try the main door, however, it was locked, and he feared they were barred out. He persevered, and with a thrill of hope found the stable-door unfastened—a piece of carelessness on the part of the owner, unless he meant to return shortly.
The lad whistled to his companions waiting in the road, and they hurried to his side. Telling them the cheering news, he let them pass in ahead of him, after which he carefully closed the door as it was before.
Then followed several minutes of groping in the dark, during which Jimmy narrowly missed receiving a dangerous kick from one of the horses, and at last the hay-mow was located. With considerable labor they crawled to the top, covered their shivering bodies as best they could, and, nestling close together, to secure what warmth they could, sank almost immediately into deep slumber.
They were so utterly worn out that neither opened his eyes until the sun was above the horizon. The storm had cleared away, the air was cool, and though their bodies were stiffened and half-famished, they were in better spirits than when they clambered into the refuge.
When all had fully awakened and rubbed their eyes, they sat for a moment or two on the hay, considering what could be done.
“I’m so hungry,” said Billy Waylett, “that I feel as though I could eat this hay.”
“And I’ll chew some of the meal if we can’t do any better,” added Jim.
“Both of you together aint half as hungry as I am,” said Tommy, “and I’m going to the house to ask for something to eat.”
“Maybe they’ve got a dog,” suggested Billy, with a shudder.
“I don’t care if they have; I’ll kill and eat him.”
From this it will be seen that the young Indian slayers were in a sorry plight indeed.
“You fellers stay here,” said Tommy, “while I fix things, and then I’ll send for you; I’m bound to do something or die, for I can’t stand this any longer—”
Just then the barn door opened, and several persons entered.
“I think we’ll find them in here,” remarked one; “they couldn’t have traveled much farther.”
“But I don’t see how the young rascals could get in my barn.”
“We’ll take a look through that haymow.”
And the next minute the head and shoulders of a burly man rose to view, and the runaways were discovered.
CHAPTER VI—SOWING SEED
Two men remained standing on the floor below, and the one who climbed the hay-mow was Hungerford, Chief of Police of Ashton. He had struck the trail of the runaways in Jersey City, and when he learned of three boys that had left the train at New Brunswick, he was certain they were the young rogues whom he was looking for.
He hired a horse and wagon in the city, secured the help and guidance of an officer well acquainted with the country, and by judicious inquiry retained the trail. He was so far behind the boys, however, that it was growing dark when he was only half a dozen miles out of the city, and he was obliged to put up for the night.
He was at it again before daylight, and the couple used their wits with such effect that before long they fixed upon the barn where the boys had taken refuge. An examination of the road and damp earth revealed the tell-tale footprints, and they applied to the farmer for his aid in searching the barn.
That gentleman was surprised to find he had forgotten to lock the stable-door, but such was the fact, and a brief search brought the runaways to light.
When they recognized the chief of police, they broke down and cried so pitifully that the heart of the officer was touched. He cheered them as best he could, and after they were taken to the house, given a warm breakfast and their clothing was dried, they felt, as may be said, like giants refreshed with new wine.
All were eager to be taken home. They had had enough of adventure, and were willing to face any punishment awaiting them, if they could only see Ashton again. Mr. Hungerford was confident that the three would receive the chastisement they merited, but he gave no hint of his belief, and prepared to take them thither.
He paid the farmer for the meal, and then decided to drive back to New Brunswick, and make the real start from that point.
He had learned of the robbery the boys suffered, and he was determined to recover the valuable watch of Mr. Wagstaff from thieving Snakeroot Sam. His brother officer offered to give him all the help possible, though he warned him that the task would be both difficult and dangerous, because of the large number of vicious tramps in that section.
The first thing done, upon reaching New Brunswick, was to telegraph to Mr. Wagstaff that the runaways were found, with no harm having befallen them, and they might be expected home that evening. Then, leaving the boys by themselves, the officers set out for the tramp rendezvous, where better fortune than they anticipated awaited them.
Snakeroot Sam was well known to the New Brunswick officer, and they were fortunate enough to come upon him in the highway, where he had no companions. He was collared before he suspected their business, and the watch and chain were found on his person. Inasmuch as it would have involved considerable delay to bring the scamp to trial and conviction, besides getting the names of the runaways in the papers, Chief Hungerford took his satisfaction out of the tramp personally. The kick administered to Tommy Wagstaff was repaid with interest. Indeed, there is reason to believe that Sam felt the effects throughout most of the following summer. Certain it is that he never received such a shaking up in his life.
Just as it was growing dark, the boys arrived in Ashton and were at their respective homes to supper.
And then and there was made a mistake, so serious in its nature and so far-reaching in its consequences that it forms the basis of the narrative recorded in the following pages.
It will be remembered that each father concerned declared that, upon their return home, the boys should receive severe punishment for their flagrant offenses. Such was their resolve, and yet only one of the gentlemen carried it out.
Mr. Wagstaff and his wife were so grateful for the restoration of their son that they accepted his promise to be a better boy, and, after a mild reproof, he was restored to their grace and favor.
It was the same with the parents of Jimmy McGovern. He professed great contrition for his wrong-doing, and several days were devoted to a consideration of the matter, when he, too, was allowed to escape all punishment.
Billy Waylett, the youngest and least guilty, was the only one who suffered at the hands of his father. The latter loved his child as much as any parent could, and he felt more pain in inflicting the chastisement than did the lad in receiving it. But it was given from a sense of duty, and, as is always and invariably the case, the boy respected his parent for what he did. He knew he deserved it, and that it was meant for his own good.
