"Is it, then, such a dangerous place?" asked the Englishman, with a smile that seemed to say he thought his informant was exaggerating.

"Dangerous!" exclaimed the cow-boy. "Ay, an will be as long as Buck Tom an' his boys are unhung. Why, stranger, I'd get my life insured, you bet, before I'd go thar again—except with a big crowd o' men. It was along in June last year I went up that way; there was nobody to go with me, an' I was forced to do it by myself—for I had to go—so I spunked up, saddled Bluefire, an' sloped. I got on lovely till I came to a pass just on t'other side o' Traitor's Trap, when I began to cheer up, thinkin' I'd got off square; but I hadn't gone another hundred yards when up starts Buck Tom an' his men with 'hands up.' I went head down flat on my saddle instead, I was so riled. Bang went a six-shooter, an' the ball just combed my back hair. I suppose Buck was so took by surprise at a single man darin' to disobey his orders that he missed. Anyhow I socked spurs into Bluefire, an' made a break for the open country ahead. They made after me like locomotives wi' the safety-valves blocked, but Bluefire was more'n a match for 'em. They kep' blazin' away all the time too, but never touched me, though I heard the balls whistlin' past for a good while. Bluefire an' me went, you bet, like a nor'-easter in a passion, an' at last they gave it up. No, stranger, take my advice an' don't go past Traitor's Trap alone. I wouldn't go there at all if I could help it."

"I don't intend to go past it. I mean to go into it," said the Englishman, with a short laugh, as he laid down his knife and fork, having finished his slight meal; "and, as I cannot get a guide, I shall be forced to go alone."

"Stranger," said the cow-boy in surprise, "d'ye want to meet wi' Buck Tom?"

"Not particularly."

"An' are ye aware that Buck Tom is one o' the most hardened, sanguinacious blackguards in all Colorado?"

"I did not know it before, but I suppose I may believe it now."

As he spoke the Englishman rose and went out to fetch the blanket which was strapped to his saddle. In going out he brushed close past a man who chanced to enter at the same moment.

The newcomer was also a tall and strikingly handsome man, clothed in the picturesque garments of the cow-boy, and fully armed. He strode up to the counter, with an air of proud defiance, and demanded drink. It was supplied him. He tossed it off quickly, without deigning a glance at the assembled company. Then in a deep-toned voice he asked—

"Has the Rankin Creek Company sent that account and the money?"

Profound silence had fallen on the whole party in the room the moment this man entered. They evidently looked at him with profound interest if not respect.

"Yes, Buck Tom," answered the landlord, in his grave off-hand manner; "They have sent it, and authorised me to pay you the balance."

He turned over some papers for a few minutes, during which Buck Tom did not condescend to glance to one side or the other, but kept his eye fixed sternly on the landlord.

At that moment the Englishman re-entered, went to his corner, spread his blanket on the floor, lay down, put his wide-awake over his eyes, and resigned himself to repose, apparently unaware that anything special was going on, and obtusely blind to the quiet but eager signals wherewith the cow-boy was seeking to direct his attention to Buck Tom.

In a few minutes the landlord found the paper he wanted, and began to look over it.

"The company owes you," he said, "three hundred dollars ten cents for the work done," said the landlord slowly.

Buck nodded his head as if satisfied with this.

"Your account has run on a long while," continued the landlord, "and they bid me explain that there is a debit of two hundred and ninety-nine dollars against you. Balance in your favour one dollar ten cents."

A dark frown settled on Buck Tom's countenance, as the landlord laid the balance due on the counter, and for a few moments he seemed in uncertainty as to what he should do, while the landlord stood conveniently near to a spot where one of his revolvers lay. Then Buck turned on his heel, and was striding towards the door, when the landlord called him back.

"Excuse my stopping you, Buck Tom," he said, "but there's a gentleman here who wants a guide to Traitor's Trap. Mayhap you wouldn't object to—"

"Where is he?" demanded Buck, wheeling round, with a look of slight surprise.

"There," said the landlord, pointing to the dark corner where the big Englishman lay, apparently fast asleep, with his hat pulled well down over his eyes.

Buck Tom looked at the sleeping figure for a few moments.

"H'm! well, I might guide him," he said, with something of a grim smile, "but I'm travelling too fast for comfort. He might hamper me. By the way," he added, looking back as he laid his hand on the door, "you may tell the Rankin Creek Company, with my compliments, to buy a new lock to their office door, for I intend to call on them some day soon and balance up that little account on a new system of 'rithmetic! Tell them I give 'em leave to clap the one dollar ten cents to the credit of their charity account."

Another moment and Buck Tom was gone. Before the company in the tavern had quite recovered the use of their tongues, the hoofs of his horse were heard rattling along the road which led in the direction of Traitor's Trap.

"Was that really Buck Tom?" asked Hunky Ben, in some surprise.

"Ay—or his ghost," answered the landlord.

"I can swear to him, for I saw him as clear as I see you the night he split after me," said the cowboy, who had warned the Englishman.

"Why didn't you put a bullet into him to-night, Crux?" asked a comrade.

"Just so—you had a rare chance," remarked another of the cow-boys, with something of a sneer in his tone.

"Because I'm not yet tired o' my life," replied Crux, indignantly. "Back Tom has got eyes in the back o' his head, I do believe, and shoots dead like a flash—"

"Not that time he missed you at Traitor's Trap, I think," said the other.

"Of course not—'cause we was both mounted that time, and scurryin' over rough ground like wild-cats. The best o' shots would miss thar an' thus. Besides, Buck Tom took nothin' from me, an' ye wouldn't have me shoot a man for missin' me—surely. If you're so fond o' killin', why didn't you shoot him yourself?—you had a rare chance!"

Crux grinned—for his ugly mouth could not compass a smile—as he thought thus to turn the tables on his comrade.

"Well, he's got clear off, anyhow, returned the comrade, an' it's a pity, for—"

He was interrupted by the Englishman raising himself and asking in a sleepy tone if there was likely to be moonlight soon.

The company seemed to think him moon-struck to ask such a question, but one of them replied that the moon was due in half an hour.

"You've lost a good chance, sir," said Crux, who had a knack of making all his communications as disagreeably as possible, unless they chanced to be unavoidably agreeable, in which case he made the worst of them. "Buck Tom hisself has just bin here, an' might have agreed to guide you to Traitor's Trap if you'd made him a good offer."

"Why did you not awake me?" asked the Englishman in a reproachful tone, as he sprang up, grasped his blanket hastily, threw down a piece of money on the counter, and asked if the road wasn't straight and easy for a considerable distance.

"Straight as an arrow for ten mile," said the landlord, as he laid down the change which the Englishman put into an apparently well-filled purse.

"I'll guide you, stranger, for five dollars," said Crux.

"I want no guide," returned the other, somewhat brusquely, as he left the room.

A minute or two later he was heard to pass the door on horseback at a sharp trot.

"Poor lad, he'll run straight into the wolf's den; but why he wants to do it puzzles me," remarked the landlord, as he carefully cleaned a tankard. "But he would take no warning."

"The wolf doesn't seem half as bad as he's bin painted," said Hunky Ben, rising and offering to pay his score.

"Hallo, Hunky—not goin' to skip, are ye?" asked Crux.

"I told ye I was in a hurry. Only waitin' to rest my pony. My road is the same as the stranger's, at least part o' the way. I'll overhaul an' warn him."

A few minutes more and the broad-shouldered scout was also galloping along the road or track which led towards the Rocky mountains in the direction of Traitor's Trap.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

HUNKY BEN IS SORELY PERPLEXED.

It was one of Hunky Ben's few weaknesses to take pride in being well mounted. When he left the tavern he bestrode one of his best steeds—a black charger of unusual size, which he had purchased while on a trading trip in Texas—and many a time had he ridden it while guiding the United States troops in their frequent expeditions against ill-disposed Indians. Taken both together it would have been hard to equal, and impossible to match, Hunky Ben and his coal-black mare.

From the way that Ben rode, on quitting the tavern, it might have been supposed that legions of wild Indians were at his heels. But after going about a few miles at racing speed he reined in, and finally pulled up at a spot where a very slight pathway diverged. Here he sat quite still for a few minutes in meditation. Then he muttered softly to himself—for Ben was often and for long periods alone in the woods and on the plains, and found it somewhat "sociable-like" to mutter his thoughts audibly:

"You've not cotched him up after all, Ben," he said. "Black Polly a'most equals a streak o' lightnin', but the Britisher got too long a start o' ye, an' he's clearly in a hurry. Now, if I follow on he'll hear your foot-falls, Polly, an' p'raps be scared into goin' faster to his doom. Whereas, if I go off the track here an' drive ahead so as to git to the Blue Fork before him, I'll be able to stop the Buck's little game, an' save the poor fellow's life. Buck is sure to stop him at the Blue Fork, for it's a handy spot for a road-agent, [a highwayman] and there's no other near."

