CHAPTER XI.
BULL HARRIS GETS INTO TROUBLE.
It was a desperate moment. Things happened with such incredible swiftness that those who saw them could scarcely tell what came first.
Texas had fallen just behind the door which the man had opened. Texas leaped up, his eyes blazing with fury. No risk was too great a risk to take now, for his cadetship was the stake. He was behind the jailer’s back as he rose up, and with the swiftness and force of a panther he flung himself upon the man’s back.
There was a moment of struggle. Texas devoted every effort to but one thing, holding that revolver. A bullet, even if it hit no one, would give the alarm, prevent the escape. He had seized the man’s hand in both of his, and he clung to that hand with all the strength that was in him.
The others sprang to his aid an instant later. Before the jailer could cry out Mark gripped him by the throat, and a moment later down he went to the ground, with the whole seven upon him.
The contest was brief after that. They got the revolver away, which was the chief point. The jailer was speedily choked into submission, bound and gagged. The seven prisoners rose up triumphant and gazed about them in eager haste.
But they were not safe yet by any means. They imagined that no alarm had been given; they had not calculated the effect of the first startled yell of the jailer, which rang and echoed down the silent village street. The plebes realized what was happening a moment later, as they paused and listened. There were sounds of hurrying feet, of men shouting to each other.
The town was awake.
The prisoners gazed about them anxiously, feverishly. They had yet a chance, a hope. But it would take them so long to unfasten that rope, tie it to another bar, and tear it out in the same way. The sheriff with his dreaded gun would surely be there before that. And they could not get through the window as it was. What then? The door! Mark thought of it an instant later. The jailer had left it open!
A moment more and the plebes were in the hall of the jail; Texas had stopped just long enough to snatch up the jailer’s revolver, and then rejoined them. There was still the front door, whether locked or not none of them knew. Mark tried it feverishly, shook it. It was locked. And as he tried it again, he heard a shout outside, felt some one on the other side trying it, too. A crowd was gathering! And what were they to do? The solution of the question flashed over Mark first. The key! The jailer! He sprang back into the room, rushed to where the man lay bound, and fell to rummaging in his pockets and about his waist. The others stood in the hall waiting anxiously, tremblingly. Would he find it?
The noise outside swelled. There came blows upon the door, shouts to open. And then suddenly Mark reappeared, his face gleaming with excitement and joy as he ran, holding in one hand the heavy key.
To thrust that key into the lock, turn it, and open the door was the work of but an instant. And then, in response to the quick command of their leader, the Seven formed a wedge, Texas with the revolver in front. Mark flung back the heavy door and the Seven made a savage dash through the opening.
There were at least a dozen men gathered in front of the building. They recoiled before the unexpected apparition that met their gaze. The fiercely shouting “lunatics” with the wild-eyed cowboy and his gleaming weapon at their head. An instant more and the party had dashed through the crowd and went speeding up the street.
Texas was last, glancing behind him and aiming his revolver menacingly to prevent pursuit.
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” swelled the cry through all the village; but to the wildly-delighted, hilarious Seven, it was a cry that fast receded and died out in the distance.
For no one dared to follow, and the “lunatics” escaped once more, were keeping up a pace that it would have been hard to equal. They counted themselves safe a very few moments later, when they were hidden from view in the woods up toward West Point. And then, breathless and exhausted, they seated, or rather flung, themselves on the ground to rest.
Prudence did not long permit of their staying where they were, however. “The escaped criminal knows no resting place.” Already they were beginning to fancy that they heard shouts in the woods and sounds of tramping footsteps; poor Indian would pop up his gasping head every once in a while and look to see if the sheriff wasn’t aiming that gun at him. It was a terrible labor for Indian to look anywhere from his present position, because, as Dewey explained, he had to see over his stomach. All were ready to move in a short while. Indian alone had not recovered his breath, but he had fear to lend wings to his heels, so to speak. And thus pretty soon the party was fast making tracks for camp.
They were very silent. The plebes were all thinking of one subject, and that subject made them grave and quiet.
Mark touched upon this point when he spoke at last; he seemed to divine what was in their minds.
“Fellows,” said he, “what do you think of Bull Harris?”
There was no answer to the question; the reason was that nobody could think of any word or combination of words quite adequate to express the fullness of his thought.
“Do you know,” Mark continued, after a few minutes’ silence, “do you know Bull actually surprised me?”
Texas had something to say to that.
“Nothin’ that air ole coyote ever did would surprise me,” said Texas.
“Bull has tried many contemptible tricks,” observed Mark, thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself. “He has tried some things that would make the Old Nick himself blush for shame, I think. He has lied about me to the cadets and to the officers. He has enticed me into the woods to beat me; he has played upon my kindness to have me expelled. But he never yet has done anything to equal this.”
The silence of the Seven as they tramped on expressed to Mark a great deal more assent than any words could have done.
“It was so utterly uncalled for,” Mark went on. “It was so utterly contemptible. And the brazen effrontery of it was the most amazing thing of all. One would have thought when he put the sheriff upon our track he would have kept his own identity secret. But to come right out before our faces and betray us—his fellow cadets! I declare I don’t know what to do about it.”
Texas doubled up his fists suggestively. He knew what to do.