What was the consequence? It marked a turning-point in the life of the lad. He comprehended, as never before, his narrow escape from disgrace and ruin, and from that time forward became obedient, studious, and pure in thoughts, words, and deeds. He gave his parents and teachers no trouble, and developed into a worthy young man, who became the pride and happiness of his relatives.
Tommy and Jimmy chuckled together many times over their good fortune. They saw how indulgent their parents were, and enjoyed the mock heroism which attended a full knowledge of their exploit.
They did not give up their hopes of a life of adventure, and became dissatisfied with the dull humdrum routine of Ashton. They were content, however, to bide their time, and to wait till they became older before carrying out the projects formed years before. The seed unwittingly sown by their thoughtless parents was sure to bring its harvest sooner or later.
Two years after the runaway incidents the parents of Tommy Wagstaff and Jimmy McGovern removed to the city of New York, and in that great metropolis the boys were not long in finding bad associates. The preliminary steps were taken in their education which eventuated in the incidents that follow.
CHAPTER VII—ONE AFTERNOON IN AUTUMN
The lumbering old stage-coach that left Belmar one morning in autumn was bowling along at a merry rate, for the road was good, the grade slightly down-hill, and the September afternoon that was drawing to a close cool and bracing.
The day dawned bright and sunshiny, but the sky had become overcast, and Bill Lenman, who had driven the stage for twenty-odd years, declared that a storm was brewing, and was sure to overtake him before he could reach the little country town of Piketon, which was the terminus of his journey.
A railway line had been opened from this bright, wide-awake place, and, though the only public means of conveyance between Piketon and Belmar was the stage, its days were almost numbered, for the line was branching and spreading in nearly every direction.
Bill had picked up and set down passengers, on the long run, until now, as the day was closing, he had but a single companion, who sat on the seat directly behind him, and kept up a continuous run of questions and answers.
This gentleman’s appearance suggested one of the most verdant of countrymen that ever passed beyond sight of his parent’s home. He was fully six feet tall, with bright, twinkling-gray eyes, a long peaked nose, home-made clothing, and an honest, out-spoken manner which could not fail to command confidence anywhere.
He had made known his name to every person that had ridden five minutes in the coach, as Ethan Durrell, born in New England, and on a tour of pleasure. He had never before been far from the old homestead, but had worked hard all his life, and had some money saved up, and his parents consented to let him enjoy his vacation in his own way.
“You see, I could have got to Piketon by the railroad,” he said, leaning forward over the back of Lenman’s seat and peering good-naturedly into his face, “but consarn the railroads! I don’t think they ever oughter been allowed. I read in the Weekly Bugle, just afore I left home, that somewhere out West a cow got on the track and wouldn’t get off! No, sir, wouldn’t get off, till the engine run into her and throwed her off the track, and likewise throwed itself off, and some of the folks on board come mighty nigh getting hurt.”
The driver was naturally prejudiced against railways, and was glad to agree with Ethan’s sentiments.
“Yas,” he said, as he nipped a fly off the ear of the near horse, by a swing of his long lash, “there ought to be a law agin them railroads; what’s the use of folks being in such a hurry, that they want to ride a mile a minute! What good does it do ’em? Why aint they content to set in a coach like this and admire the country as they ride through it?”
“Them’s been my sentiments ever since I knowed anything,” replied the New Englander, with enthusiasm, “but it looks as everbody is fools except us, Bill, eh?” laughed Ethan, reaching over and chucking the driver in the side; “leastways, as we can’t bender ’em from doing as they please, why, we won’t try.”
“I guess you’re ’bout right,” growled Bill, who could not see the stage-coach approaching its last run without a feeling of dissatisfaction, if not sadness.
“Helloa!” exclaimed Ethan, in a low voice, “I guess you’re going to have a couple more passengers.”
“It looks that way; yes, they want to ride.”
The coach had reached the bottom of the hill, and was rumbling toward the small, wooden bridge, beyond which the woods stretched on both sides of the highway, when two large boys climbed over the fence and, walking to the side of the road, indicated that they wished to take passage in the coach.
These young men were our old friends, Tom Wagstaff and Jim McGovern, and they were dressed in sporting costume, each carrying a fine rifle, revolver, and hunting-knife. Although they had not yet executed their plan of a campaign against the aborigines of the West, they were on a hunting jaunt, and were returning, without having met with much success.
The young men had hardly taken their seats in the stage when Wagstaff produced a flask and invited the driver and Ethan Durrell to join him and his friend. The invitation being declined, McGovern drew forth a package of cigarettes, and he and Tom soon filled the interior of the coach with the nauseating odor. But for the thorough ventilation, Ethan declared he would have been made ill.
Tom and Jim were not long in finding a subject for amusement in the person of the New Englander. He was as eager as they to talk, and Bill, sitting in front with the lines in hand, turned sideway and grinned as he strove not to lose a word of the conversation.
“Are you going to Piketon?” asked Ethan, when the young men were fairly seated in the stage.
“That’s the town we started for,” replied Wagstaff.
“Ever been there before?”
“No; we’re on our way to visit our friend, Bob Budd; we live in New York, and Bob spent several weeks down there last spring, when we made his acquaintance. Bob is a mighty good fellow, and we promised to come out and spend our vacation with him, though it’s rather late in the season for a vacation. I say, driver, do you know Bob?”
