CHAPTER XII.
“REVENGE IS SWEET.”
The amount of alarm which that apparition caused to the yearlings it would be difficult to imagine. The idea of their hated rival escaping had never once flashed over them, and when they saw him it seemed like a visit from another world. It was so sudden that they had no time to think whether that were possible or not.
Except for Bull’s one frightened gasp the four made not one sound. They stood staring, ready to drop from sheer terror. And as for Mallory, he, too, was silent and motionless; he felt that a word would have broken the spell.
There was perhaps half a minute’s wait, and then came another move. There was a waving in the grass behind Mark, and another shadowy form arose silently into view. It was the Parson’s solemn features, and the Parson, too, folded his arms and stared.
After that the rest appeared one by one, and at each Bull Harris gasped and trembled more. They seemed to him like the ghosts of men he had murdered. There was Dewey, not smiling for once. There was Indian, not scared for once. There was Sleepy, wide awake for once. There was Chauncey, dignified forever. And then last of all was Texas; Texas broke the spell.
It was not the latter’s features, though, as Dewey facetiously informed him, he had a face that would break anything from a spell to a broncho. But it was what Texas held in his hand. It was his usual style—forty-four caliber—and Texas was aiming it right at Bull’s head.
“Move one whisker, an’ I’ll fire, you ole coyote.”
That, quite naturally, proved that the plebes were of ordinary flesh and blood. There was nothing shadowy about the gleam of that revolver, and Bull started back in still greater alarm.
It was the Banded Seven’s turn, after that.
Mark always declared that it was perfectly safe to let Texas “hold up” Bull and his gang whenever it was necessary to capture them, for Bull and his gang never had the courage to blink one eye when Texas was waving his weapons. There are some advantages in being known as a “bad man.” It was so in this case; the Seven sprang forward and flung themselves upon their tormentors and speedily had them flat on the ground, tied up with the remnants of the cowboy’s most serviceable lasso.
The question was then what shall we do with them? The plebes retired to a distance to talk that over. They had a little more than two hours left, by the watch. During that time they were to devise and execute some act of retaliation.
The council proceeded to discuss ways and means. Not to delay with details, suffice it to say that they talked for some ten minutes—and that then suddenly Mark sprang up and slapped his knee with excitement.
“By jingo!” he cried. “I’ve got it!”
After that there was excitement. Mark hastily outlined his scheme, the others chuckling and dancing about in the meantime with sheer delight. Evidently this was an idea. Bull heard the merry laughter in the distance, and he realized that it boded ill for him. Bull bit his lip with vexation and struggled with his bonds. His peace of mind was not increased in the least by the realization of the fact that everything that happened to him was richly deserved.
He heard the hasty steps of the plebes as they approached him again. The plebes set about putting their plans into effect with all possible celerity, and it was just a very short while before he comprehended the horrible deed they were going to do. Bull kicked and fought till he was blue in the face, but it did him not a bit of good, and it seemed to amuse his captors.
They untied him almost entirely. But he could not run because he was surrounded, and he dared not fight because Texas kept his revolver leveled. They removed Bull’s coat and trousers, and in their place put on the outlandish rig that Mark had worn. Then they tied him up again and turned their attention to the others.
Indian managed to pull himself out of the almost bursting dress suit he wore; the suit was put on Baby Edwards, and, so Dewey informed him, it fit him “like der paper on der vall.” Chauncey, to his infinite relief, shed his smutty white outing costume at last. And Dewey came out of drum orderly uniform to furnish the fourth garment. After which the plebes put on the clothing they had taken from their prisoners, and everything was well.
Having once realized the design of their enemies and likewise their own helplessness, the yearlings were completely subdued, even terrified. It was all very well to send some hated plebes to jail as lunatics, but to go themselves was horrible. They saw that was the ultimate purpose of the Banded Seven.
After a brief consultation the latter picked up their helpless captors and set out in haste for the road, which lay about one hundred yards to the left. They reached that, and after glancing about cautiously, hurried out and tied the yearlings tightly to conspicuous trees along the road. After that they had another whispered discussion, then turned and vanished in the woods.
As to the rest of the Banded Seven’s actions, suffice it to say that they hurried up to camp, which they reached in safety. They hid their clothing, the source of so much trouble, and then stole past the sentry and entered their tents. They were soon sound asleep and utterly oblivious to the troubles of their unfortunate rivals.
“If they can have the same luck as we,” said Mark, briefly, “they may get away, and welcome. If they can’t, they must bear what would have been our fate. That is about as near to justice as I can come.”
Which summary contained the whole situation.
Meanwhile exciting adventures were happening to Bull. It is presumed that the reader is interested, though so far as Mark and his friends are concerned, this story is already finished.