Hunky Ben was pre-eminently a man of action. As he uttered or thought the last word he gave a little chirp which sent Black Polly along the diverging track at a speed which almost justified the comparison of her to lightning.

The Blue Fork was a narrow pass or gorge in the hills, the footpath through which was rendered rugged and dangerous for cattle because of the rocks that had fallen during the course of ages from the cliffs on either side. Seen from a short distance off on the main track the mountains beyond had a brilliantly blue appearance, and a few hundred yards on the other side of the pass the track forked—hence the name. One fork led up to Traitor's Trap, the other to the fort of Quester Creek, an out-post of United States troops for which Hunky Ben was bound with the warning that the Redskins were contemplating mischief. As Ben had conjectured, this was the spot selected by Buck Tom as the most suitable place for waylaying his intended victim. Doubtless he supposed that no Englishman would travel in such a country without a good deal of money about him, and he resolved to relieve him of it.

It was through a thick belt of wood that the scout had to gallop at first, and he soon outstripped the traveller who kept to the main and, at that part, more circuitous road, and who was besides obliged to advance cautiously in several places. On nearing his destination, however, Ben pulled up, dismounted, fastened his mare to a tree, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot at a run, carrying his repeating rifle with him. He had not gone far when he came upon a horse. It was fastened, like his own, to a tree in a hollow.

"Ho! ho!" thought Ben, "you prefer to do yer dirty work on foot, Mr Buck! Well, you're not far wrong in such a place."

Advancing now with great caution, the scout left the track and moved through the woods more like a visible ghost than a man, for he was well versed in all the arts and wiles of the Indian, and his moccasined feet made no sound whatever. Climbing up the pass at some height above the level of the road, so that he might be able to see all that took place below, he at last lay down at full length, and drew himself in snake fashion to the edge of the thicket that concealed him. Pushing aside the bushes gently he looked down, and there, to his satisfaction, beheld the man he was in search of, not thirty yards off.

Buck Tom was crouching behind a large mass of rock close to the track, and so lost in the dark shadow of it that no ordinary man could have seen him; but nothing could escape the keen and practised eye of Hunky Ben. He could not indeed make out the highwayman's form, but he knew that he was there and that was enough. Laying his rifle on a rock before him in a handy position he silently watched the watcher.

During all this time the Englishman—whom the reader has doubtless recognised as Charlie Brooke—was pushing on as fast as he could in the hope of overtaking the man who could guide him to Traitor's Trap.

At last he came to the Blue Forks, and rode into the pass with the confidence of one who suspects no evil. He drew rein, however, as he advanced, and picked his way carefully along the encumbered path.

He had barely reached the middle of it, where a clear space permitted the moonbeams to fall brightly on the ground, when a stern voice suddenly broke the stillness of the night with the words—

"Hands up!"

Charlie Brooke seemed either to be ignorant of the ways of the country and of the fact that disobedience to the command involved sudden death, or he had grown unaccountably reckless, for instead of raising his arms and submitting to be searched by the robber who covered him with a revolver, he merely reined up and took off his hat, allowing the moon to shine full on his countenance.

The effect on Buck Tom was singular. Standing with his back to the moon, his expression could not be seen, but his arm dropped to his side as if it had been paralysed, and the revolver fell to the ground.

Never had Buck Tom been nearer to his end than at that moment, for Hunky Ben, seeing clearly what would be the consequence of the Englishman's non-compliance with the command, was already pressing the trigger that would have sent a bullet into Buck Tom's brain, but the Englishman's strange conduct induced him to pause, and the effect on the robber caused him to raise his head and open wide his eyes—also his ears!

"Ah! Ralph Ritson, has it come to this?" said Charlie, in a voice that told only of pity and surprise.

For some moments Ralph did not speak. He was evidently stunned. Presently he recovered, and, passing his hand over his brow, but never taking his eyes off the handsome face of his former friend, he said in a low tone—

"I—I—don't feel very sure whether you're flesh and blood, Brooke, or a spirit—but—but—"

"I'm real enough to be able to shake hands, Ritson," returned our hero, dismounting, and going up to his former friend, who suffered him to grasp the hand that had been on the point of taking his life. "But can it be true, that I really find you a—"

"It is true, Charlie Brooke; quite true—but while you see the result, you do not see, and cannot easily understand, the hard grinding injustice that has brought me to this. The last and worst blow I received this very night. I have urgent need of money—not for myself, believe me—and I came down to David's store, at some personal risk, I may add, to receive payment of a sum due me for acting as a cow-boy for many months. The company, instead of paying me—"

"Yes, I know; I heard it all," said Charlie.

"You were only shamming sleep, then?"

"Yes; I knew you at once."

"Well, then," continued Buck Tom (as we shall still continue to style him), "the disappointment made me so desperate that I determined to rob you—little thinking who you were—in order to help poor Shank Leather—"

"Does Shank stand in urgent need of help?" asked Charlie, interrupting.

"He does indeed. He has been very ill. We have run out of funds, and he needs food and physic of a kind that the mountains don't furnish."

"Does he belong to your band, Ritson?"

"Well—nearly; not quite!"

"That is a strange answer. How far is it to where he lies just now?"

"Six miles, about."

"Come, then, I will go to him if you will show me the way," returned Charlie, preparing to remount. "I have plenty of that which poor Shank stands so much in need of. In fact I have come here for the express purpose of hunting him and you up. Would it not be well, by the way, to ride back to the store for some supplies?"

"No need," answered Buck Tom, stooping to pick up his revolver. "There's another store not far from this, to which we can send to-morrow. We can get what we want there."

"But what have you done with your horse?" asked Charlie; "I heard you start on one."

"It is not far off. I'll go fetch it."

So saying the robber entered the bushes and disappeared. A few minutes later the clattering of hoofs was heard, and in another moment he rode up to the spot where our hero awaited him.

"Follow me," he said; "the road becomes better half a mile further on."

During all this time Hunky Ben had stood with his rifle ready, listening with the feelings of a man in a dream. He watched the robber and his victim ride quietly away until they were out of sight. Then he stood up, tilted his cap on one side, and scratched his head in great perplexity.

"Well, now," he said at length, "this is about the queerest affair I've comed across since I was raised. It's a marcy I was born with a quiet spirit, for another chip off the small end of a moment an' Buck Tom would have bin with his fathers in their happy, or otherwise, huntin' grounds! It's quite clear that them two have bin friends, mayhap pards, in the old country. An' Buck Tom (that's Ritson, I think he called him) has bin driven to it by injustice, has he? Ah! Buck, if all the world that suffers injustice was to take to robbery it's not many respectable folk would be left to rob. Well, well, my comin' off in such a splittin' hurry to take care o' this Britisher is a wild-goose chase arter all! It's not the first one you've bin led into anyhow, an' it's time you was lookin' arter yer own business, Hunky Ben."

While giving vent to these remarks in low muttering tones, the scout was quickly retracing his steps to the place where he had tied up Black Polly. Mounting her he returned to the main track, proceeded along it until he reached the place beyond the pass where the roads forked; then, selecting that which diverged to the left, he set off at a hard gallop in the direction of Quester Creek.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE HAUNT OF THE OUTLAWS.

After riding through the Blue Fork Charlie and Buck Tom came to a stretch of open ground of considerable extent, where they could ride abreast, and here the latter gave the former some account of the condition of Shank Leather.

"Tell me, Ritson," said Charlie, "what you mean by Shank 'nearly' and 'not quite' belonging to your band."

The outlaw was silent for some time. Then he seemed to make up his mind to speak out.

"Brooke," he said, "it did, till this night, seem to me that all the better feelings of my nature—whatever they were—had been blotted out of existence, for since I came to this part of the world the cruelty and injustice that I have witnessed and suffered have driven me to desperation, and I candidly confess to you that I have come to hate pretty nigh the whole human race. The grip of your hand and tone of your voice, however, have told me that I have not yet sunk to the lowest possible depths. But that is not what I mean to enlarge on. What I wish you to understand is, that after Shank and I had gone to the dogs, and were reduced to beggary, I made up my mind to join a band of men who lived chiefly by their wits, and sometimes by their personal courage. Of course I won't say who they are, because we still hang together, and there is no need to say what we are. The profession is variously named, and not highly respected.