“Oh! yes,” replied Lenman, looking back in the faces of the young men; “I’ve knowed him ever since he was a little chit; he lives with his Uncle Jim now—rich old chap—and lets Bob do just as he pleases ’bout everything.”
“That’s the right kind of uncle to have,” remarked Jim; “I wouldn’t mind owning one of them myself. Bob wrote us that he was going to camp out near a big mill-pond and some mountains; of course, driver, you know the place.”
“I was born and reared in this part of the country; I don’t know the exact spot where Bob means to make his camp, but I’ve no doubt you’ll enjoy yourselves.”
“It won’t be our fault if we don’t,” said Tom, with a laugh; “that’s how we came to leave the governor, without asking permission or saying good-bye.”
“I hope you didn’t run away from home, boys,” said Ethan, in a grieved manner.
“No, we didn’t run away,” said Jim, “we walked.”
Ethan Durrell checked the reproof he was about to utter, and the young men laughed.
“You’ll be sorry for it some day,” remarked the New Englander, “you may depend on that.”
“Did you ever try it?” asked Wagstaff.
“I did once, but I didn’t get fur; the old gentleman overtook me a half-mile down the road; he had a big hickory in one hand and with the other he grabbed me by the nape of the neck; well,” added the gentleman, with a sigh, “I guess there’s no need of saying anything more.”
“He must have had a father like Billy Waylett,” remarked Jim, aside to his companion, both of whom laughed at the story of their new friend, “he wasn’t as lucky as we.”
The reader has already learned considerable about these two young men. They were wayward, disobedient, and fond of forbidden pleasures. It was the intention of their parents to place them in school that autumn, but while arrangements were under way the couple stealthily left home, first providing themselves with fine hunting outfits, and started for Piketon, with the intention of spending a couple of weeks in the woods.
They did not not make their plans known to Billy Waylett, who was such a willing companion several years before. Billy still lived in Ashton and could have been easily reached, but they knew that he would not only reject their proposal, but, as likely as not, acquaint their parents with it.
The unwise indulgence of Mr. Wagstaff and Mr. McGovern was producing its inevitable fruit. They had had much trouble with their boys, but hoped as they grew older, and finished sowing their wild oats, they would settle down into sedate, studious men, and that the end of all their parents’ worriment would soon come.
Among the undesirable acquaintances made by Jim and Tom was Bob Budd, who, as they intimated, spent several weeks in the city of New York. He was a native of Piketon, which was becoming altogether too slow for him. He chafed under the restraints of so small a country town, and wrote them glowing accounts of the good times they would have together in the camp in the woods. He urged them to come at once, now that the hunting season was at hand.
Tom and Jim were captivated by his radiant pictures, and determined to accept his invitation, whether their parents consented or not. The near approach of the time set for their entrance at the high school made the prospect in that direction too distasteful to be faced.
While they were still hesitating, with vivid recollections of the dismal failure of their earlier years, another letter came from Bob Budd. He told them he had not only selected the spot for their camp, but that the tent was up, and it was well stocked with refreshments of both a solid and liquid nature. He had painted a big sign, which was suspended to the ridge-pole and bore the legend,
“CAMP OF THE PIKETON RANGERS.”
This was not only ornamental, but served as a warning to all trespassers.
“Everything is ready,” wrote Bob, “and every day’s delay is just so much taken from the sport and enjoyment that await you. Come at once, boys, and you’ll never regret it.”
CHAPTER VIII—FELLOW-PASSENGERS
The two decided to give Bob Budd a surprise. They said it would be hard for them to get away, and more than likely they would have to wait several weeks before the matter could be decided. This letter was followed at once by themselves, and they were now within a few miles of Bob’s home without his suspecting anything of the kind.
Having informed themselves fully, they rode to a station not far from Piketon, where they got off, leaving their trunks to go to the town, while they spent a half-day in hunting. Their luck was so poor that they gave it up, and were glad to use the stage for the rest of the journey.
“What time are you due in Piketon?” asked Jim of the driver.
“Half-past eight.”
“That’s a good deal after dark.”
“So it is, at this time of the year, and it’s going to be dark sooner than usual.”
“How’s that?”
“Don’t you notice how it has clouded up this afternoon? A big storm is coming and we’re going to catch it afore we strike Piketon.”
“Well,” growled Wagstaff, “that isn’t pleasant; we were fools, Jim, that we didn’t stay in the train; but we can shut ourselves in with the curtains and let the driver run things.”
“I reckon I haven’t druv over this road for twenty-five years,” said Lenman, “without striking a storm afore to-night.”
“Sartinly, sartinly,” added Ethan Durrell; “life must have its shadows as well as sunshine, though I don’t like to be catched on a lonely road this way. I say, Bill,” he added, in a half-frightened voice, “are you troubled with any such pesky things as highway robbers?”
“If you hadn’t asked me that question I wouldn’t have said anything about it; but I’ve been stopped and held up, as they say, just like them chaps out West.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the New Englander, while the young men on the back seat became interested.
“I didn’t suppose you were ever troubled in this part of the world by such people,” said Wagstaff.
“We aint often, but what place can you name where you don’t find bad people?”
“How long ago was it you were held up?” asked Ethan.
“About six months; fact is, I’ve felt shaky for the last week.”
“Why so?” asked Wagstaff.