“No,” said Mark, noticing the unspoken suggestion. “I do not think it would do much good to whip him. Bull would not face me in a fair fight, and somehow I can’t make up my mind to tackle him otherwise, even if he does deserve it. It don’t do any good to frighten him, either, or to treat him decently. Every effort seems to deepen his vindictiveness. I don’t see, fellows, how we are ever to have any peace while Bull is in West Point.”
That just about expressed the situation, as it appeared to the Seven. No peace with Bull Harris in West Point!
“B’gee!” exclaimed Dewey, suddenly. “I don’t see any reason why he has to stay.”
“How do you mean?” asked Mark, slowly.
He knew what Dewey meant, and so did all the others, but none of them liked to say it.
“Simply,” said Dewey—“as the Parson always remarks when he starts one of his long chemical formulas—simply, b’gee, that Bull has tried to get us dismissed from West Point a few dozen times. I don’t know how often it’s been, but I know it’s been at least seventy times seven we’ve forgiven him. And now, b’gee, I say we get square, just for once.”
“I see what you mean,” responded Mark, shaking his head. “It might be fair for me to get Bull expelled in some way, but I don’t like that.”
“Pshaw!” growled Texas, angrily. “I’d like to know why not. Ef we don’t, Bull Harris will get us fired dead sho’, doggone his boots!”
“And self-preservation is the first law of nature,” chimed in Dewey, “as the undertaker remarked when he swallowed his embalming fluid, b’gee.”
Mark laughed, but he still shook his head; the solemn Parson cleared his throat.
“Ahem,” said he, “by Zeus! Gentlemen, this is no time for a scientific dissertation, or exemplification, so to speak. I was remarking—ahem—that no one would be less inclined to burden you with a lengthy discourse at this most inopportune moment. I shall, accordingly, confine myself strictly to a lucid exposition of the concatenation of complex circumstances involved, avoiding all technicalities——”
Dewey fainted here and had to be revived by an imaginary bottle of smelling-salts. He refused emphatically to come to, but vowed he wanted to stay unconscious till “it was over.” All of which byplay was lost upon the grave scholar.
What the Parson meant to say was finally ascertained by the rest, who were now nearly restored to their usual gayety, forgetful of all such details as sheriffs and shotguns. It appeared that the Parson was quoting the law of self-defense, that a man whose life is threatened may kill the man who menaces him. The Parson cited many authorities, legal, philosophical and theological, to prove the validity of that assumption. Then he proposed the question whether this case might not be an “analogue,” as he called it, whether or not Bull Harris, who was threatening to have Mark dismissed, did not make himself liable to the same treatment. It was a nice point in casuistry, and the Parson vowed that in all his investigation of theoretical ethical complications he had never met, etc., etc.
The rest listened to all this with much solemnity. The Parson was in one of his most scholarly moods that night, and it was a whole farce comedy to hear him. But, unfortunately, his discourse put a stop to the serious discussion concerning Bull Harris; that problem was to arise again very soon.
During all this, of course, the party had been hurrying up toward the post, with as much rapidity as they possibly could. They knew that if once they could manage to reach Fort Clinton and get into their uniforms, they would be entirely safe. No one, not even a sheriff, would ever dream that those much-hunted and dreaded lunatics were Uncle Sam’s pupils.
Still laughing and joking with the classic Bostonian, they had almost reached the southern buildings of the post, before anything else happened. For it is necessary to say right here that those plebes were not destined to reach camp that night, or rather morning, without further adventure.
It was after one of the longest pauses in the Parson’s discussions of that “casuistical complication.” The rest were waiting for him to begin again, when suddenly from the woods to one side a sound of footsteps was distinctly heard.
The plebes stopped short, as if they had been turned to stone. They were almost turned with alarm. They heard the step again; it was several people advancing; and as one man the Seven crouched suddenly to conceal themselves in the shadow of the bushes—the folly of their recklessness flashed across them with horrible clearness at that moment. They had escaped from their danger, almost as if by a miracle. And then, instead of running with all their might for camp, seeking safety with all possible swiftness, here they were loitering along as if there were no such man on earth as a determined sheriff, and now——
The noise of the advancing men grew louder every moment. It was evident that they were to pass almost over the plebes. There were several of them, tramping heavily, crashing the brush beneath their feet with a sound that to the trembling listeners seemed the advance of a herd of elephants.
Then there came a voice.
“Ho, ho! You bet we’ve fixed him!”
“Hooray! I just guess! Say, but I bet those plebes are sick just now.”
“I never saw a sicker looking plebe than that confounded Mallory in my life. By Heaven, he deserves it all, though. I could kill him.”
The last speaker was Bull Harris.
They had gotten very near, almost on top of the crouching listeners. Mark clutched his companions and whispered to them: “Not a sound!”
“I can hardly wait for morning to come, to see what happens when that blamed cad isn’t there at reveille. Say, isn’t it great? Just think of their being shut up in jail all night, without a chance of getting out. And they’ll be fired sure as——Good Lord!”
This last exclamation was a perfect scream of terror from Bull. He had started back as if he had seen a ghost; his jaw had dropped, his eyes protruding. The rest were no less pictures of consternation.
With folded arms and a smile upon his lips, standing in their path as real as life, though shadowy in the faint moonlight, was the plebe they had left in the jail down at Highland Falls!