"Shank refused to join me, so we parted. He remained for some time in New York doing odd jobs for a living. Then he joined a small party of emigrants, and journeyed west. Strange to say, although the country is wide, he and I again met accidentally. My fellows wanted to overhaul the goods of the emigrants with whom he travelled. They objected. A fight followed in which there was no bloodshed, for the emigrants fled at the first war-whoop. A shot from one of them, however, wounded one of our men, and one of theirs was so drunk at the time of the flight that he fell off his horse and was captured. That man was Shank. I recognised him when I rode up to see what some of my boys were quarrelling over, and found that it was the wounded man wanting to shove his knife into Shank.

"The moment I saw his face I claimed him as an old chum, and had him carried up to our headquarters in Traitor's Trap. There he has remained ever since, in a very shaky condition, for the fall seems to have injured him internally, besides almost breaking his neck. Indeed I think his spine is damaged,—he recovers so slowly. We have tried to persuade him to say that he will become one of us when he gets well, but up to this time he has steadily refused. I am not sorry; for, to say truth, I don't want to force any one into such a line of life—and he does not look as if he'd be fit for it, or anything else, for many a day to come."

"But how does it happen that you are in such straits just now?" asked Charlie, seeing that Buck paused, and seemed unwilling to make further explanations.

"Well, the fact is, we have not been successful of late; no chances have come in our way, and two of our best men have taken their departure—one to gold-digging in California, the other to the happy hunting grounds of the Redskin, or elsewhere. Luck, in short, seems to have forsaken us. Pious folk," he added, with something of a sneer, "would say, no doubt, that God had forsaken us."

"I think pious people would not say so, and they would be wrong if they did," returned Charlie. "In my opinion God never forsakes any one; but when His creatures forsake him He thwarts them. It cannot be otherwise if His laws are to be vindicated."

"It may be so. But what have I done," said Buck Tom fiercely, "to merit the bad treatment and insufferable injustice which I have received since I came to this accursed land? I cannot stand injustice. It makes my blood boil, and so, since it is rampant here, and everybody has been unjust to me, I have made up my mind to pay them back in their own coin. There seems to me even a spice of justice in that."

"I wonder that you cannot see the fallacy of your reasoning, Ritson," replied Charlie. "You ask, 'What have I done?' The more appropriate question would be, 'What have I not done?' Have you not, according to your own confession, rebelled against your Maker and cast Him off; yet you expect Him to continue His supplies of food to you; to keep up your physical strength and powers of enjoying life, and, under the name of Luck, to furnish you with the opportunity of breaking His own commands by throwing people in your way to be robbed! Besides which, have you not yourself been guilty of gross injustice in leading poor weak Shank Leather into vicious courses—to his great, if not irreparable, damage? I don't profess to teach theology, Ralph Ritson, my old friend, but I do think that even an average cow-boy could understand that a rebel has no claim to forgiveness—much less to favour—until he lays down his arms and gives in."

"Had any other man but you, Charlie Brooke, said half as much as you have just said to me, I would have blown his brains out," returned the outlaw sternly.

"I'm very glad no other man did say it, then," returned Charlie, "for your hands must be sufficiently stained already. But don't let anger blind you to the fact, Ralph, that you and I were once old friends; that I am your friend still, and that, what is of far greater importance, the Almighty is still your friend, and is proving His friendship by thwarting you."

"You preach a strange doctrine," said Buck Tom, laughing softly, "but you must end your sermon here in the meantime, for we have reached the entrance to Traitor's Trap, and have not room to ride further abreast. I will lead, and do you follow with care, for the path is none o' the safest. My asking you to follow me is a stronger proof than you may think that I believe in your friendship. Most strangers whom I escort up this gorge are usually requested to lead the way, and I keep my revolver handy lest they should stray from the track!"

The defile or gorge which they had reached was not inappropriately named, for, although the origin of the name was unknown, the appearance of the place was eminently suggestive of blackness and treachery. Two spurs of the mountain range formed a precipitous and rugged valley which, even in daylight, wore a forbidding aspect, and at night seemed the very portal to Erebus.

"Keep close to my horse's tail," said Buck Tom, as they commenced the ascent. "If you stray here, ever so little, your horse will break his neck or legs."

Thus admonished, our hero kept a firm hand on the bridle, and closed up as much as possible on his guide. The moon was by this time clouded over, so that, with the precipitous cliffs on either side, and the great mass of the mountains further up, there was only that faint sombre appearance of things which is sometimes described as darkness visible. The travellers proceeded slowly, for, besides the danger of straying off the path, the steepness of the ascent rendered rapid motion impossible. After riding for about three miles thus in absolute silence, they came to a spot where the track became somewhat serpentine, and Charlie could perceive dimly that they were winding amongst great fragments of rock which were here and there over-canopied by foliage, but whether of trees or bushes he could not distinguish. At last they came to a halt in front of what appeared to be a cliff.

"Dismount here," said Buck in a low voice, setting the example.

"Is this the end of our ride?"

"It is. Give me the bridle. I will put up your horse. Stand where you are till I return."

The outlaw led the horses away, leaving his former friend and schoolfellow in a curious position, and a not very comfortable frame of mind. When a man is engaged in action—especially if it be exciting and slightly dangerous—he has not time to think much about his surroundings, at least about their details, but now, while standing there in the intense darkness, in the very heart—as he had reason to believe—of a robber's stronghold, young Brooke could not help questioning his wisdom in having thus thrown himself into the power of one who had obviously deteriorated and fallen very low since the time when in England they had studied and romped together. It was too late, however, to question the wisdom of his conduct. There he was, and so he must make the best of it. He did not indeed fear treachery in his former friend, but he could not help reflecting that the reckless and perhaps desperate men with whom that friend was now associated might not be easy to restrain, especially if they should become acquainted with the fact that he carried a considerable sum of money about him.

He was yet pondering his position when Buck Tom returned.

"Ralph Ritson," he said, laying his hand on the arm of the outlaw, "you'll forgive my speaking plainly to you, I know. With regard to yourself I have not a shadow of doubt that you will act the part of an honourable host, though you follow a dishonourable calling. But I have no guarantee that those who associate with you will respect my property. Now, I have a considerable sum of money about me in gold and silver, which I brought here expressly for the benefit of our poor friend Shank Leather. What would you advise me to do in regard to it?"

"Intrust it to my care," said Buck promptly.

Charlie could not see the outlaw's face very clearly, but he could easily detect the half-amused half-mocking tone in which the suggestion was made.

"My good fellow," said Charlie, in a hearty voice, "you evidently think I am afraid to trust you. That is a mistake. I do not indeed trust to any remnant of good that is in your poor human nature, but I have confidence in the good feeling which God is arousing in you just now. I will freely hand over the money if you can assure me that you can guard it from your comrades."

"This will make it secure from them," returned Buck, with a short defiant laugh.

"Humph" exclaimed Charlie with a shrug. "I've not much confidence in that safeguard. No doubt, in certain circumstances, and on certain occasions, the revolver is a most important and useful instrument, but, taking it all round, I would not put much store by it. When you met me at the Blue Fork to-night, for instance, of what use was my revolver to me? And, for the matter of that, after you had dropped it on the road of what use was yours to you? It only wants one of your fellows to have more pluck and a quicker eye and hand than yourself to dethrone you at once."

"Well, none of my fellows," returned Buck Tom good-humouredly, "happen to have the advantage of me at present, so you may trust me and count this as one o' the 'certain occasions' on which a revolver is a most important instrument."

"I dare say you are right," responded Charlie, smiling, as he drew from the breast of his coat a small bag and handed it to his companion.

"You know exactly, of course, how much is here?" asked Buck Tom.

"Yes, exactly."

"That's all right," continued Buck, thrusting the bag into the bosom of his hunting coat; "now I'll see if any o' the boys are at home. Doubtless they are out—else they'd have heard us by this time. Just wait a minute."

He seemed to melt into the darkness as he spoke. Another minute and he re-appeared.

"Here, give me your hand," he said; "the passage is darkish at first."

Charlie Brooke felt rather than saw that they had passed under a portal of some sort, and were advancing along a narrow passage. Soon they turned to the left, and a faint red light—as of fire—became visible in the distance. Buck Tom stopped.

"There's no one in the cave but him, and he's asleep. Follow me."

The passage in which they stood led to a third and shorter one, where the light at its extremity was intense, lighting up the whole of the place so as to reveal its character. It was a corridor about seven feet high and four feet wide cut out of the solid earth; arched in the roof and supported here and there by rough posts to make it still more secure. Charlie at once concluded that it led to one of those concealed caverns, of which he had heard more than once while crossing the country, the entrances of which are made in zig-zag form in order to prevent the possibility of a ray of light issuing from the outside opening.