“I’ve seen a suspicious character down in Black Bear Swamp.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s a piece of woods we pass through afore we reach Piketon; it jines the woods where you tell me Bob Budd has put up the tent, but it curves round and reaches the hills on t’other side.”
The words of the driver deeply interested all three of the passengers. The knowledge that, though in the State of Pennsylvania, and in a section fairly well settled, they were in danger of being “held up” in the most approved style of the wild West was enough to startle any one.
“Tell us all about it,” persisted Wagstaff, lighting a new cigarette, and leaning forward to catch the reply.
“There isn’t much to tell,” replied the driver; “’cept there’s a holler close to t’other side of Black Bear Swamp, and three times in the past week, when I was passing, I’ve seen a tall, slim man moving around among the trees and watching me, tryin’ at the same time to keep me from seeing him.”
“But if he was a robber—”
“Who said he was a robber?” demanded Lenman, turning and looking sharply at the young man.
“You said he was a suspicious character, and what else could he be?” demanded Wagstaff.
“Perhaps a tramp, but I’ll admit I have thought it likely he was a man looking for a chance to rob the stage.” “Why didn’t he do it then?”
“It happened that on each of the times I hadn’t a single passenger with me.”
“And now you’ve got three,” remarked McGovern. “Well, I hope he will attack us to-night.”
“What’ll you do if he does?” asked the New Englander.
“Don’t you see we’ve each got a rifle? Beside that, Tom and I carry a Smith & Wesson apiece, and all our weapons are loaded; that fellow won’t have time to call out for us to give up our valuables before he’ll be filled as full of holes as a sieve.”
“My gracious! you wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“Just give us a chance, that’s all,” said Wagstaff, with a shake of his head.
Had the young men been watching Durrell and the driver at that moment, they would have seen a singular look pass between the two. It might have meant nothing, and it might have signified a good deal. No words were spoken, but the expression of their faces, to say the least, was peculiar.
“I should have said,” continued the driver, “that the chap may have learned something about that box, which was expected at Belmar, and which I was to take to Piketon with me.”
“What box?” asked Wagstaff.
“The one that is strapped onto the rear of the stage.”
“Jingo!” muttered Jim, “things are beginning to look dubious.”
“As I was about to say,” continued the driver, “if that chap has made up his mind to hold us up—and it looks mighty like it—this is the night it will be done.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Haven’t I got three passengers for Piketon, which is the biggest number I’ve took through in a couple of weeks, and, more’n all, that box is with me? The night is going to be as dark as a wolf’s mouth, and when we strike Black Bear Swamp—”
“Why do they call it Black Bear Swamp?” asked Durrell.
“I don’t know of any reason, onless it is that there never was a black bear found there, though they’re up among the mountains, where there’s a deer now and then. But won’t the scamp be fooled, though?” chuckled the driver.
“How’s that?”
“I never carry any shooting-irons, but you’ve got enough for us all, and, when he sings out and you shove the muzzles of your guns forward and let drive, why the State will be saved a big expense.”
“That’s so!” exclaimed Wagstaff, with a fierceness too vivid to be wholly genuine; “we’ve started out for a hunting trip with Bob Budd, and expect to bag all the bears and deer in the country, but we weren’t looking for stage robbers, because I don’t know that we have lost any, but if they choose to run into our way, why who’s to blame?”
“That’s so,” assented his companion, who, in truth, regretted more than ever that they had not made the entire journey to Piketon by train instead of partly in the lumbering stage-coach.
“It would be better,” he added, after a moment’s thought, “if the rogue had chosen the daytime.”
“Why so?” queried the New Englander.
“We can see to aim better.”
“So can he, can’t he?”
“Yes, but we would have prepared better than we can at night,” replied Wagstaff, nervously.
“And it would be the same with him. If you’re afraid you can’t shoot straight, I’ll take one gun and Bill the other, and you can crawl under the seats.”
“Who’s talking about crawling under the seats—what’s that?”
A peal of thunder rumbled overhead, and it was already beginning to grow dark. The afternoon was merging into night, which, as has been explained, was closing in sooner than usual, because of the cloudy sky.
“We’re going to catch it afore we get home,” remarked the driver, glancing upward and twitching the lines, so as to force the team into a moderate trot.
“Why don’t you hurry up your nags more, and get home sooner?” asked Wagstaff.
“A good master is marciful to his beast; I aint likely to gain anything by hurrying, for the storm may come and be over afore we get to town, while the animals are so used to this work, that, if I made it a rule to push ’em now and then, they are likely to break down, and trade aint good enough for me to afford that.”
“But if you should do it once, it wouldn’t hurt.”
“Another thing,” added the driver, as if the fact was a clincher to the discussion, “if we should go rattling through Black Bear Swamp ahead of time, that suspicious chap would miss us.”
“Well?”
“And we would miss him, which we don’t want to do. Being as you’ve got your guns and are so anxious to use ’em on him, why I won’t be mean enough to rob you of the chance.”
CHAPTER IX—DICK HALLIARD
The conversation was not of a nature to improve the courage of the occupants of the stagecoach, for, when children spend an evening in exchanging ghost stories, they find the darkness of their bed-rooms more fearful than before.
Since the young gentlemen on the rear seat began to believe that a meeting with a stage robber was quite certain to take place before reaching Piketon, they saw the need of an understanding all round.