The plebes had certainly not been gone ten minutes before the excitement began. The horrified and hopeless yearlings got their first warning when they heard sounds of approaching footsteps and excitedly discussing voices.
“They came up this way, I tell you. We ought to go up and hunt above the Point, for the sheriff’ll ’tend to this part.”
“Are you sure that gun’s loaded, Jack? This is no child’s play, for one of those fellows is armed.”
There were a few more remarks of this kind and then the party came into view, almost in front of the prisoners. The latter were silent and motionless, for they hoped vaguely that somehow they might not be noticed. But, alas! the white flannel was like a torch in moonlight. The searchers stopped short and stared in amazement.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed one, apparently the leader. “Here they are now!”
The surprise that the apparition caused can well be imagined. They counted one, two, three, four—of the very men they were pursuing, tied hand and foot to trees along the roadside. Here was a mystery indeed! This was a strange thing for even lunatics to do, and the crowd of men handled their weapons nervously as they stared.
“I have it!” cried one of them, suddenly. “I know!”
“What is it?” demanded the others.
“The sheriff’s caught and tied ’em here for us.”
That was a likely conjecture, and it took with the puzzled crowd, who were glad for any theory. In vain Bull and his crowd protested, in the words of Poe’s poem, “I am not mad!” That was a likely story, coming from lunatics. And where did they get those clothes? None of the sheriff’s posse chanced to be there; so there was no one to recognize Bull as the original giver of the information. And as for his own protests and cries, they were of course insane ravings, to be listened to with gaping mouths and some pity.
There was nothing for the captors to do but march the yearlings down to jail. This they did with no little caution, and considerable display of firearms. There was not a man of them who did not feel relieved when the gates clanged once more upon those desperate creatures.
There is no need of describing the sensations which that same clang produced upon the creatures. It has all been described in the case of the Banded Seven; it was just the same here, only aggravated by a feeling of baffled rage. It was Bull Harris’ death knell, the clang of that gate.
They were put in the same cell, but they were tied securely, and so there was no danger of their escaping “again.” Having seen to this, the party went out, paying not the least heed to Bull’s frenzied entreaties to send for the sheriff. It was natural that a captured lunatic should rave and foam at the mouth a little.
Darkness and silence having fallen upon the jail the situation became clear at last to the wretched captives. They were tied hand and foot behind prison bars, it lacking then perhaps an hour and a half of reveille—and dismissal. They had no watch to let them see the time, which made the situation all the more agonizing. If the sheriff came in time—though there was not the least reason for supposing he would—they might get out. If he didn’t—Bull ground his teeth with rage when he thought of it.
It was perfectly clear to the yearlings how the former occupants of the cell had gotten out; the broken bar told the story. But the prisoners scarcely noticed that, so wild were they with excitement and suspense and dread.
The time sped on. Nobody knew how much of it, and the four kept their brains busy disputing with each other, some vowing that it was an hour, some a half. It seemed as if Father Time were taking an interest in punishing these villains, for he went with agonizing slowness. Sometimes a minute may seem an age. After all, time is only relative; every man has his own time, depending upon the swiftness with which ideas are passing through his mind.
It was thus a very long period, that hour and a half. The four knew not, as the end came near, whether it were one hour that had passed or six. And they had almost given up hope and become resigned, when suddenly there came a step that made their hearts leap up and begin to pound.
The outer door opened; then the door to their cell. A figure strode in. It was the sheriff!
A perfect pandemonium resulted. It took the official but a moment to recognize that these were not the lunatics. From their excited and frenzied pleadings he managed to make out the story of their misfortune, their capture by the real lunatics. Also he made out that they were in a simply agonizing hurry to get out, to go somewhere.
He knew that he had no right to hold them. He stepped forward and cut them loose, and showed them to the door. An instant later four figures were dashing up the street toward West Point at a speed that would have done credit to an antelope. This was a go-as-you-please race, each man for himself.
They sped on, past the boundary of cadet limits, the officers’ houses, the mess hall. They were careless of consequences, making no effort to hide from any one. Time was too precious. A single glance at the parade ground ahead showed them that the gun had not yet sounded, that still there was hope. Their pace grew faster still at that.
The academy building and the chapel they left behind them, and bounded up the road toward the camp. They saw—oh, horrors!—the corporal and his single private standing in front of the morning gun, about to fire! And a moment later the four, one after another, dashed wildly around the camp, past the astonished officer of the day, and plunged over the embankment of Fort Clinton, where their uniforms lay hid.
Just then—bang! went the gun.
And two minutes later, red and breathless, but still in uniform and safe, the four signaled the sentry, rushed into camp, and fell in for roll call with their classmates on the company street. The escape was narrow; but the miss was as good as a mile.