On reaching the end of the third passage he found that his conjecture was right, for the doorway or opening on his left hand conducted into a spacious cave, also hollowed out of the earth, but apparently against a perpendicular cliff, for the inner end of it was of unhewn rock. The roof of the cave was supported by pillars which were merely sections of pine-trees with the bark left on. These pillars and the earthen walls were adorned with antlers, skulls, and horns of the Rocky mountain sheep, necklaces of grizzly-bear's claws, Indian bows and arrows, rifles, short swords, and various other weapons and trophies of the chase, besides sundry articles of clothing. At the inner end of the cave a large fireplace and chimney had been rudely built, and in this was roaring the pine-wood fire which had lighted them in, and which caused the whole interior to glow with a vivid glare that seemed to surpass that of noon-day.

A number of couches of pine-brush were spread round the walls, and on one of these lay a sleeping figure. The face was turned towards the visitor, who saw at a glance that it was that of his former friend and playmate—but it was terribly changed. Hard toil, suffering, sickness, dissipation, had set indelible marks on it, and there was a slight curve about the eyebrows which gave the idea of habitual pain. Yet strange to say, worn and lined though it was, the face seemed far more attractive and refined than it had ever been in the days of robust health.

Buck Tom went to the fire and began to stir the contents of a big pot that hung over it, while Charlie advanced and stood for some minutes gazing at the countenance of his friend, unwilling to disturb his slumbers, yet longing to cheer him with the glad news that he had come to succour him. He chanced, however, to touch a twig of the pine branches on which the sleeper lay, and Shank awoke instantly, raised himself on one elbow, and returned his friend's gaze earnestly, but without the slightest symptom of surprise.

"O Charlie," he said at last in a quiet voice, "I wish you hadn't come to me to-night."

He stopped, and Charlie felt quite unable to speak, owing to intense pity, mingled with astonishment, at such a reception.

"It's too bad of you," Shank went on, "worrying me so in my dreams. I'm weary of it; and if you only knew what a terrible disappointment it is to me when I awake and don't find you there, you wouldn't tantalise me so. You always look so terribly real too! Man, I could almost pledge my life that you are no deception this time, but—but I'm so used to it now that—"

"Shank, my dear boy," said Charlie, finding words at last, "it is no deception—"

He stopped abruptly; for the intense look of eager anxiety, doubt, and hope in the thin expressive face alarmed him.

"Charlie!" gasped, rather than said, the invalid, "you—you never spoke to me before in my dreams, and—you never touched—the grip of your strong h—O God! can it be true?"

At this point Buck Tom suddenly left off his occupation at the fire and went out of the cave.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

LOST AND FOUND.

"Try to be calm, Shank," said Charlie, in a soothing tone, as he kneeled beside the shadow that had once been his sturdy chum, and put an arm on his shoulder. "It is indeed myself this time. I have come all the way from England to seek you, for we heard, through Ritson, that you were ill and lost in these wilds, and now, through God's mercy, I have found you."

While Charlie Brooke was speaking, the poor invalid was breathing hard and gazing at him, as if to make quite sure it was all true.

"Yes," he said at last, unable to raise his voice above a hoarse whisper, "lost—and—and—found! Charlie, my friend—my chum—my—"

He could say no more, but, laying his head like a little child on the broad bosom of his rescuer, he burst into a passionate flood of tears.

Albeit strong of will, and not by any means given to the melting mood, our hero was unable for a minute or two to make free use of his voice.

"Come, now, Shank, old man, you mustn't give way like that. You wouldn't, you know, if you had not been terribly reduced by illness—"

"Yes, I would! yes, I would!" interrupted the sick man, almost passionately; "I'd howl, I'd roar, I'd blubber like a very idiot, I'd do any mortal thing, if the doing of it would only make you understand how I appreciate your great kindness in coming out here to save me."

"Oh no, you wouldn't," said Charlie, affecting an easy off-hand tone, which he was far from feeling; "you wouldn't do anything to please me."

"What d'ye mean?" asked Shank, with a look of surprise.

"Well, I mean," returned the other, gently, "that you won't even do such a trifle as to lie down and keep quiet to please me."

A smile lighted up the emaciated features of the sick man, as he promptly lay back at full length and shut his eyes.

"There, Charlie," he said, "I'll behave, and let you do all the talking; but don't let go my hand, old man. Keep a tight grip of it. I'm terrified lest you drift off again, and—and melt away."

"No fear, Shank. I'll not let go my hold of you, please God, till I carry you back to old England."

"Ah! old England! I'll never see it again. I feel that. But tell me,"—he started up again, with a return of the excited look—"is father any better?"

"N-no, not exactly—but he is no worse. I'll tell you all about everything if you will only lie down again and keep silent."

The invalid once more lay back, closed his eyes and listened, while his friend related to him all that he knew about his family affairs, and the kindness of old Jacob Crossley, who had not only befriended them when in great distress, but had furnished the money to enable him, Charlie, to visit these outlandish regions for the express purpose of rescuing Shank from all his troubles and dangers.

At this point the invalid interrupted him with an anxious look.

"Have you the money with you?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Because," returned Shank, with something of a groan, "you are in a den of thieves!"

"I know it, my boy," returned Charlie, with a smile, "and so, for better security, I have given it in charge to our old chum, Ralph Ritson."

"What!" exclaimed Shank, starting up again with wide open eyes; "you have met Ralph, then?"

"I have. He conducted me here."

"And you have intrusted your money to him?"

"Yes—all of it; every cent!"

"Are you aware," continued Shank, in a solemn tone, "that Ralph Ritson is Buck Tom—the noted chief of the outlaws?"

"I know it."

"And you trust him?"

"I do. I have perfect confidence that he is quite incapable of betraying an old friend."

For some time Shank looked at his companion in surprise; then an absent look came into his eyes, and a variety of expressions passed over his wan visage. At last he spoke.

"I don't know how it is, Charlie, but somehow I think you are right. It's an old complaint of mine, you know, to come round to your way of thinking, whether I admit it or not. In days of old I usually refused to admit it, but believed in you all the same! If any man had told me this morning—ay, even half an hour since—that he had placed money in the hands of Buck Tom for safe keeping, knowing who and what he is, I would have counted him an incurable fool; but now, somehow, I do believe that you were quite right to do it, and that your money is as safe as if it were in the Bank of England."

"But I did not intrust it to Buck Tom, knowing who and what he is," returned Charlie, with a significant smile, "I put it into the hands of Ralph Ritson, knowing who and what he was."

"You're a good fellow, Charlie," said Shank, squeezing the hand that held his, "and I believe it is that very trustfulness of yours which gives you so great power and influence with people. I know it has influenced me for good many a time in the past, and would continue to do so still if I were not past redemption."

"No man is past redemption," said the other quietly; "but I'm glad you agree with me about Ralph, for—"

He stopped abruptly, and both men turned their eyes towards the entrance to the cave.

"Did you hear anything?" asked Shank, in a low voice.

"I thought so—but it must have been the shifting of a log on the fire," said the other, in a similarly low tone.

"Come, now, Charlie," said Shank, in his ordinary tones, "let me hear something about yourself. You have not said a word yet about what you have been doing these three years past."

As he spoke a slight noise was again heard in the passage, and, next moment Buck Tom re-entered carrying a lump of meat. Whether he had been listening or not they had no means of knowing, for his countenance was quite grave and natural in appearance.

"I suppose you have had long enough, you two, to renew your old acquaintance," he said. "It behoves me now to get ready some supper for the boys against their return, for they would be ill-pleased to come home to an empty kettle, and their appetites are surprisingly strong. But you needn't interrupt your conversation. I can do my work without disturbing you."

"We have no secrets to communicate, Buck," returned Shank, "and I have no doubt that the account of himself, which our old chum was just going to give, will be as interesting to you as to me."

"Quite as interesting," rejoined Buck; "so pray go on, Brooke. I can listen while I look after the cookery."

Thus urged, our hero proceeded to relate his own adventures at sea—the wreck of the Walrus, the rescue by the whaler, and his various experiences both afloat and ashore.

"The man, Dick Darvall, whom I have mentioned several times," said Charlie, in conclusion, "I met with again in New York, when I was about to start to come here, and as I wanted a companion, and he was a most suitable man, besides being willing to come, I engaged him. He is a rough and ready, but a handy and faithful, man, who had some experience in woodcraft before he went to sea, but I have been forced to leave him behind me at a ranch a good many miles to the south of David's store, owing to the foolish fellow having tried to jump a creek in the dark and broken his horse's leg. We could not get another horse at the time, and as I was very anxious to push on—being so near my journey's end—and the ranch was a comfortable enough berth, I left him behind, as I have said, with directions to stay till I should return, or to push on if he could find a safe guide."

While Charlie Brooke was relating the last part of his experience, it might have been observed that the countenance of Buck Tom underwent a variety of curious changes, like the sky of an April day. A somewhat stern frown settled on it at last but neither of his companions observed the fact being too much interested in each other.