The driver repeated that he never carried firearms, for, if he did, he would be tempted to use them with the surety of getting himself into trouble.
“If a man orders you to hold up your hands and you do it, why he aint going to hurt you,” was the philosophy of the old man; “all he’ll do is just to go through you; but if you have a gun or pistol, you’ll bang away with it, miss the chap, and then he’ll bore you; so it’s my rule, when them scamps come along, to do just as they tell me; a man’s life is worth more to him than all his money, and that’s me every time.”
“But you might be quick enough to drop him first,” suggested Wagstaff, who would have preferred the driver to be not quite so convincing in his arguments.
“Mighty little chance of that! You see the feller among the trees is all ready and waiting; he can take his aim afore you know he is there; now when you fellers fire at him it won’t do for you to miss—remember that!”
“We don’t intend to,” replied McGovern.
“Of course you don’t intend to, but the chances are that you will, and then it will be the last of you!”
“But won’t you be apt to catch it on the front seat?”
THE MEETING WITH DICK HALLIARD
“Not a bit of it, for them chaps are quick to know where a shot comes from, and they always go for the one that fires; they know, too, that a stage driver never fights—helloa!”
At that moment, a bicycle guided by a boy glided silently along the right of the stage, turning out just enough to pass the vehicle. The youth whose shapely legs were propelling it, slackened his gait so that for a few minutes he held his place beside the front wheels of the coach.
He was a handsome, bright-faced youth about sixteen years old, who greeted the driver pleasantly, and, turning his head, saluted the others, without waiting for an introduction.
“I’m afraid a storm is coming, and I shall have to travel fast to get home ahead of it; do you want to run a race with me, Bill?”
“Not with this team,” replied the driver, “for we couldn’t hold a candle to you.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied the boy, with a laugh; “there are plenty who can beat me on a bicycle.”
“But there aint any of ’em in this part of the country, for I’ve seen too many of ’em try it. Bob Budd bragged that he would leave you out of sight, but you walked right away from him.”
The boy blushed modestly and said:
“Bob don’t practice as much as he ought; he’s a good wheelman, but he’s fonder of camping out in the woods, and I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a good deal more fun in it. I believe he expects some friends to go into camp with him.”
“Them’s the chaps,” remarked the driver, jerking the butt of his whip toward the rear seat.
The bicyclist bowed pleasantly to the young men, who were staring curiously at him and listening to the conversation. They nodded rather coldly in turn, for they had already begun to suspect the identity of this graceful, muscular lad, of whom they had heard much from Bob Budd.
Their country friend had spoken of a certain Dick Halliard who was employed in the store of Mr. Hunter, the leading merchant in Piketon, and who was so well liked by the merchant that he had presented him with an excellent bicycle, on which he occasionally took a spin when he could gain the time.
Bob, who detested young Halliard, had said enough to prove that he had taken the lead in all his studies at school and surpassed every boy in the section in running, swimming, ’cycling, and indeed, in all kinds of athletic sports. This was one reason for Bob’s dislike, but the chief cause was the integrity and manliness of young Halliard, who not only held no fear of the bully, but did not hesitate to condemn him to his face when he did wrong.
“I hope you will have a good time in camp,” said Dick (for it was he), addressing the two city youths.
“That’s what we’re out for,” replied Wagstaff, “and it won’t be our fault if we don’t; will you join us?” asked the speaker, producing his flask.
“I’m obliged to you, but must decline.”
“Maybe you think it isn’t good enough for you,” was the mean remark of Wagstaff.
“I prefer water.”
“Ah, you’re one of the good boys who don’t do anything naughty.”
It was a mean remark on the part of Wagstaff, who was seeking a quarrel, but Dick Halliard showed his manliness by paying no heed to the slur.
“Well,” said he, addressing the driver, “since you won’t run me a race, I shall have to try to reach home ahead of the storm. Good-bye all!”
The muscular legs began moving faster, the big, skeleton-like wheel shot ahead of the stage, coming back into the middle of the highway, and the lad, with his shoulders bent forward, spun down the road with a speed that would have forced the fastest trotting horse to considerable effort.
“By gracious!” exclaimed the New Englander, with his chin high in air, as he peered over the head of the driver, “that youngster beats anything of the kind I ever seen.”
“I don’t s’pose they have those sort of playthings in your part of the world,” remarked Jim, with a sneer.
“Yes, we have enough to send a few of ’em down your way for you folks to learn on. Bill, who is that chap?”
“Dick Halliard, and there aint a finer boy in Piketon.”
“He’s got a mighty fine face and figure.”
“You’re right about that; I want to give you chaps a little advice,” added the driver, turning his head, so as to look into the countenance of the city youths; “I heerd what you said to him and he had sense enough not to notice it, but you’ll be wise if you let Dick Halliard alone.”
“Is he dangerous?” asked Wagstaff, with a grin.
“You will find him so, if you undertake to put onto him; mebbe he isn’t quite so old as you and mebbe he don’t smoke cigarettes and drink whisky, but I’ll bet this whole team that if either or both of you ever tackles him, you’ll think five minutes later that you’ve been run through a thrashing mill.”
The youths were not disturbed by this bold statement, which neither believed.
“You’re very kind,” said Tom, “and we won’t forget what you’ve said; when we see him coming ’long the road, we’ll climb a tree to get out of the way, or else run into the first house and lock the door.”
Bill had said all he wished, and now gave his attention to his team. The thunder was rumbling almost continuously, and now and then a vivid streak of lightning zigzagged across the rapidly darkening sky. No rain fell, but the wind blew blinding clouds of dust across the highway and into the stage, where the occupants at times had to protect their eyes from it.
A short distance from the road on the left was a low, old-fashioned stone house, but no other dwelling was in sight between the stage and Black Bear Swamp, which was no more than half a mile ahead, appearing dark and forbidding in the gathering gloom. The trees at the side of the highway swayed in the gusty wind, and, when the flying dust allowed them to see, Dick Halliard was observed far in advance like a speck in the distance. He was traveling with great speed, and the stage seemed to have gone no more than a hundred yards after the interview when the young wheelman disappeared.
It was as if he had plunged under full headway right among the trees. Piketon lay about two miles beyond Black Bear Swamp, but since the width of the dense forest through which the public road wound its way was fully a fourth of a mile, it will be seen that a considerable drive was still before the stage.
The passengers would have viewed their approach to the woods with relief, but for the fear of the highwayman. Its dense growth and abundant vegetation offered a partial protection from the storm, which promised to be violent; but the youths would have much preferred (had they dared to speak their sentiments) to stand bareheaded in the coming storm than to encounter that “suspicious” party, who they believed was awaiting their coming.
CHAPTER X—A STARTLING SUMMONS
The stage was within a hundred yards of Black Bear Swamp when something like a tornado struck it. The horses stopped, and the vehicle was partly lifted from the ground. For an instant it seemed to be going over. The driver and the New Englander started with suppressed exclamations, while Wagstaff emitted a cry of alarm, as he and his companion attempted to leap out.
“Sit still! you’re all right!” shouted Lenman, striking his horses with the whip. They broke into a trot, and a few minutes later entered the dense wood, where they were safe from the danger that threatened them a moment before. Indeed, the volley of wind was as brief as a discharge of musketry, passing instantly, though it still howled through the wood, with a dismal effect, which made all heartily wish they were somewhere else.
It was so dark that, but for the flashes of lightning, the passengers would have been unable to see each other’s forms; but the horses were so familiar with the route that they needed no guidance. The driver allowed them to walk, while he held the lines taut to check them on the instant it might be necessary.
Wagstaff and McGovern climbed forward, and crowded themselves on the seat beside the New Englander, each firmly grasping his rifle, for, as they advanced into the wood, their thoughts were of the criminal who they believed would challenge them before they could reach the other side.
Still the rain held off, though the lightning was almost incessant and continually showed the way in front. The wind, too, abated, and all began to breathe more freely.
“I guess the robber won’t dare show himself to-night,” said Wagstaff, speaking rather his wish than his belief.
“What’s to hinder him?” asked Ethan Durrell.
“The storm.”
The driver laughed outright.
“It’s just what is in his favor—hulloa!”
“Gracious! what’s the matter?” gasped Wagstaff, as the team suddenly halted, of their own accord; “let’s get out.”
“Something’s wrong,” replied Lenman; “don’t speak or make any noise; we’ll soon know what it is.”
While waiting for the flash of lightning to illuminate the gloom, it never seemed so long coming. A short time before the gleams were continuous, but now the gloom was like that of Egypt as the seconds dragged along.
No one spoke, but all eyes were fixed on the impenetrable darkness in front, while every ear was strained to catch some sound beside the soughing of the wind among the trees.
All at once, as if the overwhelming storehouse of electricity could contain itself no longer, the whole space around, in front and above was lit up by one dazzling flame, which revealed everything with the vividness of a thousand noonday suns.
By its overpowering glare the figure of a man on horseback was seen motionless in the middle of the road, less than twenty feet distant. He knew of the presence of some one in his path, and he, too, was awaiting the help of the lightning before advancing.
“That’s him,’” whispered Tom Wagstaff; “shall we shoot?”
Ethan Durrell felt the seat tremble under the youth, while the others noticed the quaver in his voice.
“No,” replied the driver; “he hasn’t done nothin’ yet; wait till he hails us.”
“That may be too late, but all right.”
“Helloa, Bill, is that you?” came from the horseman.
“Yes; who are you?” called back the driver.
“Don’t you know me, Hank Babcock?” called the other, with a laugh.
“I sort of thought it was you, Hank, but wasn’t sure.”
“You can be sure of it now; wait a minute till I get out of your way; I’ll turn aside and let you pass.”
Everything was quiet for a moment, except the wind, the snuffing of his horse, and the sound of his hoofs, as he was forced with some trouble close to the trees which grew near the highway.
“Now, it’s all right; go ahead,” called Hank Babcock.
Lenman spoke to his animals and they moved forward. When opposite the horseman, another flash revealed him sitting astride the animal, a few feet to one side. He called a cheery good-night as he drew back, after the stage had passed, and continued his course.
“Driver,” said Wagstaff, when they were moving again; “where is the spot you thought it likely we would meet him?”
“We’re close to it now; you notice the road goes down a little, but not enough for me to put on the brake; have your shootin’ irons ready, for, somehow or other, I feel in my bones that you’ll need ’em.”
“Where’s that chap that was here a minute ago?” asked Jim, with as much tremor in his voice as his friend.
“Who’s that?” asked the driver.
“That Yankee that was sitting right here; he’s gone!”
“I guess not,” replied the driver, reaching back his hand and groping vaguely around; “he must be there.”
“He isn’t; he was here, but he’s missing.”