"What was the name o' the ranch where your mate was left?" asked Buck Tom, when his guest ceased speaking.

"The ranch of Roaring Bull," answered Charlie. "I should not wonder," he added, "if its name were derived from its owner's voice, for it sounded like the blast of a trombone when he shouted to his people."

"Not only his ranch but himself is named after his voice," returned Buck. "His real name is Jackson, but it is seldom used now. Every one knows him as Roaring Bull. He's not a bad fellow at bottom, but something overbearing, and has made a good many enemies since he came to this part of the country six years ago."

"That may be so," remarked Brooke, "but he was very kind to us the day we put up at his place, and Dick Darvall, at all events, is not one of his enemies. Indeed he and Roaring Bull took quite a fancy to each other. It seemed like love at first sight. Whether Jackson's pretty daughter had anything to do with the fancy on Dick's part of course I can't say. Now, I think of it, his readiness to remain behind inclines me to believe it had!"

"Well, come outside with me, and have a chat about old, times. It is too hot for comfort here. I dare say our friend Shank will spare you for quarter of an hour, and the pot can look after itself. By the way, it would be as well to call me Buck Tom—or Buck. My fellows would not understand Ralph Ritson. They never heard it before. Have a cigar?"

"No, thank you, I have ceased to see the advantage of poisoning one's-self merely because it is the fashion to do so."

"The poison is wonderfully slow," said Buck.

"But not less wonderfully sure," returned Charlie, with a smile.

"As you will," rejoined Buck, rising and going outside with his visitor.

The night was very still and beautiful, and, the clouds having cleared away, the moonbeams struggled through the foliage and revealed the extreme wildness and seclusion of the spot which had been chosen by the outlaws as their fortress.

Charlie now saw that the approach to the entrance of the cave was a narrow neck of rock resembling a natural bridge, with a deep gully on either side, and that the cliff which formed the inner end of the cavern overhung its base, so that if an enemy were to attempt to hurl rocks down from above these would drop beyond the cave altogether. This much he saw at a glance. The minute details and intricacies of the place of course could not be properly seen or understood in the flickering and uncertain light which penetrated the leafy canopy, and, as it were, played with the shadows of the fallen rocks that strewed the ground everywhere, and hung in apparently perilous positions on the mountain slopes.

The manner of the outlaw changed to that of intense earnestness the moment he got out to the open air.

"Charlie Brooke," he said, with more of the tone and air of old familiar friendship than he had yet allowed himself to assume, "it's of no use exciting poor Shank unnecessarily, so I brought you out here to tell you that your man Dick Darvall is in deadly peril, and nothing but immediate action on my part can save him; I must ride without delay to his rescue. You cannot help me in this. I know what you are going to propose, but you must trust and obey me if you would save your friend's life. To accompany me would only delay and finally mar my plans. Now, will you—"

A peculiar whistle far down the gorge caused the outlaw to cease abruptly and listen.

The whistle was repeated, and Buck answered it at once with a look of great surprise.

"These are my fellows back already!" he said.

"You seem surprised. Did you, then, not expect them so soon?"

"I certainly did not; something must have gone wrong," replied Buck, with a perplexed look. Then, as if some new idea had flashed upon him, "Now, look here, Brooke, I must ask you to trust me implicitly and to act a part. Your life may depend on your doing this."

"The first I can do with ease, but as to the latter, my agreeing to do so depends on whether the action you require of me is honourable. You must forgive me, Rits—"

"Hush! Don't forget that there is no such man as Ralph Ritson in these mountains. My life may depend on your remembering that. Of course I don't expect you to act a dishonourable part,—all I want you to do just now is to lie down and pretend to go to sleep."

"Truly, if that is all, I am ready," said Charlie; "at all events I will shut my eyes and hold my tongue."

"A useful virtue at times, and somewhat rare," said Buck, leading his guest back into the cavern. "Now, then, Brooke, lie down there," pointing to a couch of pine-brush in a corner, "and try to sleep if you can."

Our hero at once complied, stretched himself at full length with his face to the light, and apparently went to sleep, but with his left arm thrown over his forehead as if to protect his eyes from the glare of the fire. Thus he was in a position to see as well as hear all that went on. Buck Tom went to the sick man and whispered something to him. Then, returning to the fire, he continued to stir the big pot, and sniff its savoury contents with much interest.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

FRIENDS AND FOES—PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS—THE RANCH IN DANGER.

In a few minutes the sound of heavy feet and gruff voices was heard in the outside passage, and next moment ten men filed into the room and saluted their chief heartily.

Charlie felt an almost irresistible tendency to open his eyes, but knew that the risk was too great, and contented himself with his ears. These told him pretty eloquently what was going on, for suddenly, the noise of voices and clattering of footsteps ceased, a dead silence ensued, and Charlie knew that the whole band were gazing at him with wide open eyes and, probably, open mouths. Their attention had been directed to the stranger by the chief. The silence was only momentary, however.

"Now, don't begin to whisper, pards," said Buck Tom, in a slightly sarcastic tone. "When will ye learn that there is nothing so likely to waken a sleeper as whisperin'? Be natural—be natural, and tell me, as softly as ye can in your natural tones, what has brought you back so soon. Come, Jake, you have got the quietest voice. The poor man is pretty well knocked up and needs rest. I brought him here."

"Has he got much?" the sentence was completed by Jake significantly slapping his pocket.

"A goodish lot. But come, sit down and out wi' the news. Something must be wrong."

"Wall, I guess that somethin' is wrong. Everything's wrong, as far as I can see. The Redskins are up, an' the troops are out, an' so it seemed o' no use our goin' to bust up the ranch of Roarin' Bull, seein' that the red devils are likely to be there before us. So we came back here, an' I'm glad you've got suthin' in the pot, for we're about as empty as kettledrums."

"Humph!" ejaculated Buck, "didn't I tell you not to trouble Roarin' Bull—that he and his boys could lick you if you had been twenty instead of ten. But how came ye to hear o' this cock-and-bull story about the Redskins?"

"We got it from Hunky Ben, an' he's not the boy to go spreadin' false reports."

Charlie Brooke ventured at this point to open his eye-lids the smallest possible bit, so that any one looking at him would have failed to observe any motion in them. The little slit however, admitted the whole scene to the retina, and he perceived that ten of the most cut-throat-looking men conceivable were seated in a semicircle in the act of receiving portions from the big pot into tin plates. Most of them were clothed in hunters' leathern costume, wore long boots with spurs, and were more or less bronzed and bearded.

Buck Tom, alias Ralph Ritson, although as tall and strong as any of them, seemed a being of quite angelic gentleness beside them. Yet Buck was their acknowledged chief. No doubt it was due to the superiority of mind over matter, for those out-laws were grossly material and matter-of-fact!

"There must be some truth in the report if Hunky Ben carried it," said Buck, looking up quickly, "but I left Ben sitting quietly in David's store not many hours ago."

"No doubt that's true, Captain," said Jake, as he ladled the soup into his capacious mouth; "nevertheless we met Hunky Ben on the pine-river prairie scourin' over the turf like all possessed on Black Polly. We stopped him of course an' asked the news."

"'News!' cried he, 'why, the Redskins have dug up the hatchet an' riz like one man. They've clar'd out Yellow Bluff, an' are pourin' like Niagara down upon Rasper's Creek. It's said that they'll visit Roarin' Bull's ranch to-morrow. No time for more talk, boys. Oratin' ain't in my line. I'm off to Quester Creek to rouse up the troops.' Wi' that Hunky wheeled round an' went off like a runaway streak o' lightnin'. I sent a couple o' shots after him, for I'd took a fancy to Black Polly— but them bullets didn't seem to hit somehow."

"Boys," cried Buck Tom, jumping up when he heard this, "if Hunky Ben said all that, you may depend on't it's true, an' we won't have to waste time this night if we're to save the ranch of Roarin' Bull."

"But we don't want to save the ranch of Roarin' Bull, as far as I'm consarned," said Jake rather sulkily.

Buck wheeled round on the man with a fierce glare, but, as if suddenly changing his mind, he said in a tone of well-feigned surprise—

"What! you, Jake, of all men—such a noted lady-killer—indifferent about the fate of the ranch of Roaring Bull, and pretty Miss Mary Jackson in it at the mercy of the Redskins!"

"Well, if it comes to that, Captain, I'll ride as far and as fast as any man to rescue a girl, pretty or plain, from the Redskins," said Jake, recovering his good-humour.

"Well, then, cram as much grub as you can into you in five minutes, for we must be off by that time. Rise, sir," said Buck, shaking Charlie with some violence. "We ride on a matter of life an' death—to save women. Will you join us?"

"Of course I will!" cried Charlie, starting up with a degree of alacrity and vigour that favourably impressed the outlaws, and shaking off his simulated sleep with wonderful facility.

"Follow me, then," cried Buck, hastening out of the cave.

"But what of Shank?" asked Charlie, in some anxiety, when they got outside. "He cannot accompany us; may we safely leave him behind?"

"Quite safely. This place is not known to the savages who are on the warpath, and there is nothing to tempt them this way even if it were. Besides, Shank is well enough to get up and gather firewood, kindle his fire, and boil the kettle for himself. He is used to being left alone. See, here is our stable under the cliff, and yonder stands your horse. Saddle him. The boys will be at our heels in a moment. Some of them are only too glad to have a brush wi' the Redskins, for they killed two of our band lately."

This last remark raised an uncomfortable feeling in the mind of Charlie, for was he not virtually allying himself with a band of outlaws, with intent to attack a band of Indians of whom he knew little or nothing, and with whom he had no quarrel? There was no time, however, to weigh the case critically. The fact that savages were about to attack the ranch in which his comrade Dick Darvall was staying, and that there were females in the place, was enough to settle the question. In a minute or two he had saddled his horse, which he led out and fastened to a tree, and, while the outlaws were busy making preparations for a start, he ran back to the cave.

"Shank," said he, sitting down beside his friend and taking his hand, "you have heard the news. My comrade Darvall is in great danger. I must away to his rescue. But be sure, old fellow, that I will return to you soon."

"Yes, yes—I know," returned Shank, with a look of great anxiety; "but, Charlie, you don't know half the danger you run. Don't fight with Buck Tom—do you hear?"

"Of course I won't," said Charlie, in some surprise.

"No, no, that's not what I mean," said Shank, with increasing anxiety. "Don't fight in company with him."

At that moment the voice of the outlaw was heard at the entrance shouting, "Come along, Brooke, we're all ready."

"Don't be anxious about me, Shank; I'll take good care," said Charlie, as he hastily pressed the hand of the invalid and hurried away.

The ten men with Buck at their head were already mounted when he ran out.

"Pardon me," he said, vaulting into the saddle, "I was having a word with the sick man."

"Keep next to me, and close up," said Buck, as he wheeled to the right and trotted away.

Down the Traitor's Trap they went at what was to Charlie a break-neck but satisfactory pace, for now that he was fairly on the road a desperate anxiety lest they should be too late took possession of him. Across an open space they went at the bottom of which ran a brawling rivulet. There was no bridge, but over or through it went the whole band without the slightest check, and onward at full gallop, for the country became more level and open just beyond.

The moon was still shining although sinking towards the horizon, and now for the first time Charlie began to note with what a stern and reckless band of men he was riding, and a feeling of something like exultation arose within him as he thought on the one hand of the irresistible sweep of an onslaught from such men, and, on the other, of the cruelties that savages were known to practise. In short, rushing to the rescue was naturally congenial to our hero.

About the same time that the outlaws were thus hastening for once on an honourable mission—though some of them went from anything but honourable motives—two other bands of men were converging to the same point as fast as they could go. These were a company of United States troops, guided by Hunky Ben, and a large band of Indians under their warlike chief Bigfoot.

Jackson, alias Roaring Bull, had once inadvertently given offence to Bigfoot, and as that chief was both by nature and profession an unforgiving man he had vowed to have his revenge. Jackson treated the threat lightly, but his pretty daughter Mary was not quite as indifferent about it as her father.

The stories of Indian raids and frontier wars and barbarous cruelties had made a deep impression on her sensitive mind, and when her mother died, leaving her the only woman at her father's ranch—with the exception of one or two half-breed women, who could not be much to her as companions—her life had been very lonely, and her spirit had been subjected to frequent, though hitherto groundless, alarms.

But pretty Moll, as she was generally called, was well protected, for her father, besides having been a noted pugilist in his youth, was a big, powerful man, and an expert with rifle and revolver. Moreover, there was not a cow-boy within a hundred miles of her who would not (at least thought he would not) have attacked single-handed the whole race of Redskins if Moll had ordered him to do so as a proof of affection.

Now, when strapping, good-looking Dick Darvall came to the ranch in the course of his travels and beheld Mary Jackson, and received the first broadside from her bright blue eyes, he hauled down his colours and surrendered with a celerity which would have mightily amused the many comrades to whom he had said in days of yore that his heart was as hard as rock, and he had never yet seen the woman as could soften it!

But Dick, more than most of his calling, was a modest, almost a bashful, man. He behaved to Mary with the politeness that was natural to him, and with which he would have approached any woman. He did not make the slightest attempt to show his admiration of her, though it is quite within the bounds of possibility that his "speaking" brown eyes may have said something without his permission! Mary Jackson, being also modest in a degree, of course did not reveal the state of her feelings, and made no visible attempt to ascertain his, but her bluff sagacious old father was not obtuse—neither was he reticent. He was a man of the world—at least of the back-woods world—and his knowledge of life, as there exhibited, was founded on somewhat acute experience. He knew that his daughter was young and remarkably pretty. He saw that Dick Darvall was also young—a dashing and unusually handsome sailor—something like what Tom Bowling may have been. Putting these things together, he came to the very natural conclusion that a wedding would be desirable; believing, as he did, that human nature in the Rockies is very much the same as to its foundation elements as it is elsewhere. Moreover, Roaring Bull was very much in want of a stout son-in-law at that time, so he fanned the flame which he fondly hoped was beginning to arise. This he did in a somewhat blundering and obvious manner, but Dick was too much engrossed with Mary to notice it and Mary was too ignorant of the civilised world's ways to care much for the proprieties of life.

Of course this state of things created an awful commotion in the breasts of the cow-boys who were in the employment of Mary's father and herded his cattle. Their mutual jealousies were sunk in the supreme danger that threatened them all, and they were only restrained from picking a quarrel with Dick and shooting him by the calmly resolute look in his brown eyes, coupled with his great physical power and his irresistible good-nature. Urbanity seemed to have been the mould in which the spirit of this man-of-the-sea had been cast and gentleness was one of his chief characteristics. Moreover, he could tell a good story, and sing a good song in a fine bass voice. Still further, although these gallant cow-boys felt intensely jealous of this newcomer, they could not but admit that they had nothing tangible to go upon, for the sailor did not apparently pay any pointed attention to Mary, and she certainly gave no special encouragement to him.

There was one cow-boy, however, of Irish descent, who could not or would not make up his mind to take things quietly, but resolved, as far as he was concerned, to bring matters to a head. His name was Pat Reilly.

He entered the kitchen on the day after Dick's arrival and found Mary alone and busily engaged with the dinner.

"Miss Jackson," said Pat, "there's a question I've bin wantin' to ax ye for a long time past, an' with your lave I'll putt it now."

"What is it Mr Reilly?" asked the girl somewhat stiffly, for she had a suspicion of what was coming. A little negro girl in the back kitchen named Buttercup also had a suspicion of what was coming, and stationed herself with intense delight behind the door, through a crack in which she could both hear and see.

"Mary, my dear," said Pat insinuatingly, "how would you like to jump into double harness with me an' jog along the path o' life together?"

Poor Mary, being agitated by the proposal, and much amused by the manner of it, bent over a pot of something and tried to hide her blushes and amusement in the steam. Buttercup glared, grinned, hugged herself, and waited for more.

Pat, erroneously supposing that silence meant consent, slipped an arm round Mary's waist. No man had ever yet dared to do such a thing to her. The indignant girl suddenly wheeled round and brought her pretty little palm down on the cow-boy's cheek with all her might—and that was considerable!

"Who's a-firin' off pistles in de kitchen?" demanded Buttercup in a serious tone, as she popped her woolly head through the doorway.

"Nobody, me black darlin'," said Pat; "it's only Miss Mary expressin' her failin's in a cheeky manner. That's all!"

So saying the rejected cow-boy left the scene of his discomfiture, mounted his mustang, took his departure from the ranch of Roarin' Bull without saying farewell, and when next heard of had crossed the lonely Guadaloupe mountains into Lincoln County, New Mexico.

But to return. While the troops and the outlaws were hastening thus to the rescue of the dwellers in Bull's ranch, and the blood-thirsty Redskins were making for the same point, bent on the destruction of all its inhabitants, Roaring Bull himself, his pretty daughter, and Dick Darvall, were seated in the ranch enjoying their supper, all ignorant alike of the movements of friend and foe, with Buttercup waiting on them.

One messenger, however, was speeding on his way to warn them of danger. This was the cowboy Crux, who had been despatched on Bluefire by Hunky Ben just before that sturdy scout had started to call out the cavalry at Quester Creek.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE ALARM AND PREPARATIONS FOR DEFENCE.

"From what you say I should think that my friend Brooke won't have much trouble in findin' Traitor's Trap," remarked Dick Darvall, pausing in the disposal of a venison steak which had been cooked by the fair bands of Mary Jackson herself, "but I'm sorely afraid o' the reception he'll meet with when he gets there, if the men are such awful blackguards as you describe."

"They're the biggest hounds unhung," growled Roaring Bull, bringing one hand down on the board by way of emphasis, while with the other he held out his plate for another steak.

"You're too hard on some of them, father," said Mary, in a voice the softness of which seemed appropriate to the beauty of her face.

"Always the way wi' you wenches," observed the father. "Some o' the villains are good-lookin', others are ugly; so, the first are not so bad as the second—eh, lass?"

Mary laughed. She was accustomed to her fathers somewhat rough but not ill-natured rebuffs.

"Perhaps I may be prejudiced, father," she returned; "but apart from that, surely you would never compare Buck Tom with Jake the Flint, though they do belong to the same band."

"You are right, my lass," rejoined her father. "They do say that Buck Tom is a gentleman, and often keeps back his boys from devilry—though he can't always manage that, an' no wonder, for Jake the Flint is the cruellest monster 'tween this an' Texas if all that's said of him be true."

"I wish my comrade was well out o' their clutches," said Dick, with a look of anxiety; "an' it makes me feel very small to be sittin' here enjoyin' myself when I might be ridin' on to help him if he should need help."

"Don't worry yourself on that score," said the host. "You couldn't find your way without a guide though I was to give ye the best horse in my stable—which I'd do slick off if it was of any use. There's not one o' my boys on the ranch just now, but there'll be four or five of 'em in to-morrow by daylight an' I promise you the first that comes in. They all know the country for three hundred miles around—every inch—an' you may ride my best horse till you drop him if ye can. There, now, wash down your victuals an' give us a yarn, or a song."

"I'm quite sure," added Mary, by way of encouragement, "that with one of the outlaws for an old friend, Mr Brooke will be quite safe among them."

"But he's not an outlaw, Miss Mary," broke in Darvall. "Leastwise we have the best reason for believin' that he's detained among them against his will. Hows'ever, it's of no use cryin' over spilt milk. I'm bound to lay at anchor in this port till mornin', so, as I can't get up steam for a song in the circumstances, here goes for a yarn."

The yarn to which our handsome seaman treated his audience was nothing more than an account of one of his numerous experiences on the ocean, but he had such a pleasant, earnest, truth-like, and confidential way of relating it and, withal, interlarded his speech with so many little touches of humour, that the audience became fascinated, and sat in open-eyed forgetfulness of all else. Buttercup, in particular, became so engrossed as to forget herself as well as her duties, and stood behind her master in an expectant attitude, glaring at the story-teller, with bated breath, profound sympathy, and extreme readiness to appreciate every joke whether good or bad.

In the midst of one of the most telling of his anecdotes the speaker was suddenly arrested by the quick tramp of a galloping horse, the rider of which, judging from the sound, seemed to be in hot haste.

All eyes were turned inquiringly on the master of the ranch. That cool individual, rising with quiet yet rapid action, reached down a magazine repeating rifle that hung ready loaded above the door of the room.

Observing this, Dick Darvall drew a revolver from his coat-pocket and followed his host to the outer door of the house. Mary accompanied them, and Buttercup retired to the back kitchen as being her appropriate stronghold.

They had hardly reached and flung open the door when Bluefire came foaming and smoking into the yard with Crux the cow-boy on his back.

"Wall, Roaring Bull," cried Crux, leaping off his horse and coming forward as quietly as if there were nothing the matter. "I'm glad to see you OK, for the Cheyenne Reds are on the war-path, an' makin' tracks for your ranch. But as they've not got here yet, they won't likely attack till the moon goes down. Is there any chuck goin'? I'm half starved."

"Ay, Crux, lots o' chuck here. Come in an' let's hear all about it. Where got ye the news?"

"Hunky Ben sent me. He wasn't thinkin' o' you at first but when a boy came in wi' the news that a crowd o' the reds had gone round by Pine Hollow—just as he was fixin' to pull out for Quester Creek to rouse up the cavalry—he asked me to come on here an' warn you."

While he was speaking the cow-boy sat down to supper with the air of a man who meant business, while the host and his sailor guest went to look after the defences of the place.

"I'm glad you are here, Dick Darvall," said the former, "for it's a bad job to be obliged to fight without help agin a crowd o' yellin' Reds. My boys won't be back till sun-up, an' by that time the game may be played out."

"D'ee think the Redskins 'll attack us to-night then?" asked the sailor as he assisted to close the gates of the yard.

"Ay, that they will, lad. They know the value o' time better than most men, and, when they see their chance, are not slow to take advantage of it. As Crux said, they won't attack while the moon shines, so we have plenty of time to git ready for them. I wish I hadn't sent off my boys, but as bad luck would have it a bunch o' my steers have drifted down south, an' I can't afford to lose them—so, you see, there's not a man left in the place but you an' me an' Crux to defend poor Mary."

For the first time in his life Dick Darvall felt a distinct tendency to rejoice over the fact that he was a young and powerful man! To live and, if need be, die for Mary was worth living for!

"Are you well supplied with arms an' ammunition?" he asked.

"That am I, and we'll need it all," answered the host as he led Dick round to the back of the yard where another gate required fastening.

"I don't see that it matters much," said Dick in a questioning tone, "whether you shut the gates or not. With so few to defend the place the house will be our only chance."

"When you've fought as much wi' Reds as I have, Dick, you'll larn that delay, even for five minutes, counts for a good deal."

"Well, there's somethin' in that. It minds me o' what one o' my shipmates, who had bin in the London fire brigade, once said. 'Dick,' said he, 'never putt off what you've got to do. Sometimes I've bin at a fire where the loss of only two minutes caused the destruction of a store worth ten thousand pound, more or less. We all but saved it as it was—so near were we, that if we had bin one minute sooner I do believe we'd have saved it.

"'But when we was makin' for that fire full sail, a deaf old apple-woman came athwart our bows an got such a fright that she went flop down right in front of us. To steer clear of her we'd got to sheer off so that we all but ran into a big van, and, what wi' our lights an' the yellin', the horses o' the van took fright and backed into us as we flew past, so that we a'most went down by the starn. One way or another we lost two minutes, as I've said, an' the owners o' that store lost about ten thousand pounds—more or less.'"

"That was a big pile, Dick," observed the ranchman, as they turned from the gate towards the house, "not easy to replace."

"True—my shipmate never seemed to be quite sure whether it was more or less that was lost, but he thought the Insurance offices must have found it out by that time. It's a pity there's only three of us, for that will leave one side o' the house undefended."

"All right Dick; you don't trouble your head about that for Buttercup fights like a black tiger. She's a'most as good as a man—only she can't manage to aim, so it's no use givin' her a rifle. She's game enough to fire it, but the more she tries to hit, the more she's sure to miss. However she's got a way of her own that sarves well enough to defend her side o' the house. She always takes charge o' the front. My Mary can't fight, but she's a heroine at loadin'—an' that's somethin' when you're hard pressed! Come, now, I'll show ye the shootin' irons an' our plan of campaign."

Roaring Bull led the way back to the room, or central hall, where they had supped, and here they found that the debris of their feast had already been cleared away, and that arms of various kinds, with ammunition, covered the board.

"Hospitable alike to friend and foe," said Jackson gaily. "Here, you see, Mary has spread supper for the Reds!"

Darvall made no response to this pleasantry, for he observed that poor Mary's pretty face was very pale, and that it wore an expression of mingled sadness and anxiety.

"You won't be exposed to danger, I hope," said Dick, in a low earnest tone, while Jackson was loudly discussing with Crux the merits of one of the repeating rifles—of which there were half-a-dozen on the table.

"Oh no! It is not that," returned the girl sadly. "I am troubled to think that, however the fight goes, some souls, perhaps many, will be sent to their account unprepared. For myself, I shall be safe enough as long as we are able to hold the house, and it may be that God will send us help before long."

"You may be quite sure," returned Dick, with suppressed emotion, "that no Redskin shall cross this threshold as long as we three men have a spark o' life left."

A sweet though pitiful smile lighted up Mary's pale face for a moment, as she replied that she was quite sure of that, in a tone which caused Darvall's heart to expand, so that his ribs seemed unable to contain it, while he experienced a sensation of being stronger than Samson and bigger than Goliath!

"And I suppose," continued Dick, "that the troops won't be long of coming. Is the man—what's his name, Humpy Ben—trustworthy?"

"Trustworthy!" exclaimed the maiden, with a flush of enthusiasm; "there is not a more trustworthy man on this side of the Rocky mountains, or the other side either, I am quite sure."

Poor Darvall's heart seemed suddenly to find plenty of room within the ribs at that moment, and his truthful visage must have become something of an index to his state of mind; for, to his surprise, Mary laughed.

"It seems to me so funny," she continued, "to hear any one ask if Hunky—not Humpy—Ben is to be trusted."

"Is he, then, such a splendid young fellow!" asked the seaman, with just the slightest touch of bitterness in his tone, for he felt as if a rock something like Gibraltar had been laid on his heart.

"Well, he's not exactly young," answered Mary, with a peculiar expression that made her questioner feel still more uncomfortable, "yet he is scarcely middle-aged, but he certainly is the most splendid fellow on the frontier; and he saved my life once."

"Indeed! how was that?"

"Well, it was this way. I had been paying a short visit to his wife, who lives on the other side of the—"

"Come along, Darvall," cried Roaring Bull at that moment. "The moon's about down, an' we'll have to take our stations. We shall defend the outworks first to check them a bit and put off some time, then scurry into the house and be ready for them when they try to clear the fence. Follow me. Out wi' the lights, girls, and away to your posts."

"I'll hear the end of your story another time, Miss Mary," said Dick, looking over his shoulder and following his host and Crux to the outer door.

The seaman was conscious of a faint suspicion that Mary was wrestling with another laugh as he went off to defend the outworks, but he also, happily, felt that the Rock of Gibraltar had been removed from his heart!



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

DEFENCE OF THE RANCH OF ROARING BULL.

Every light and every spark of fire had been extinguished in the ranch of Roaring Bull when its defenders issued from its doorway. They were armed to the teeth, and glided across the yard to the fence or stockade that enclosed the buildings, leaving the door slightly open so as to be ready for speedy retreat.

It had been arranged that, as there was a large open field without bush or tree in the rear of the ranch, they should leave that side undefended at first.

"They'll never come into the open as long as they can crawl up through the bush," Jackson had said, while making his final dispositions. "They're a'most sure to come up in front thinkin' we're all a-bed. Now, mind—don't stand still, boys, but walk along as ye fire, to give 'em the notion there's more of us. An' don't fire at nothin'. They'd think we was in a funk. An' when you hear me whistle get into the house as quick as a cotton-tail rabbit an' as sly as a snake."

After the moon went down, everything in and around the ranch was as silent as the grave, save now and then the stamp of a hoof on the floor of a shed, where a number of horses stood saddled and bridled ready to mount at a moment's notice; for Jackson had made up his mind, if it came to the worst, to mount and make a bold dash with all his household through the midst of his foes, trusting to taking them by surprise and to his knowledge of the country for success.

For a long time, probably two hours, the three men stood at their posts motionless and silent; still there was no sign, either by sight or sound, of an enemy. The outline of the dark woods was barely visible against the black sky in front of each solitary watcher, and no moving thing could be distinguished in the open field behind either by Crux or Darvall, to each of whom the field was visible. Jackson guarded the front.

To Dick, unaccustomed as he was to such warfare, the situation was very trying, and might have told on his nerves severely if he had not been a man of iron mould; as it was, he had no nerves to speak of! But he was a man of lively imagination. More than fifty times within those two hours did he see a black form moving in the darkness that lay between him and the wood, and more than fifty times was his Winchester rifle raised to his shoulder; but as often did the caution "don't fire at nothin'" rise to his memory.

The stockade was of peculiar construction, because its owner and maker was eccentric, and a mechanical genius. Not only were the pickets of which it was composed very strong and planted with just space between to permit of firing, but there was a planking of strong boards, waist high, all round the bottom inside, which afforded some protection to defenders by concealing them when they stooped and changed position.

While matters were in this state outside, Mary Jackson and Buttercup were standing at an upper window just opposite the front gate, the latter with a huge bell-mouthed blunderbuss of the last century, loaded with buckshot in her hands. Mary stood beside her sable domestic ready to direct her not as to how, but where and when, to use the ancient weapon.

"You must be very careful, Buttercup," said Mary in a low voice, "not to fire till I tell you, and to point only where I tell you, else you'll shoot father. And do keep your finger off the trigger! By the way, have you cocked it?"

"O missy, I forgit dat," answered the damsel with a self-condemned look, as she corrected the error. "But don' you fear, Missy Mary. I's use' to dis yar blunn'erbus. Last time I fire 'im was at a raven. Down hoed de raven, blow'd to atims, an' down hoed me too—cause de drefful t'ing kicks like a Texas mule. But bress you, I don' mind dat. I's used to it!"

Buttercup gave a little sniff of grave scorn with her flat nose, as though to intimate that the ordinary ills of life were beneath her notice.

We have said that all fires had been extinguished, but this is not strictly correct, for in the room where the two maidens watched there was an iron stove so enclosed that the fire inside did not show, and as it was fed with charcoal there were neither flames nor sparks to betray its presence. On this there stood a large cast-iron pot full of water, the bubbling of which was the only sound that broke the profound stillness of the night, while the watchers scarcely breathed, so intently did they listen.

At last the patient and self-restraining Dick saw a dark object moving towards his side of the stockade, which he felt was much too real to be classed with the creatures of his imagination which had previously given him so much trouble. Without a moment's hesitation the rifle flew to his shoulder, and the prolonged silence was broken by the sharp report, while an involuntary half-suppressed cry proved that he had not missed his mark. The dark object hastily retreated. A neighbouring cliff echoed the sounds, and two shots from his comrades told the sailor that they also were on the alert.

Instantly the night was rendered hideous by a series of wild yells and whoops, while, for a moment, the darkness gave place to a glare of light as a hundred rifles vomited their deadly contents, and the sound of many rushing feet was heard upon the open sward in front of the ranch.

The three male defenders had ducked their heads below the protecting breast-work when the volley was fired, and then, discarding all idea of further care, they skipped along their respective lines, yelling and firing the repeaters so rapidly, that, to any one ignorant of the true state of things, it must have seemed as if the place were defended by a legion of demons. To add to the hullabaloo Buttercup's blunderbuss poured forth its contents upon a group of red warriors who were rushing towards the front gate, with such a cannon-like sound and such wonderful effect, that the rush was turned into a sudden and limping retreat. The effect indeed, was more severe even than Buttercup had intended, for a stray buckshot had actually taken a direction which had been feared, and grazed her master's left arm! Happily the wound was very slight, and, to do the poor damsel justice, she could not see that her master was jumping from one place to another like a caged lion. Like the same animal, however, he gave her to understand what she had done, by shouting in a thunderous bass roar that fully justified his sobriquet—

"Mind your eye, Buttercup! Not so low next time!"

The immediate result of this vigorous defence was to make the Indians draw off and retire to the woods—presumably for consultation. By previous arrangement the negro girl issued from the house with three fresh repeaters in her arms, ran round to the combatants with them and returned with their almost empty rifles. These she and Mary proceeded to reload in the hall, and then returned to their post at the upper front window.

The morning was by this time pretty well advanced, and Jackson felt a little uncertain as to what he should now do. It was still rather dark; but in a very short time, he knew, dawn would spread over the east, when it would, of course, be quite impossible to defend the walls of the little fort without revealing the small number of its defenders. On the other hand, if they should retire at once the enemy might find a lodgement within, among the outbuildings, before there was light enough to prevent them by picking off the leaders; in which case the assailants would be able to apply fire to the wooden wails of the house without much risk.

"If they manage to pile up enough o' brush to clap a light to," he grumbled to himself in an undertone, "it's all up wi' us."

The thought had barely passed through his brain, when a leaden messenger, intended to pass through it, carried his cap off his head, and the fire that had discharged it almost blinded him. Bigfoot, the chief of the savages, had wriggled himself, snake-fashion, up to the stockade unseen, and while Roaring Bull was meditating what was best to be done, he had nearly succeeded in rendering him unable to do anything at all.

The shot was the signal for another onslaught. Once more the woods rang with fiendish yells and rattling volleys. Bigfoot, with the agility and strength of a gorilla, leaped up and over the stockade and sprung down into Jackson's arms, while Darvall and Crux resumed their almost ubiquitous process of defence, and Buttercup's weapon again thundered forth its defiance.

This time the fight was more protracted. Bigfoot's career was indeed stopped for the time being, for Jackson not only crushed the life almost out of him by an unloving embrace, but dealt him a prize-fighter's blow which effectually stretched him on the ground. Not a moment too soon, however, for the white man had barely got rid of the red one, when another savage managed to scale the wall. A blow from the butt of Jackson's rifle dropped him, and then the victor fired so rapidly, and with such effect, that a second time the Reds were repulsed.

Jackson did not again indulge in meditation, but blew a shrill blast on a dog-whistle—a preconcerted signal—on hearing which his two comrades made for the house door at full speed.