“Maybe he got so scared he took the back seat,” suggested Tom, who held his rifle in his left hand, while he passed his right through the vacancy in the rear of the stage; “no, I’ll be hanged if he is there; he isn’t in the stage.”
“That’s mighty queer,” remarked the driver; “I didn’t hear him get out, did you?”
“No, but I felt him; he was sitting right alongside of us, when something brushed past me and he was gone—there!”
Once more the lightning brought everything out with intense distinctness, and all saw that there were only three instead of four persons in the stage.
The New Englander was missing: what had become of him?
“I guess he was scared,” suggested Wagstaff, with a weak attempt to screw up his courage; “and preferred to hide among the trees rather than run the risk of meeting that stranger—”
“Sh!” interrupted the driver, “there’s somebody ahead of us in the road; the horses see him; be ready and remember that if you miss it’s sure death—”
At that moment the most startling cry that could fall upon their ears rang from the gloom in front:
“Hands up, every one of you!”
CHAPTER XI—NO JOKE
What more alarming summons can be imagined than that which rang from the darkness in front of the stage, as it was slowly winding its way through Black Bear Swamp?
The lightning which had toyed with them before seemed unwilling to do so again, for the impenetrable night was not lit up by the first quiver or flutter of the intense fire.
“Are you ready to shoot?” asked the driver, turning his head and speaking in guarded tones.
“My gracious, no!” replied Wagstaff, as well as he could between his chattering teeth; “I can’t see him.”
“He’s right there in the middle of the road; don’t hit one of the horses—what are you trying to do?”
It was plain enough what the valiant youth was doing; he was crawling under the seat, the difficulty of doing so being increased by the body of Jim, who was ahead of him in seeking the refuge.
“I aint going to fire when there’s no chance of hitting him,” growled Tom, still twisting and edging his way out of reach.
“But the lightning will show him to you in a minute.”
“Let it show and be hanged! I’ve got enough; I surrender.”
The words had been spoken hastily, and Tom and Jim did not throw away any seconds in groping for cover, but, brief as was the time, the terrible fellow in the middle of the road became impatient.
“Are all them hands up?” he roared, “or shall I open fire?”
“My two passengers are under the seat, but they won’t hurt you—”
The driver checked himself for a moment and then exclaimed, loud enough for the youths to hear:
“He’s coming into the wagon!”
“Heavens! don’t let him do that,” protested Jim; “he’ll kill us all; tell him we surrender and won’t shoot.”
“Where’s them young men that were going to fire so quick?” demanded the fellow, hurriedly climbing into the front of the stage; “let me have a chance at them!”
“It wasn’t us,” called back Wagstaff, “we haven’t anything against you; take all we’ve got, only spare us; you can have our guns and pistols and our money, and everything we have—”
He ceased his appeal, for at that moment he heard some one laugh.
A shuddering suspicion of the truth came over him, but before he could frame an explanation, Bill Lenman and the man who had just joined the party broke into uproarious mirth.
The youths saw how utterly they had been sold. There was no train robber. Ethan Durrell had played the part of the heavy villain in order to test the courage of these vaunting lads. The driver tried to dissuade him from the trick, afraid of the risk incurred, but, as it proved, he was never in any danger.
The boys crept back from their concealment, and, resuming their seat in front, saw that it was useless to deny the dilemma in which they were placed.
“I don’t see anything smart in a trick like that,” said Tom, angrily; “some folks have queer ideas of a joke.”
“It’s lucky for you,” added Jim, “that the lightning didn’t show you to us; I had my gun aimed and was just ready to fire, but couldn’t see clear enough to make sure of dropping you at the first shot.”
“All that I was afeared of,” said the driver, “was that you would hit one of the horses, and that’s what you would have done.”
“It would have served you right if I had.”
“But it would have been a costly job for you, young man.”
The team had resumed its progress and the violent flurry of the elements began subsiding. The flashes were less frequent, though they appeared often enough to show the course of the stage, as the animals pressed on at a moderate walk.
The driver and the New Englander were more considerate than most persons would have been under the circumstances, for they forebore taunting the youths, whom they had at their mercy. Tom and Jim were resentful enough to have used violence toward Durrell, who bad turned the tables so cleverly on them; but the manner in which he did it gave them a wholesome fear of the wiry fellow from down East.
“Then,” said Tom, addressing the driver, “that was all stuff that you told us about seeing a suspicious person in these woods.”
“No, sir, it was all true,” was the unexpected reply.
This statement instantly awoke interest again in the question, for even Durrell had supposed the driver was playing with the fears of the boys.
“If that’s the case,” he said, “we may have trouble yet, though it gets me how a man dare try anything like that in this part of the world.”
“They haven’t tried it yet,” was the reminder of Lenman.
“No, and I guess they won’t; but from what I’ve read and hearn tell, it’s just such crimes that succeed, ’cause nobody expects anybody would dare try them.”
That night was an eventful one in the history of the occupants of the old stage-coach plying between Belmar and Piketon. That the driver was uneasy was shown by his silence and his close attention to his team and matters in front. He took no part in the conversation, but let the others do the talking while he listened and watched.
All noticed the rapid clearing of the sky. The disturbance of the air was peculiar, for, while it threatened a severe rainfall, nothing of the kind took place, not a drop pattering on the leaves. The electric conditions changed back again to something like a normal state, the lightning ceasing, the wind falling, and the clouds dissolving to such an extent that, before Black Bear Swamp was crossed enough moonlight penetrated the woods to reveal their course.
It was a singular sight when the party in the stage found themselves able to see the ears of the horses, and, soon after, the trees at the side of the road, and by and by could make them out for several paces in front of the team.
This was a vast relief, but the boys, instead of resuming their places at the rear of the coach, kept the second seat in front, while Durrell put himself beside the driver, where both had the best opportunity for discovering any peril the instant it presented itself.
“Do you think there will be any trouble?” asked the New Englander, after being silent a minute or two.
“I don’t know what to think,” was the discomforting reply.
“But we are getting pretty well through the plaguey place; it can’t be fur from t’other side.”
“That don’t make any difference; one spot in these woods is as bad as another.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t a pistol,” said Durrell.
“I aint, for I tell you it won’t do to try to use anything like that on them chaps.”
“If there were several it might be different, but the idea of two of us surrendering to one man—it galls me, Bill. I was going to get one of them boys to let me have a revolver, but I don’t want to do it as long as you feel this way.”
“I wouldn’t have it for the world; if I was sure there was but the one, I don’t know as I would object—that is, if you wanted to fight purty bad.”
“You seen only one man, you told me.”
“But that’s no sign there isn’t others near.”
“True. By gracious, Bill!” whispered the New Englander, peering forward and to one side in the gloom; “I believe I did see a person in front of us just then.”
“I didn’t notice him,” replied the driver, trying hard to pierce the gloom; “where is he?”
“Not in the middle of the road, but on the left.”
That was the side on which Durrell was sitting, so that he had a better opportunity than the driver. He believed something moved, but the shadows among the trees were too dense to make sure. The fact that the horses had shown no sign of fear was good reason to suspect Durrell was mistaken, but enough doubt remained to cause misgiving.
They talked so low that the boys behind them could only catch the murmur of their voices, without being able to understand their words. They were in such trepidation themselves that they forgot their recent farce, and, speaking only now and then in whispers, used their eyes and ears for all they were worth.
“If any one stirs, he’ll be shot!”
Some one at the side of the road uttered these words in a low but distinct voice, adding in the same terrible tones:
“Stop that team! There are three of us here, and we’ve got you covered; each one of you get down and stand at the side of the road and hold up your hands! Do as you are told and you won’t get hurt! Try any of your tricks and you’ll be riddled!”
Ethan Durrell was the only one in the stage who spoke. His voice trembled, so that his words were hardly understood.
“Don’t shoot, please, we’ll get down; we won’t do anything if you’ll be easy with us; be keerful them guns don’t go off—”
“Shut up!” commanded the angry criminal; “we don’t want any talking. Dick, keep your eye on ’em as they come out and don’t stand any nonsense.”
“Do you want me down there, too?” asked the driver, who fancied he ought to be excused.
“You can sit where you are, but don’t forget you’re covered, too, and don’t stir. Come, hurry down, old chap!”
The last remark was addressed to Ethan Durrell, who showed some reluctance to obeying the stern order.
The fact was the New Englander was straining his eyes to the utmost. He saw the tall figure at the side of the highway, just abreast of the horses’ shoulders, but he could not detect any one else. That might not signify anything, as nothing was easier than for several persons to conceal themselves among the trees.
The question the plucky Durrell was asking himself was whether they had been held up by one man or more. If there were more than one it was madness for him to resist, but if there was but one he meant to make a fight, even though he had nothing more formidable than his jack-knife about him.
He hesitated on the step in front, one hand resting on the haunch of the horse and the other grasping the front support of the cover of the coach.
“Don’t wait,” whispered Lenman, “or you’ll make him mad.”
“Hurry up,” added Tom Wagstaff, “and we’ll follow you.”
“Come, I reckon you’d better hurry,” added the figure at the side of the road.
“All right, here I come!”
The New Englander sprang outward, and as he did so he flung both arms about the neck of the rogue and bore him to the earth.
CHAPTER XII—THE VICTIM OF A MISTAKE.
Ethan Durrell may have been verdant-looking and peculiar in his ways, but he was one of the pluckiest of men. It was impossible for him to know whether the scamp who held up the stage had any companions or not, until the matter was proven by taking a risk which, if he went the wrong way, was sure to be fatal. With this uncertainty, and without so much as a single weapon at his command, he leaped upon the unsuspecting ruffian, and, throwing both arms around his neck, bore him to the ground.
The attack was wholly unexpected by the fellow, who was standing with loaded revolver pointed toward the stage, ready to fire on the instant he observed anything suspicious. It was necessary for the New Englander to spring down from the front of the coach, but every one except himself thought his intention was to land in front of the other and there submit to the inevitable. The quavering voice of Durrell had convinced his friends that he was as timid as any of them in the presence of real danger.
He closed his arms like a vise, so as to pinion those of the stranger against his sides. The impetus of his own body drove the man backward, and before he could recover Ethan tripped and threw him with such violence that his hat fell off and an exclamation was forced from him.
He uttered fierce execrations and strove desperately to get his arm free that he might use his weapon on his assailant, but there was no possibility of shaking off the embrace of the wiry New Englander, who hung on like grim death.
“Bill, you and the boys watch out for the other fellers,” called Durrell, as he struggled with the man; “if any of them show themselves, shoot! I’ll ’tend to this one.”
At this moment the rogue seemed to remember his friends, and he called: