Only one other of the Indians, besides the two already mentioned, had succeeded in getting over the stockade. This man was creeping up to the open door of the house, and, tomahawk in hand, had almost reached it when Dick Darvall came tearing round the corner.

"Hallo! Crux," cried Dick, "that you?"

The fact that he received no reply was sufficient for Dick, who was too close to do more than drive the point of his rifle against the chest of the Indian, who went down as if he had been shot, while Dick sprang in and held open the door. A word from Jackson and Crux as they ran forward sufficed. They passed in and the massive door was shut and barred, while an instant later at least half-a-dozen savages ran up against it and began to thunder on it with their rifle-butts and tomahawks.

"To your windows!" shouted Jackson, as he sprang up the wooden stair-case, three steps at a time. "Fresh rifles here, Mary!"

"Yes, father," came in a silvery and most unwarlike voice from the hall below.

Another moment and three shots rang from the three sides of the house, and of the three Indians who were at the moment in the act of clambering over the stockade, one fell inside and two out. Happily, daylight soon began to make objects distinctly visible, and the Indians were well aware that it would now be almost certain death to any one who should attempt to climb over.

It is well known that, as a rule, savages do not throw away their lives recklessly. The moment it became evident that darkness would no longer serve them, those who were in the open retired to the woods, and potted at the windows of the ranch, but, as the openings from which the besieged fired were mere loop-holes made for the purpose of defence, they had little hope of hitting them at long range except by chance. Those of the besiegers who happened to be near the stockade took shelter behind the breast-work, and awaited further orders from their chief— ignorant of the fact that he had already fallen.

From the loop-holes of the room which Jackson had selected to defend, the shed with the saddled horses was visible, so that no one could reach it without coming under the fire of his deadly weapon. There was also a window in this room opening upon the back of the house and commanding the field which we have before mentioned as being undefended while the battle was waged outside. By casting a glance now and then through this window he could see any foe who might show himself in that direction. The only part of the fort that seemed exposed to great danger now was the front door, where the half-dozen savages, with a few others who had joined them, were still battering away at the impregnable door.

Dick, who held the garret above, could not see the door, of course, nor could he by any manoeuvre manage to bring his rifle to bear on it from his loop-hole, and he dared not leave his post lest more Indians should manage to scale the front stockade.

Buttercup, in the room below, had indeed a better chance at her window, but she was too inexpert in warfare to point the blunderbuss straight down and fire with effect, especially knowing, as she did, that the sight of her arm in the act would be the signal for a prompt fusillade. But the girl was not apparently much concerned about that, or anything else. The truth is that she possessed in an eminent and enviable degree the spirit of entire trust in a leader. She was under orders, and awaited the word of command with perfect equanimity! She even smiled slightly—if such a mouth could be said to do anything slightly—when Mary left her to take fresh rifles to the defenders overhead.

At last the command came from the upper regions, in tones that caused the very savages to pause a moment and look at each other in surprise. They did not pause long, however!

"Now, Buttercup," thundered Roaring Bull, "give it 'em—hot!"

At the word the girl calmly laid aside her weapon, lifted the big iron pot with familiar and businesslike facility, and emptied it over the window.

The result is more easily imagined than described. A yell that must have been heard miles off was the prelude to a stampede of the most lively nature. It was intensified, if possible, by the further action of the negress, who, seizing the blunderbuss, pointed it at the flying crowd, and, shutting both eyes, fired! Not a buckshot took effect on the savages, for Buttercup, if we may say so, aimed too low, but the effect was more stupendous than if the aim had been good, for the heavy charge drove up an indescribable amount of peppery dust and small stones into the rear of the flying foe, causing another yell which was not an echo but a magnified reverberation of the first. Thus Buttercup had the satisfaction of utterly routing her foes without killing a single man!

Daylight had fairly set in by that time, and the few savages who had not succeeded in vaulting the stockade had concealed themselves behind the various outhouses.

The proprietor of the ranch began now to have some hope of keeping the Indians at bay until the troops should succour him. He even left his post and called his friends to a council of war, when a wild cheer was heard in the woods. It was followed by the sound of firing. No sooner was this heard than the savages concealed outside of the breastwork rose as one man and ran for the woods.

"It's the troops!" exclaimed Dick hopefully.

"Troopers never cheer like that," returned Jackson with an anxious look. "It's more like my poor cow-boys, and, if so, they will have no chance wi' such a crowd o' Reds. We must ride to help them, an' you'll have to ride with us, Mary. We daren't leave you behind, lass, wi' them varmints skulkin' around."

"I'm ready, father," said Mary with a decided look, though it was evident, from the pallor of her cheek, that she was ill at ease.

"Now, look here, Dick," said Jackson, quickly, "you will go down and open the front gate. I'll go with 'ee wi' my repeater to keep an eye on the hidden reptiles, so that if one of them shows so much as the tip of his ugly nose he'll have cause to remember it. You will go to my loophole, Crux, an keep your eyes open all round—specially on the horses. When the gate is open I'll shout, and you'll run down to the shed wi' the women.—You understand?" Crux nodded.

Acting on this plan Dick ran to the gate; Jackson followed, rifle in hand, and, having reached the middle of the fort, he faced round; only just in time to see a gun barrel raised from behind a shed. Before he could raise his own weapon a shot was heard and the gun-barrel disappeared, while the Indian who raised it fell wounded on the ground.

"Well done, Crux!" he exclaimed, at the same moment firing his own rifle at a head which was peeping round a corner. The head vanished instantly and Darvall rejoined him, having thrown the gate wide open.

"Come round wi' me an' drive the reptiles out," cried Jackson. At the same time he uttered a roar that a bull might have envied, and they both rushed round to the back of the outhouses where three Indians were found skulking.

At the sudden and unexpected onslaught, they fired an ineffectual volley and fled wildly through the now open gate, followed by several shots from both pursuers, whose aim, however, was no better than their own had been.

Meanwhile Crux and the girls, having reached the shed according to orders, mounted their respective steeds and awaited their comrades. They had not long to wait. Jackson and Dick came round the corner of the shed at full speed, and, without a word, leaped simultaneously into their saddles.

"Keep close to me, girls,—close up!" was all that Jackson said as he dashed spurs into his horse, and, sweeping across the yard and through the gate, made straight for that part of the woods where yells, shouts, and firing told that a battle was raging furiously.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE RESCUE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

The ground in the neighbourhood of the ranch favoured the operations of an attacking party, for it was so irregular and so cumbered with knolls and clumps of trees that the defenders of the post scarce dared to make a sally, lest their retreat should be cut off by a detached party of assailants.

Hence Jackson would never have dreamed of quitting his house, or ceasing to act on the defensive, had he not been under the natural impression that it was his own returning cow-boys who had been attacked and out-numbered by the Indians. Great, therefore, was his surprise when, on rounding a bluff and coming into view of the battle-field, the party engaged with the Indians, though evidently white men, were neither his own men nor those of the US troops.

He had just made the discovery, when a band of about fifty warriors burst from the woods and rushed upon him.

"Back to back, boys! girls, keep close!" shouted Jackson, as he fired two shots and dropped two Indians. He pulled at a third, but there was no answering report, for the magazine of his repeater was empty.

Crux and Darvall turned their backs towards him and thus formed a sort of triangle, in the midst of which were the two girls. But this arrangement, which might have enabled them to hold out for some time, was rendered almost abortive by the ammunition having been exhausted.

"So much for bein' in too great a hurry!" growled Jackson between his clenched teeth, as he clubbed his rifle and made a savage blow at the Indian who first came close to him. It was evident that the Indians were afraid to fire lest they should wound or kill the women; or, perhaps, understanding how matters stood, they wished to capture the white men alive, for, instead of firing at them, they circled swiftly round, endeavouring to distract their attention so as to rash in on them.

Bigfoot, who had recovered from his blow and escaped from the ranch, made a sudden dash at Dick when he thought him off his guard, but Dick was not easily caught off his guard in a fight. While in the act of making a furious demonstration at an Indian in front, which kept that savage off, he gave Bigfoot a "back-handed wipe," as he called it, which tumbled the chief completely off his horse.

Just then a turn of affairs in favour of the whites was taking place on the battle-field beyond. The party there had attacked the savages with such fury as to scatter them right and left and they were now riding down at racing speed on the combatants, whose fortunes we have followed thus far.

Two men rode well in advance of the party with a revolver in each hand.

"Why, it's Charlie Brooke! Hurrah!" yelled Darvall with delight.

"An' Buck Tom!" roared Jackson in amazement.

So sudden was the onset that the Indians were for a moment paralysed, and the two horsemen, firing right and left as they rode up, dashed straight into the very midst of the savages. In a moment they were alongside of their friends, while the rest of the outlaw band were already engaged on the outskirts of the crowd.

The very danger of the white men constituted to some extent their safety; for they were so outnumbered and surrounded that the Indians seemed afraid to fire lest they should shoot each other. To add to the confusion, another party of whites suddenly appeared on the scene and attacked the "Reds" with a wild cheer. This was Jackson's little band of cow-boys. They numbered only eight; but the suddenness of their appearance tended further to distract the savages.

While the noise was at its height a sound, or rather sensation, of many feet beating the earth was felt. Next moment a compact line was seen to wheel round the bluff where the fight was going on, and a stentorian "Charge!" was uttered, as the United States cavalry, preceded by Hunky Ben, bore down with irresistible impetuosity on the foe.

But the Indians did not await this onset. They turned and fled, scattering as they went, and the fight was quickly turned into a total rout and hot pursuit, in which troopers, outlaws, travellers, ranch-men, scouts, and cow-boys joined. The cavalry, however, had ridden far and fast, so that the wiry little mustangs of the plains soon left them behind, and the bugle ere long recalled them all.

It was found on the assembling of the forces that not one of the outlaws had returned. Whether they were bent on wreaking their vengeance still more fully on their foes, or had good reason for wishing to avoid a meeting with troops, was uncertain; but it was shrewdly suspected that the latter was the true reason.

"But you led the charge with Buck Tom, sir," said Jackson to Charlie, in considerable surprise, "though how you came to be in his company is more than I can understand."

"Here's somebody that can explain, maybe," said one of the cow-boys, leading forward a wounded man whose face was covered with blood, while he limped as if hurt in the legs. "I found him tryin' to crawl into the brush. D'ye know him, boys?"

"Why, it's Jake the Flint!" exclaimed several voices simultaneously; while more than one hand was laid on a revolver, as if to inflict summary punishment.

"I claim this man as my prisoner," said the commander of the troops, with a stern look that prevented any attempt at violence.

"Ay, you've got me at last," said the outlaw, with a look of scorn. "You've bin a precious long time about it too."

"Secure him," said the officer, deigning no reply to these remarks.

Two troopers dismounted, and with a piece of rope began to tie the outlaw's hands behind him.

"I arrest you also," said the commander to Charlie, who suddenly found a trooper on each side of him. These took him lightly by each arm, while a third seized his bridle.

"Sir!" exclaimed our hero, while the blood rushed to his forehead, "I am not an outlaw!"

"Excuse me," returned the officer politely, "but my duty is plain. There are a good many gentlemanly outlaws about at present. You are found joining in fight with a notorious band. Until you can clear yourself you must consider yourself my prisoner.—Disarm and bind him."

For one moment Charlie felt an almost irresistible impulse to fell the men who held him, but fortunately the absurdity of his position forced itself on him, and he submitted, well knowing that his innocence would be established immediately.

"Is not this man one of your band, Jake?" asked the officer quietly.

"Yes, he is," replied the man with a malevolent grin. "He's not long joined. This is his first scrimmage with us."

Charlie was so thunderstruck at this speech that he was led back to the ranch in a sort of dazed condition. As for Dick Darvall, he was rendered speechless, and felt disposed to regard the whole thing as a sort of dream, for his attempted explanations were totally disregarded.

Arrived at the house, Charlie and Jake were locked up in separate rooms, and sentries placed beneath their windows—this in addition to the security of hand-cuffs and roped arms. Then breakfast was prepared for the entire company, and those who had been wounded in the fight were attended to by Hunky Ben—a self-taught surgeon—with Mary and Buttercup to act as dressers.

"I say, Jackson," observed Darvall, when the worthy ranch-man found leisure to attend to him, "of course you know that this is all nonsense—an abominable lie about my friend Brooke being an outlaw?"

"Of course I do, Dick," said Jackson, in a tone of sympathy; "an' you may be cock-sure I'll do what I can to help 'im. But he'll have to prove himself a true man, an' there are some mysteries about him that it puzzles me to think how he'll clear 'em up."

"Mysteries?" echoed Dick.

"Ay, mysteries. I've had some talk wi' Hunky Ben, an' he's as much puzzled as myself, if not more."

"Well, then, I'm puzzled more than either of ye," returned Dick, "for my friend and mate is as true a man—all straight an' aboveboard—as ever I met with on sea or land."

"That may be, boy, but there's some mystery about him, somehow."

"Can ye explain what the mystery is, Jackson?"

"Well, this is what Hunky Ben says. He saw your friend go off the other night alone to Traitor's Trap, following in the footsteps o' that notorious outlaw Buck Tom. Feelin' sure that Buck meant to waylay your friend, Hunky followed him up and overshot him to a place where he thought it likely the outlaw would lay in wait. Sure enough, when he got there he found Buck squattin' behind a big rock. So he waited to see what would turn up and be ready to rescue your friend. An' what d'ye think did turn up?"

"Don' know," said Dick, with a look of solemn wonder.

"Why, when Buck stepped out an' bid him throw up his hands, your friend merely looked at Buck and said somethin' that Hunky couldn't hear, an then Buck dropped his pistol, and your friend got off his horse, and they shook hands and went off as thick as thieves together. An' now, as you've seen an' heard, your friend turns up headin' a charge of the outlaws—an' a most notable charge it was—alongside o' Buck Tom. Jake the Flint too claims him for a comrade. Pretty mysterious all that, ain't it?"

"May I ask," said Dick, with some scorn in his tone, "who is this Hunky Ben, that his word should be considered as good as a bank-note?"

"He's the greatest scout an' the best an' truest man on the frontier," replied Jackson.

"H'm! so Miss Mary seems to think too."

"An' Mary thinks right."

"An' who may this Jake the Flint be?" asked the sailor.

"The greatest scoundrel, cattle and horse stealer, and cut-throat on the frontier."

"So then," rejoined Dick, with some bitterness, "it would seem that my friend and mate is taken up for an outlaw on the word o' the two greatest men on the frontier!"

"It looks like it, Dick, coupled, of course, wi' your friend's own actions. But never you fear, man. There must be a mistake o' some sort, somewhere, an' it's sure to come out, for I'd as soon believe my Mary to be an outlaw as your friend—though I never set eyes on him before the other day. The fact is, Dick, that I've learned physiognomy since—"

"Fizzi-what-umy?" interrupted Dick.

"Physiognomy—the study o' faces—since I came to live on the frontier, an' I'm pretty sure to know an honest man from a rogue as soon as I see him an' hear him speak—though I can't always prove myself right."

Dick and his host were thus conversing, and the soldiers were regaling themselves in the hall, the commander of the troops and Hunky Ben were engaged in earnest conversation with Charlie Brooke, who gave an account of himself that quite cleared up the mystery of his meeting, and afterwards being found associated with, the outlaws.

"It's a queer story," said Hunky Ben, who, besides being what his friends called a philosopher, was prone at times to moralise. "It's a queer story, an' shows that a man shouldn't bounce at a conclusion till he's larned all the ins an' outs of a matter."

"Of course, Mr Brooke," said the officer, when Dick had finished his narration, "your companion knows all this and can corroborate what you have said?"

"Not all," replied Charlie. "He is an old shipmate whom I picked up on arriving at New York, and only knows that I am in search of an old school-fellow who has given way to dissipation and got into trouble here. Of my private and family affairs he knows nothing."

"Well, you have cleared yourself, Mr Brooke," continued the Captain, whose name was Wilmot, "but I'm sorry to have to add that you have not cleared the character of your friend Leather, whose name has for a considerable time been associated with the notorious band led by your old school-fellow Ritson, who is known in this part of the country as Buck Tom. One of the worst of this gang of highwaymen, Jake the Flint, has, as you know, fallen into my hands, and will soon receive his deserts as a black-hearted murderer. I have recently obtained trustworthy information as to the whereabouts of the gang, and I am sorry to say that I shall have to ask you to guide me to their den in Traitor's Trap."

"Is it my duty to do this?" asked Charlie, with a troubled look at the officer.

"It is the duty of every honest man to facilitate the bringing of criminals to justice."

"But I have strong reason for believing that my friend Leather, although reckless and dissipated, joined these men unwillingly—was forced to do it in fact—and has been suffering from the result of a severe injury ever since joining, so that he has not assisted them at all in their nefarious work. Then, as to Ritson, I am convinced that he repents of his course of conduct. Indeed, I know that his men have been rebellious of late, and this very Jake has been aspiring to the leadership of the gang."

"Your feelings regarding these men may be natural," returned the captain, "but my duty is to use you in this matter. Believing what you say of yourself I will treat you as a gentleman, but if you decline to guide me to the nest of this gang I must treat you still as a prisoner."

"May I have a little time to think over the matter before answering?"

"So that you may have a chance of escaping me?" replied the Captain.

"Nothing was further from my thoughts," said Charlie, with a flush of indignation.

"I believe you, Mr Brooke," rejoined the Captain with gravity. "Let me know any time before twelve to-day what course you deem it right to take. By noon I shall sound boot and saddle, when you will be ready to start. Your nautical friend here may join us if he chooses."

Now, while this investigation into the affairs of one prisoner was going on, the other prisoner, Jake, was busily employed investigating his own affairs with a view to escape.

How he fared in this investigation we reserve for another chapter.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

JAKE THE FLINT IN DIFFICULTIES.

The man who, at the time we write of, was known by the name of Jake the Flint had acquired the character of the most daring and cruel scoundrel in a region where villains were by no means rare. His exploits indicated a spirit that was utterly reckless of life, whether his own or that of his fellow-men, and many were the trappers, hunters, and Redskins who would have given a good deal and gone far to have the chance of putting a bullet in his carcass.

But, as is not unfrequently the case with such men, Jake seemed to bear a charmed life, and when knife, bullet, and rope, cut short the career of many less guilty men, Jake had hitherto managed to elude his captors—at one time by strategy, at another by a bold dash for life, and sometimes by "luck." No one had a kind word for Jake, no one loved, though many feared, admired, and hated him. This may seem strange, for it is usually found that even in the case of the most noted outlaws there is a woman or a man, or both—who cling to them with affection.

Perhaps the fact that Jake was exceptionally harsh and cruel at all times, may account for this, as it accounted for his sobriquet of Flint. He was called by some of those who knew him a "God-forsaken man." We merely state the fact, but are very far from adopting the expression, for it ill becomes any man of mortal mould to pronounce his fellow-man God-forsaken.

In the meantime we feel it to be no breach of charity to say that Jake had forsaken God, for his foul language and bloody deeds proved the fact beyond all question. He was deceitful as well as cruel, and those who knew him best felt sure that his acting under Buck Tom was a mere ruse. There is little doubt that he had done so for the purpose of obtaining an influence over a gang of desperadoes, ready to hand, as it were, and that the moment he saw his opportunity he would kill Buck Tom and take command. The only thing that had kept him from doing so sooner, it was thought, was the fact that Buck had the power to gain the affection of his men, as well as to cause them to fear him, so that Jake had not yet found the time ripe for action.

After the outlaw had been put into the room by himself, as already stated, the door locked, and a sentry posted below the window, he immediately turned with all his energy to examine into his circumstances and prospects. First of all his wrists were manacled. That, however, gave him little concern, for his hands were unusually small and delicate, and he knew from experience that he could slip them out of any handcuffs that would close easily on his wrists—a fact that he had carefully concealed, and of which men were not yet aware, as he had not yet been under the necessity of availing himself of the circumstance.

The rope with which he had been bound on the way to the ranch had been removed, the handcuffs being deemed sufficient. As the window of his prison was over thirty feet from the ground, and a sentinel with a carbine and revolver stood below, it was thought that the bird who had so frequently escaped his cage before was safe at last, and fairly on his way to the gallows.

Not so thought Jake the Flint. Despair did not seem to be a possibility to him. Accordingly, he examined his prison carefully, and with a hopeful smile. The examination was soon completed, for the room presented no facilities whatever for escape. There was no bed from which to take the sheets and blankets to extemporise a rope. No mattress to throw over the window so as to break a heavy man's fall. No chimney by which to ascend to the roof, no furniture, indeed, of any kind beyond a deal chair and table. The door was of solid oak and bolted outside.

Obviously the window was his only chance. He went to it and looked out. The depth was too much, he knew, for even his strong bones to stand the shock; and the sentinel paced to and fro underneath with loaded carbine.

"If any one would only lay a feather-bed down there," thought Jake, "I'd jump an' take my chance."

While he was gazing meditatively on the fair prospect of land and water that lay before him, one of the bolts of the door was withdrawn, then another, and the door slowly opened.

For an instant the outlaw gathered himself up for a rush, with a view to sell his life dearly, and he had even begun to draw one of his hands out of the manacles, when the folly and hopelessness of the attempt struck him. He quickly checked himself, and met his jailor (one of the troopers) with a smiling countenance as he entered and laid a loaf and a jug of water on the table.

The rattle of a musket outside told Jake that his jailor had not come alone.

Without a word the man turned, and was leaving the room, when Jake, in a voice of great humility, asked him to stop.

"You couldn't remove these things, could you?" he said, holding out his fettered hands.

"No," answered the trooper, sharply.

"Ah!" sighed Jake, "I feared it was agin the rules. You couldn't let me have the use of a file, could you, for a few minutes? What! agin' rules too? It's a pity, for I'm used to brush my teeth with a file of a mornin', an' I like to do it before breakfast."

Jake interlarded his speech with a variety of oaths, with which we will not defile the paper, but he could extract no further reply from the trooper than a glance of scorn.

Left to himself, Jake again went to the window, which was a small cottage one, opening inwards like a door. He opened it and looked out. The sentinel instantly raised his carbine and ordered him to shut it.

"Hullo! Silas, is that you?" cried Jake in surprise, but paying no attention to the threat, "I thought you had quit for Heaven durin' the last skrimidge wi' the Reds down in Kansas? Glad to see you lookin' so well. How's your wife an' the child'n, Silas?"

"Come now, Jake," said the trooper sternly, "you know it's all up with you, so you needn't go talkin' bosh like that—more need to say your prayers. Stand back and shut the window, I say, else I'll put a bullet through your gizzard."

"Well now, Silas," said Jake, remonstratively, and opening the breast of his red shirt as he spoke, "I didn't expect that of an old friend like you—indeed I didn't. But, see here, if you raaly are goin' to fire take good aim an' keep clear o' the heart and liver. The gizzard lies hereabout (pointing to his breast) and easy to hit if you've a steady hand. I know the exact spot, for I've had the cuttin' up of a good bunch o' men in my day, an' I can't bear to see a thing muddled. But hold on, Silas, I won't put ye to the pain o' shootin' me. I'll shut the window if you'll make me a promise."

"What's that?" demanded the trooper, still covering the outlaw, however, with his carbine.

"You know I'm goin' to my doom—that's what poetical folk call it, Silas—an' I want you to help me wind up my affairs, as the lawyers say. Well, this here (holding up a coin) is my last dollar, the remains o' my fortin', Silas, an' this here bit o' paper that I'm rappin' round it, is my last will an' testimonial. You'll not refuse to give it to my only friend on arth, Hunky Ben, for I've no wife or chick to weep o'er my grave, even though they knew where it was. You'll do this for me, Silas, won't you?"

"All right—pitch it down."

Jake threw the coin, which fell on the ground a few feet in front of the trooper, who stooped to pick it up.

With one agile bound the outlaw leaped from the window and descended on the trooper's back, which was broken by the crashing blow, and Jake rolled over him with considerable violence, but the poor man's body had proved a sufficient buffer, and Jake rose unhurt. Deliberately taking the carbine from the dead man's hand, and plucking the revolver from his belt, he sauntered off in the direction of the stables. These being too small to contain all the troop-horses, some of the animals were picketed in an open shed, and several troopers were rubbing them down. The men took Jake for one of the cow-boys of the ranch, for he passed them whistling.

Entering the stable he glanced quickly round, selected the finest horse, and, loosing its halter from the stall, turned the animal's head to the door.

"What are ye doin' wi' the captain's horse?" demanded a trooper, who chanced to be in the neighbouring stall.

"The captain wants it. Hold his head till I get on him. He's frisky," said Jake, in a voice of authority.

The man was taken aback and obeyed; but as Jake mounted he turned suddenly pale.

The outlaw, observing the change, drew the revolver, and, pointing it at the trooper's head, said, in a low savage voice, "A word, a sound, and your brains are on the floor!"

The man stood open-mouthed, as if petrified. Jake shook the reins of the fiery horse and bounded through the door-way, stooping to the saddle-bow as he went. He could see, even at that moment, that the trooper, recovering himself, was on the point of uttering a shout. Wheeling round in the saddle he fired, and the man fell with a bullet in his brain.

The shot of course aroused the whole ranch. Men rushed into the yard with and without arms in wild confusion, but only in time to see a flying horseman cross the square and make for the gate. A rattling irregular volley was sent after him, but the only effect it had was to cause the outlaw to turn round in the saddle and wave his hat, while he gave vent to a yell of triumph. Another moment and he was beyond the bluff and had disappeared.

"Boot and saddle!" instantly rang out at the ranch, and every preparation was made for pursuit, though, mounted as Jake was on the best horse of the troop, they could not hope to overtake him.

Hunky Ben, at his own particular request was permitted to go on in advance.

"You see, sir," he said to the captain, "my Black Polly an't quite as good as your charger, but she's more used to this sort o' country, an' I can take the short cuts where your horse could hardly follow."

"Go, Ben, and good luck go with you! Besides, we can do without you, now that we have Mr Brooke to guide us."

"Come wi' me, sir," said Hunky Ben, as he passed Charlie on his way to the stables. "Don't you hesitate, Mr Brooke, to guide the captain to the cave of Buck Tom. I'm goin' on before you to hunt up the reptiles— to try an' catch Jake the Flint."

The scout chuckled inwardly as he said this.

"But why go in advance? You can never overtake the scoundrel with such a start and on such a horse."

"Never you mind what I can or can't do," said Ben, entering the stable where the dead trooper still lay, and unfastening Black Polly. "I've no time to explain. All I know is that your friend Leather is sure to be hanged if he's cotched, an' I'm sure he's an innocent man—therefore, I'm goin' to save him. It's best for you to know nothin' more than that, for I see you're not used to tellin' lies. Can you trust me?"

"Certainly I can. The look of your face, Ben, even more than the character you bear, would induce me to trust you."

"Well then, Mr Brooke, the first sign o' trust is to obey orders without askin' questions."

"True, when the orders are given by one who has a right to command," returned Charlie.

"Just so, an' my right to command lies in the fact that the life o' your friend Leather depends on your obedience."

"I'm your humble servant, then. But what am I to do?"

"Do whatever Captain Wilmot orders without objectin', an' speak nothing but the truth. You don't need to speak the whole truth, hows'ever," added the scout thoughtfully, as he led out his coal-black steed. "Your friend Leather has got a Christian name of course. Don't mention it. I don't want to hear it. Say nothin' about it to anybody. The time may come when it may be useful to drop the name of Leather and call your friend Mister whatever the tother name may be. Now mind what I've said to ye."

As he spoke the last words the scout touched the neck of his beautiful mare, and in another minute was seen racing at full speed over the rolling plain.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

TELLS OF A CRUEL DEED, AND SHOWS HOW MYSTERIOUSLY HUNKY BEN BEHAVED.

When Jake escaped from the ranch of Roaring Bull he tried the mettle of Captain Wilmot's charger to the uttermost, for well he knew that the pursuit would be instant and vigorous; that his late comrade Charlie Brooke could guide the troops to the cavern in Traitor's Trap, and that if his companions, who would doubtless ride straight back, were to escape, they must be warned in time. He also knew that the captain's charger was a splendid one. In order to accomplish his purpose, therefore, he would ride it to death.

The distance between the ranch and the outlaws' cave was not so great but that any mustang in the plains could have traversed it in a day, but the cruel man had made up his mind that the captain's charger should do it in a few hours. It is not so much distance as pace that kills. Had any consideration whatever been extended to the noble creature by the ignoble brute who rode it, the good horse would have galloped to the head of the Trap almost without turning a hair. At first he strode out over the rolling prairie with the untiring vigour of a well-made frame and a splendid constitution, leaping the little cracks and inequalities of the ground in the exuberance of his strength; though there was no need to bound, and coursing over the knolls as easily as he cantered down the hollows, while his flashing eye betokened at once a courageous and a gentle spirit. But when the lower slopes of the hills were reached, and steepish gradients were met with here and there, the horse began to put back first one ear and then the other, and sometimes both, as if in expectation of the familiar "well done," or pat on the neck, or check of the rein with which the captain had been wont to sanction a slackening of the pace, but no such grace was allowed him. On the contrary, when the first symptom appeared of a desire to reduce speed Jake drove his cruel spurs into the charger's glossy side. With a wild snort and bound the horse stretched out again and spurned the ground as if in indignant surprise.

Then the breath began to labour slightly; the sweat to darken his rich brown coat, and the white foam to fleck his broad chest. Still Jake pressed him on with relentless fury. It could not be expected that a man who cared not for his fellows would have much consideration for his beast. Murder of a deeper dye than that of a horse was seething in the outlaw's brain. This to him useless expedition, which had so nearly cost him his life, would be the last that Buck Tom should command. After blowing out his brains he would warn the others of the impending danger and lead them away to other and more favourable fields of enterprise.

At this point the good horse stumbled and almost threw his rider, who, with horrible curses, plied the spurs and tugged at the bit until blood was mingled with the flying foam. Never, save once—when Captain Wilmot was caught alone in the plains by Cheyenne Indians and had to fly for his life—had the good charger been urged to anything like such an effort as he was now called on to make, and then there was no cruelty mingled with the urging. The very tone of his master's voice, as he patted the neck and shook the rein and gently touched him with the spur, must have convinced the intelligent creature that it was a matter of life or death—that there was a stern need-be for such haste.

Turning at last into the gorge of the Trap, the charger gasped and sobbed with distress as he faced the steep ascent and tried, with the unabated courage of a willing heart, to pull himself together while the unmerciful monster still drove in the spurs and galled his tender mouth. But the brave effort was unavailing. Stumbling over a root that crossed the path, the horse plunged forward, and fell with a crash, sending his rider over his head. Jake, alighting on his face and right shoulder, lay stunned for a few seconds. Then he jumped up, displaying torn garments and a face covered with blood.

Running to the horse's head he seized the rein and shook it savagely, kicking the animal's face with his heavy boots in his anxiety to make it rise, but the poor charger was beyond his cruelty by that time, for its neck had been broken by the fall.

Oh! it was one of those sights which are fitted to make even thoughtless men recognise the need of a Saviour for the human race, and to reject with something like scorn the doctrine—founded on wholly insufficient evidence—that there is no future of compensation for the lower animals!

The outlaw did not waste time in vain regrets. Bestowing a meaningless curse on the dead charger, he turned and went up the narrow glen at a smart pace, but did not overstrain himself, for he knew well that none of the troop-horses could have kept up with him. He counted on having plenty of time to warn his comrades and get away without hurry. But he reckoned without his host—being quite ignorant of the powers of Black Polly, and but slightly acquainted with those of her master Hunky Ben.

Indeed so agile were the movements of Polly, and so thoroughly was the scout acquainted with the by-paths and short cuts of that region, that he actually passed the fugitive and reached the head of Traitor's Trap before him. This he managed by forsaking the roads, keeping a straighter line for the outlaws' cave, and passing on foot over the shoulder of a hill where a horseman could not go. Thus he came down on the cavern, about half-an-hour before Jake's arrival. Clambering to the crevice in the cliff against which the cave abutted, and sliding down into a hollow on its earthen roof, he cautiously removed a small stone from its position, and disclosed a hole through which he could both hear and see most of what took place inside.

Lest any one should wonder at the facility with which the ground lent itself to this manoeuvre, we may as well explain that the bold scout possessed one of those far-reaching minds which are not satisfied without looking into everything,—seeing to the bottom of, and peering round to the rear of, all things, as far as possible. He always acted on the principle of making himself acquainted with every road and track and by-path, every stream, pond, river, and spring in the land. Hence he was well aware of this haunt of outlaws, and, happening to be near it one day when its owners were absent, he had turned aside to make the little arrangement of a peep-hole, in the belief that it might possibly turn out to be of advantage in course of time!

The clump of shrubs and grass on the rugged bank, which formed the top of the cave, effectually concealed the natural hollow which he had deepened, and the overhanging mass of the rugged cliff protected it from rain and dew.

What Hunky Ben saw on looking through his peep-hole filled him with surprise and pity, and compelled him to modify his plans.

Almost below him on a brush couch, lay the tall form of Buck Tom, with the unmistakable hue of approaching death upon his countenance. Beside him, holding his head, kneeled the much-wasted figure of Leather—the reputed outlaw. Seated or standing around in solemn silence were six of the outlaws, most of whom bore tokens of the recent fight, in the form of bandage on head or limb.

"I brought you to this, Leather; God forgive me," said the dying man faintly.

"No, you didn't, Ralph," replied the other, calling him by his old familiar name, "I brought myself to it. Don't blame yourself, Ralph; you weren't half so bad as me. You'd never have been here but for me. Come, Ralph, try to cheer up a bit; you're not dying. It's only faint you are, from loss of blood and the long gallop. When you've had a sleep and some food, you'll feel stronger. We'll fetch a doctor soon, an' he'll get hold o' the bullet. Dear Ralph, don't shake your head like that an' look so solemn. Cheer up, old boy!"

Leather spoke with a sort of desperate fervour, but Ralph could not cheer up.

"No," he said sadly, "there is no cheer for me. I've thrown my life away. There's no hope—no mercy for me. I've been trying to recall the past, an' what mother used to teach me, but it won't come. There's only one text in all the Bible that comes to me now. It's this—'Be sure your sin will find you out!' That's true, boys," he said, turning a look on his comrades. "Whatever else may be false, that's true, for I know it."

"That's so, dear Ralph," said Leather earnestly, "but it's no less true that—"

Just then a noise was heard in the outer passage; then hurrying footsteps. Instinctively every man drew his revolver and faced the door. Next moment Jake entered.

"Here, one of you; a drink—I'm fit to—ha!"

His eyes fell on the figure of Buck and he shrank back for a moment in silent surprise.

"Yes, Jake," said the dying man, with a glance of pity not unmingled with scorn, "it has come sooner than you or I expected, and it will save you some trouble—maybe some regret. I've seen through your little game, Jake, and am glad I've been spared the necessity of thwarting you."

He stopped owing to weakness, and Jake, recovering himself, hastily explained the reason of his sudden appearance.

"Fetch me a rag an' some water, boys," he continued. "It looks worse than it is—only skin deep. And we've not a moment to lose. Those who have a mind may follow me. Them that wants to swing may stop."

"But how about Buck Tom?" asked one who was not quite so depraved as the others.

"What's the use o' askin'?" said Jake. "It's all up with him, don't you see? Besides, he's safe enough. They'd never have the heart to hang a dying man."

"An' Leather!" cried another. "We mustn't quit Leather. He's game for many a fight yet. Come, Leather; we'll help you along, for they're sure to string you up on the nearest tree."

"Don't trouble yourself about me," said Leather, looking round, for he still kneeled beside his old friend, "I don't intend to escape. Look to yourselves, boys, an' leave us alone."

"Unless you're all tired o' life you'll quit here an' skip for the woods," said Jake, as, turning round, he hurriedly left the place.

The others did not hesitate, but followed him at once, leaving Buck Tom, and his friend to shift for themselves.

During all this scene Hunky Ben had been intently gazing and listening— chiefly the latter. When the outlaws filed past him he found it extremely difficult to avoid putting a bullet into the Flint, but he restrained himself because of what yet remained to be done.

As soon as the outlaws were well out of sight Ben arose and prepared for action. First of all he tightened his belt. Then he pulled the hood of his coat well over his head, so that it effectually concealed his face, and, still further to accomplish the end in view, he fastened the hood in front with a wooden pin. Proceeding to the stable he found, as he had hoped and expected, that the outlaws had left one or two horse-cloths behind in their flight. In one of these he enveloped his person in such a way as to render it unrecognisable. Then he walked straight into the cave, and, without a word of warning, threw his strong arms a round Shank Leather and lifted him off the ground.

Of course Leather shouted and struggled at first, but as well might a kitten have struggled in the grip of a grizzly bear. In his worn condition he felt himself to be utterly powerless. Buck Tom made a feeble effort to rise and help him, but the mere effort caused him to fall back with a groan of helpless despair.

Swiftly his captor bore Leather up the side of the hill till he got behind a clump of trees, into the heart of which he plunged, and then set his burden down on his feet. At the same time, throwing back his hood and flinging away the horse-cloth, he stood up and smiled.

"Hunky Ben, or his ghost!" exclaimed Shank, forgetting his indignation in his amazement.

"You're right, young man, though you've only see'd me once that I know of. But most men that see me once are apt to remember me."

"Well, Hunky," said Leather, while the indignation began to return, "you may think this very amusing, but it's mean of a big strong man like you to take advantage of a fellow that's as weak as a child from wounds an' fever. Lend me one o' your six-shooters, now, so as we may stand on somewhat more equal terms and—but a truce to boasting! I'm sure that you wouldn't keep smiling at me like a Cheshire cat if there wasn't something behind this."

"You're right, Mr Leather," said Ben, becoming at once grave and earnest. "There is somethin' behind it—ay, an' somethin' before it too. So much, that I have barely time to tell 'ee. So, listen wi' both ears. There's a bunch o' men an' troops close to the Trap even now, on their way to visit your cave. If they find you—you know what that means?"

"Death," said Leather quietly.

"Ay, death; though ye don't desarve it," said Ben.

"But I do deserve it," returned Shank in the same quiet voice.

"Well, may-hap you do," rejoined the scout coolly, "but not, so far as I know, in connection wi' your present company. Now, there's Buck Tom—"

"Ay, what of him?" asked Shank, anxiously.

"Well, in the nat'ral course o' timings, death is comin' to him too, an' that'll save him from bein' strung up—for they're apt to do that sort o' thing hereaway in a loose free-an-easy style that's awkward sometime. I was within an inch of it myself once, all through a mistake—I'll tell 'ee about that when I've got more time, maybe. Well, now, I'm keen to save you an' Buck Tom if I can, and what I want you to understand is, that if you expect me to help you at a time when you stand considerable in need o' help, you'll have to do what I tell 'ee."

"And what would you have me do?" asked Shank, with a troubled look.

"Remain here till I come for 'ee, and when you meet me in company say nothin' about havin' met me before."

"Can I trust you, Hunky Ben?" said Shank, looking at him earnestly.

"If you can't trust me, what d'ye propose to do?" asked the scout with a grin.

"You're right, Ben. I must trust you, and, to say truth, from the little I know of you, I believe I've nothing to fear. But my anxiety is for Ralph—Buck Tom, I mean. You're sure, I suppose, that Mr Brooke will do his best to shield him?"

"Ay, sartin sure, an', by the way, don't mention your Christian name just now—whatever it is—nor for some time yet. Good-day, an' keep quiet till I come. We've wasted overmuch time a'ready."

So saying, the scout left the coppice, and, flinging open his coat, re-entered the cave a very different-looking man from what he was when he left it.

"Hunky Ben!" exclaimed Buck, who had recovered by that time. "I wish you had turned up half-an-hour since, boy. You might have saved my poor friend Leather from a monster who came here and carried him away bodily."

"Ay? That's strange, now. Hows'ever, worse luck might have befel him, for the troops are at my heels, an' ye know what would be in store for him if he was here."

"Yes, indeed, I know it, Ben, and what is in store for me too; but Death will have his laugh at them if they don't look sharp."

"No, surely," said the scout, in a tone of real commiseration, "you're not so bad as that, are you?"

"Truly am I," answered Buck, with a pitiful look, "shot in the chest. But I saw you in the fight, Ben; did you guide them here?"

"That's what I did—at least I told 'em which way to go, an' came on in advance to warn you in time, so's you might escape. To tell you the plain truth, Ralph Ritson, I've bin told all about you by your old friend Mr Brooke, an' about Leather too, who, you say, has bin carried off by a monster?"

"Yes—at least by a monstrous big man."

"You're quite sure o' that?"

"Quite sure."

"An' You would know the monster if you saw him again?"

"I think I would know his figure, but not his face, for I did not see it."

"Strange!" remarked the scout, with a simple look; "an' you're sartin sure you don't know where Leather is now?"

"Not got the most distant idea."

"That's well now; stick to that an' there's no fear o' Leather. As to yourself—they'll never think o' hangin' you till ye can walk to the gallows—so cheer up, Buck Tom. It may be that ye desarve hangin', for all I know; but not just at present. I'm a bit of a surgeon, too—bein' a sort o' Jack-of-all-trades, and know how to extract bullets. What between Mr Brooke an' me an' time, wonders may be worked, if you're wise enough to keep a tight rein on your tongue."

While the scout was speaking, the tramp of cavalry was heard outside, and a few minutes later Captain Wilmot entered the cave, closely followed by Charlie Brooke.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

The Cave of the Outlaws Invaded by Ghosts and US Troops.

We need scarcely say that Buck Tom was wise enough to put a bridle on his tongue after the warning hint he had received from the scout. He found this all the easier that he had nothing to conceal save the Christian name of his friend Leather, and, as it turned out, this was never asked for by the commander of the troops. All that the dying outlaw could reveal was that Jake the Flint had suddenly made his appearance in the cave only a short time previously, had warned his comrades, and, knowing that he (Buck) was mortally wounded, and that Leather was helplessly weak from a wound which had nearly killed him, had left them both to their fate. That, just after they had gone, an unusually broad powerful man, with his face concealed, had suddenly entered the cave and carried Leather off, in spite of his struggles, and that, about half-an-hour later, Hunky Ben had arrived to find the cave deserted by all but himself. Where the other outlaws had gone to he could not tell—of course they would not reveal that to a comrade who was sure to fall into the hands of their enemies.

"And you have no idea," continued the captain, "who the man is that carried your friend Leather so hurriedly away?"

"Not the slightest," returned Buck. "Had my revolver been handy and an ounce of strength left in me, you wouldn't have had to ask the question."

"Passing strange!" murmured Captain Wilmot, glancing at the scout, who was at the moment seated on a keg before the fire lighting his pipe, and with a look of simple benignant stolidity on his grave countenance. "Have you no idea, Ben, where these outlaws have taken themselves off to?"

"No more'n a lop-eared rabbit, Captain Wilmot," answered the scout. "You see there's a good many paths by which men who knows the place could git out o' the Trap, an' once out o' it there's the whole o' the Rockie range where to pick an' choose."

"But how comes it, Ben, that you missed Jake? Surely the road is not so broad that you could pass him unseen! Yet you arrived here before him?"

"That's true, sir, but sly coons like the Flint can retire into the brush when they don't want to be overhauled. That wasn't the way of it, however. With such a splendid animal as your poor horse, Captain, an' ridden to death as it was—an' as I 'spected it would be—I knowed I had no chance o' comin' up wi' the Flint, so I took advantage o' my knowledge o' the lay o' the land, an' pushed ahead by a straighter line—finishin' the last bit on futt over the ridge of a hill. That sent me well ahead o' the Flint, an' so I got here before him. Havin' ways of eavesdroppin' that other people don't know on, I peeped into the cave here, and saw and heard how matters stood. Then I thought o' harkin' back on my tracks an' stoppin' the Flint wi' a bullet but I reflected 'what good'll that do? The shot would wake up the outlaws an' putt them on the scent all the same.' Then I tried to listen what their talk was about, so as I might be up to their dodges; but I hadn't bin listenin' long when in tramps the Flint an' sounds the alarm. Of course I might have sent him an p'r'aps one o' the others to their long home from where I stood; but I've always had an objection to shoot a man behind his back. It has such a sneakin' sort o' feel about it! An' then, the others—I couldn't see how many there was—would have swarmed out on me, an' I'd have had to make tracks for the scrub, an' larn nothin' more. So I fixed to keep quiet an' hear and see all that I could—p'r'aps find out where they fixed to pull out to. But I heard nothin' more worth tellin'. They only made some hurried, an' by no means kindly, observations about poor Buck an' Leather an' went off over the hills. I went into the woods a bit myself after that, just to be well out o' the way, so to speak, an' when I got back here Leather was gone!"

"And you didn't see the man that carried him off?"

"No, I didn't see him."

"You'd have shot him, of course, if you had seen him?"

"No, indeed, captain, I wouldn't."

"No! why not?" asked the captain with a peculiar smile.

"Well, because," answered the scout, with a look of great solemnity, "I wouldn't shoot such a man on any account—no matter what he was doin'!"

"Indeed!" returned the other with a broadening smile. "I had no idea you were superstitious, Ben. I thought you feared neither man nor devil."

"What I fear an' what I don't fear," returned the scout with quiet dignity, "is a matter which has never given me much consarn."

"Well, don't be hurt, Hunky Ben, I don't for one moment question your courage, only I fancied that if you saw any one rescuing an outlaw you would have tried to put a bullet into him whether he happened to be a man or a ghost."

"But I have told you," broke in Buck Tom with something of his old fire, "that Leather is not an outlaw."

"I have only your word for that, and you know what that is worth," returned the captain. "I don't want to be hard on one apparently so near his end, and to say truth, I'm inclined to believe you, but we know that this man Leather has been for a long time in your company—whether a member of your band or not must be settled before another tribunal. If caught, he stands a good chance of being hanged. And now," added the captain, turning to a sergeant who had entered the cave with him, "tell the men to put up their horses as best they may. We camp here for the night. We can do nothing while it is dark, but with the first gleam of day we will make a thorough search of the neighbourhood."

While the troopers and their commander were busy making themselves as comfortable as possible in and around the cave, the scout went quietly up to the clump of wood where Leather was in hiding, and related to that unfortunate all that had taken place since he left him.

"It is very good of you, Hunky, to take so much interest in me, and incur so much risk and trouble; but do you know," said Leather, with a look of surprise, not unmingled with amusement, "you are a puzzle to me, for I can't understand how you could tell Captain Wilmot such a heap o' lies—you that has got the name of bein' the truest-hearted scout on the frontier!"

"You puzzle me more than I puzzle you, Leather," returned the scout with a simple look. "What lies have I told?"

"Why, all you said about what you saw and heard when you said you were eavesdroppin' must have been nonsense, you know, for how could you hear and see what took place in the cave through tons of rock and earth?"

"How I saw and heard, my son Leather, is a private affair of my own, but it was no lie."

Leather looked incredulous.

"Then you said," he continued, "that you didn't see the man that carried me away."

"No more I did, boy. I never saw him!"

"What! not even in a looking-glass?"

"Not even in a lookin'-glass," returned Hunky. "I've seed his reflection there many a time,—an' a pretty good-lookin' reflection it was—but I've never see'd himself—that I knows on! No, Leather, if Captain Wilmot had axed me if I saw you carried off, I might ha' been putt in a fix, but he didn't ax me that. He axed if I'd seen the man that carried you off an' I told the truth when I said I had not. Moreover I wasn't bound to show him that he wasn't fit to be a lawyer— specially when he was arter an innocent man, an' might p'r'aps hang him without a trial. It was my duty to guide the captain in pursuit of outlaws, an' it is my duty to shield an innocent man. Between the two perplexin' duties I tried to steer as straight a course as I could, but I confess I had to steer pretty close to the wind."

"Well, Hunky, it is my duty to thank you instead of criticising you as I have done, but how do you come to be so sure that I'm innocent?"

"P'r'aps because ye putt such an innocent question," replied Ben, with a little smile. "D'ye raily think, Leather, that an old scout like me is goin' to let you see through all the outs and ins by which I comes at my larnin'! It's enough for you to know, boy, that I know a good deal more about you than ye think—more p'r'aps than ye know about yerself. I don't go for to say that you're a born angel, wantin' nothin' but a pair o' wings to carry ye off to the better land—by no means, but I do know that as regards jinin' Buck Tom's boys, or takin' a willin' part in their devilish work, ye are innocent an' that's enough for me."

"I'm glad you know it and believe it, Ben," said Leather, earnestly, "for it is true. I followed Buck, because he's an old, old chum, and I did it at the risk of my life, an' then, as perhaps you are aware, we were chased and I got injured. So far I am innocent of acting with these men, but, O Ben, I don't admit my innocence in anything else! My whole life—well, well—it's of no use talkin'. Tell me, d'ye think there's any chance o' Buck getting over this?"

"He may. Nobody can tell. I'll do my best for him. I never lose hope of a man, after what I've see'd in my experience, till the breath is fairly out of him."

"Thank God for these words, Ben."

"Yes," continued the scout, "and your friend Brooke is at this moment sunk in the blue dumps because you have been carried off by a great mysterious monster!"

"Then he doesn't know it was you?" exclaimed Leather.

"In course not. An' he doesn't know you are within five hundred yards of him. An' what's more, you mustn't let him know it was me, for that must be kept a dead secret, else it'll ruin my character on the frontiers. We must surround it wi' mystery, my boy, till all is safe. But I didn't come up here to enjoy an evenin's conversation. You're not safe where you are, Leather. They'll be scourin' all round for you long before sun-up, so I must putt you where you'll be able to look on an' grin at them."

"Where will that be?" asked Leather, with some curiosity.

"You know the cliff about five hundred feet high that rises just over on the other side o' the valley—where the water-shoot comes down?"

"Ay, it's likely I do, for I've seen it every mornin' for months past."

"An' you remember the hole near the top o' the cliff?"

"Yes—that looks about the size of a crow?"

"Whatever it looks like it's three times the size of a man, an' it's the mouth of a cave," returned the scout. "Now, I'll lead you to the track that'll let you up to that cave. It's a splendid place, full of all sorts o' holes an' places where a man couldn't find you even if he know'd you was there. Once up, you may sit down, smoke your pipe in the mouth o' the cave, an' enjoy yourself lookin' on at the hunt arter yourself. Here's a bit o' chuck I've brought to keep you from wearyin', for they may keep it up all day. When all danger is past I'll come up for ye. You needn't show more o' yourself, however, than the top o' your head. A man can never be over-cautious when he's bein' hunted down. An' mind, don't leave the place till I come for you."

Handing a cold roast fowl and a loaf to his companion, the scout got up and led him away to the spot which he had just described. It was by that time quite dark, but as Hunky Ben knew every inch of the ground he glided along almost as quickly as if it had been broad day, followed, with some difficulty, by poor Leather, who was still in a state of great prostration, partly because of his injury and partly in consequence of his previous dissipation. As the place, however, was not much more than half-a-mile distant his powers of endurance were not much tried. The scout led him across the narrow valley just above the outlaws' cave, and then, entering a steep rocky defile, he began to ascend a place that was more suitable for goats than men. After half-an-hour of upward toil they reached a plateau where the track—if it may be so styled—seemed to run in a zig-zag manner until it reached a small hole in the solid rock. Through this they entered and found themselves within a cavern and in total darkness.

"We may rest a bit now," said the scout. "There's a ledge hereabouts. There you are. Sit down. I'll have to take your hand here lest you fall off the bridge into the holes on each side o' the track."

"Are the holes dangerous?" asked Leather.

"They're dangerous enough to be worth takin' care of, anyhow, for if ye was to tumble into one you'd never come out again. There, now, let's go on, for if I don't git back soon, they'll be wonderin' if the monster hasn't run away wi' me too, as well as you!"

After advancing a short distance in total darkness—Ben feeling his way carefully step by step—they came suddenly to the hole in the front of the cave to which reference has been already made. The place had evidently been used before as a place of refuge and temporary abode, for, near this front-mouth of the cave was found a litter of pine branches which had plainly been used as a bed.

"Sit ye down there, Leather," said the scout, "see, or, rather, hear— for the eyes aren't of much use just now—I've set down the grub an' a flask o' water beside ye. Don't strike a light unless you want to have your neck stretched. Daylight won't be long o' lettin' ye see what's goin' on. You won't weary, for it'll be as good as a play, yourself bein' chief actor an' audience all at the same time!"

Saying this the scout melted, as it were, into the darkness of the cavern, and, with noiseless moccasined feet, retraced his steps to the rear entrance.

Left to himself the poor wanderer found both time and food for reflection, for he did not dare in the darkness to move from the spot where he had seated himself. At first an eerie feeling of indefinable fear oppressed him, but this passed away as the busy thoughts went rambling back to home and the days of comparative innocence gone by. Forgetting the dark surroundings and the threatening dangers, he was playing again on the river banks, drinking liquorice-water, swimming, and rescuing kittens with Charlie Brooke. Anon, he was wandering on the sea-beach with his sister, brown-eyed Mary, or watching the manly form of his old friend and chum buffeting the waves towards the wreck on the Sealford Rocks. Memory may not be always faithful, but she is often surprisingly prompt. In the twinkling of an eye Shank Leather had crossed the Atlantic again and was once more in the drinking and gambling saloons—the "Hells" of New York—with his profoundly admired "friend" and tempter Ralph Ritson. It was a wild whirl and plunge from bad to worse through which Memory led him now—scenes at which he shuddered and on which he would fain have closed his eyes if possible, but Memory knows not the meaning of mercy. She tore open his eyes and, becoming unusually strict at this point, bade him look particularly at all the minute details of his reckless life—especially at the wrecks of other lives that had been caused by the wreck of his own. Then the deepest deep of all seemed to be reached when he rose—or rather fell— from the condition of tempted to that of tempter, and, somehow, managed for a time to lead even the far stronger-minded Ralph Ritson on the road to ruin. But he did not lead him long. The stronger nature soon re-asserted itself; seized the reins; led the yielding Leather to the cities of the far west; from gambling took to robbing, till at last the gay and handsome Ritson became transformed into the notorious Buck Tom, and left his weaker chum to care for himself.

It was at this point—so Memory recalled to him—that he, Leather, was stopped, in mid and mad, career, by a man of God with the love of Jesus in his heart and on his lips. And at this point Memory seemed to change her action and proved herself, although unmerciful, pre-eminently faithful. She reminded him of the deep contrition that God wrought in his heart; of the horror that overwhelmed him when he thought of what he was, and what he had done; of the sudden resolve he had formed to follow Ritson, and try to stop him in the fearful career on which he had entered. Then came the memory of failure; of desperate anxieties; of futile entreaties; of unaccountably resolute perseverance; of joining the outlaw band to be near his friend; of being laughed to scorn by them all of being chased by US troops at the very commencement of his enterprise; of being severely wounded, rescued, and carried off during the flight by Buck Tom, and then—a long blank, mingled with awful dreams and scenes, and ribald songs, and curses—some of all which was real, and some the working of a fevered brain.

So terribly vivid were these pictures of memory, that one of the shouts of dreamland absolutely awoke him to the fact that he had extended his wearied limbs on his couch of pine brush and fallen asleep. He also awake to the perception that it was broad daylight, and that a real shout had mingled with that of dreamland, for after he had sat up and listened intently for a few moments, the shout was repeated as if at no great distance.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE TROOPS OUTWITTED BY THE SCOUT AND HIS FRIENDS.

Creeping quickly to the mouth of the cave Leather peeped cautiously out, and the scene that met his startled gaze was not calculated to restore that equanimity which his recent dreams had disturbed.

The narrow and rugged valley which lay spread out below him was alive with horsemen, trotting hither and thither as if searching for some one, and several parties on foot were scaling gorges and slopes, up which a horseman could not scramble.

The shout which had awakened the fugitive was uttered by a dismounted trooper who had climbed higher on the face of the cliff than his fellows, and wished to attract the attention of those below.

"Hi! hallo!" he cried, "send Hunky Ben up here. I've found a track that seems to lead to somewhere, but it'll need the scout's nose to ferret it out."

Leather's heart beat wildly, for, from the position of the man, he could not doubt that he had discovered the track leading up to the cave. Before he could think how he should act, a response came to the call from Hunky Ben.

"Ay, ay," he shouted, in a voice so bold and resonant, that Leather felt it was meant to warn him of his danger, "Ay, ay. Hold on! Don't be in a hurry. The tracks branch out further on, an' some o' them are dangerous. Wait till I come up. There's a cave up there, I'll lead ye to it."

This was more than enough for Leather. He turned hastily to survey his place of refuge. It was a huge dismal cavern with branching tunnels around that disappeared in thick obscurity, and heights above that lost themselves in gloom; holes in the sides and floor that were of invisible depth, and curious irregular ledges, that formed a sort of arabesque fringe to the general confusion.

One of these ornamental ledges, stretching along the roof with many others, lost itself in the gloom and seemed to be a hopeful living-place—all the more hopeful that it was in the full blaze of light that gushed in through the front opening of the cave. This opening, it will be remembered, was on the face of the cliff and inaccessible. But Leather found that he could not reach the ledge. Hastening to the dark side of the cave, however, he saw that by means of some projections and crevices in the rocky wall he could reach the end of the ledge. Creeping along it he soon found himself close to the opening, surrounded by strong light, but effectually concealed from view by the ledge. It was as if he were on a natural rafter, peeping down on the floor below! As there was a multitude of such ledges around, which it would take several men many hours to examine, he began to breathe more freely, for, would the searchers not naturally think that a fugitive would fly to the darkest recesses of his place of refuge, rather than to the brightest and most accessible spot?

He gave vent to a sigh of relief, and was congratulating himself upon his wisdom, when his eyes chanced to fall on the flask of water and cold roast fowl and loaf lying conspicuous in the full glare of light that flooded the front part of the cave!

If the fowl had been thrust whole into his throat it could scarcely have added to the gush of alarm that choked him. He slipped incontinently from his arabesque ledge and dropped upon the floor. Securing the tell-tale viands with eager haste he dashed back into the obscurity and clambered with them back to his perch. And not much too soon, for he had barely settled down when the voice of the scout was heard talking pretty loudly.

"Come along, Captain Wilmot," he said, "give me your hand, sir. It's not safe to walk alone here, even wi' a light."

"Here, where are you? Oh! All right. Haven't you got a match?" asked the captain.

"Nothin' that would burn more'n a few seconds. We're better without a light, for a gust o' wind might blow it out an' leave us worse than we was. Mind this step. There."

"Well, I'm glad I didn't bring any of my men in here," said the Captain, as he kicked one of his heavy boots violently against a projection of rock.

"Ay—'tis as well you didn't," returned the scout, in a tone suggestive of the idea that he was smiling. "For there's holes on both sides, an' if one o' your men went down, ye might read the funeral sarvice over him at once, an' be done with it. There's a glimmer o' daylight at last. We'll soon be at the other end now."

"A horrible place, truly," said the Captain, "and one that it would be hard to find a fellow in even if we knew he was here."

"Didn't I say so, Captain? but ye wouldn't be convinced," said Hunky Ben, leading his companion into the full light of the opening and coming to a halt close to the ledge above which the fugitive lay. "Besides, Leather could never have found his way here alone."

"You forget," returned Wilmot, with a peculiar smile, "the monster might have shown him the way or even have carried him hither."

"Ah, true," answered the scout, with solemn gravity. "There's somethin' in that."

Wilmot laughed.

"What a splendid view," he said, going forward to the opening—"and see, here is a bed of pine brush. No doubt the cave must have been used as a place of refuge by the Redskins in days gone by."

"Ay, an' by the pale-faces too," said the scout. "Why, I've had occasion to use it myself more than once. And, as you truly obsarve, sir, there's small chance of findin' a man once he's in here. As well run after a rabbit in his hole."

"Or search for a needle in a haystack," observed the Captain, as he gazed with curious interest around and above him. "Well, Ben, I give in. You were right when you said there was no probability of my finding any of the outlaws here."

"I'm ginerally right when I speak about what I understand," returned the scout calmly. "So now, Captain, if you're satisfied, we may as well go an' have a look at the other places I spoke of."

Assenting to this the two men left the place, but Leather continued to lie perfectly still for a considerable time after their footsteps had died away. Then, gliding from his perch, he dropped on the floor and ran to the opening where he saw the troopers still riding about, but gradually going farther and farther away from him. The scene was not perhaps, as the scout had prophesied, quite "as good as a play," but it certainly did become more and more entertaining as the searchers receded and distance lent enchantment to the view.

When at last the troops had disappeared, Shank bethought him of the food which Hunky Ben had so thoughtfully provided, and, sitting down on the brush couch, devoted himself to breakfast with a hearty appetite and a thankful spirit.

Meanwhile Captain Wilmot, having satisfied himself that the outlaws had fairly escaped him, and that Buck Tom was too ill to be moved, retired to a cool glade in the forest and held a council of war with the scout and Charlie Brooke.

"Now, Ben," he said, dismounting and seating himself on a mossy bank, while a trooper took charge of the horses and retired with them to a neighbouring knoll, "it is quite certain that in the present unsettled state of the district I must not remain here idle. It is equally certain that it would be sudden death to Buck Tom to move him in his present condition, therefore some men must be left behind to take care of him. Now, though I can ill afford to spare any of mine, I feel that out of mere humanity some sacrifice must be made, for we cannot leave the poor fellow to starve."

"I can relieve you on that point," said the scout, "for if you choose I am quite ready to remain."

"And of course," interposed Charlie, "I feel it my duty to remain with my old friend to the end."

"Well, I expected you to say something of this sort. Now," said the captain, "how many men will you require?"

"None at all, Captain," answered Ben decisively.

"But what if these scoundrels should return to their old haunt?" said Wilmot.

"Let them come," returned the scout. "Wi' Mr Brooke, an' Dick Darvall, an' three Winchesters, an' half-a-dozen six-shooters, I'd engage to hold the cave against a score o' such varmin. If Mr Brooke an' Dick are willin' to—"

"I am quite willing, Ben, and I can answer for my friend Dick, so don't let that trouble you."

"Well, then, that is settled. I'll go off at once," said the captain, rising and signing to the trooper to bring up the horses. "But bear in remembrance, Hunky Ben, that I hold you responsible for Buck Tom. If he recovers you must produce him."

The scout accepted the responsibility; the arrangements were soon made; "boots and saddles" was sounded, and the troopers rode away, leaving Charlie Brooke, Dick Darvall, Buck Tom, and the scout in possession of the outlaws' cave.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS IN CURIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.

When the soldiers were safely away Hunky Ben returned to the cave and brought Leather down.

Charlie Brooke's love for his old school-fellow and playmate seemed to become a new passion, now that the wreck of life and limb presented by Shank had awakened within him the sensation of profound pity. And Shank's admiration for and devotion to Charlie increased tenfold now that the terrible barrier of self had been so greatly eliminated from his own nature, and a new spirit put within him.

By slow degrees, and bit by bit, each came to know and understand the other under the influence of new lights and feelings. But their thoughts about themselves, and their joy at meeting in such peculiar circumstances, had to be repressed to some extent in the presence of their common friend Ralph Ritson—alias Buck Tom—for Charlie knew him only as an old school-fellow, though to Leather he had been a friend and chum ever since they had landed in the New World.

The scout, during the first interval of leisure on the previous day, had extracted the ball without much difficulty from Buck's chest, through which it had passed, and was found lying close under the skin at his back. The relief thus afforded, and rest obtained under the influence of some medicine administered by Captain Wilmot, had brightened the poor fellow up to some extent; and Leather, seeing him look so much better on his return, began to entertain some hopes of his recovery.

Buck himself had no such hope; but, being a man of strong will, he refused to let it be seen in his demeanour that he thought his case to be hopeless. Yet he did not act from bravado, or the slightest tincture of that spirit which resolves to "die game." The approach of death had indeed torn away the veil and permitted him to see himself in his true colours, but he did not at that time see Jesus to be the Saviour of even "the chief of sinners." Therefore his hopelessness took the form of silent submission to the inevitable.

Of course Charlie Brooke spoke to him more than once of the love of God in Christ, and of the dying thief who had looked to Jesus on the cross and was saved, but Buck only shook his head. One afternoon in particular Charlie tried hard to remove the poor man's perplexities.

"It's all very well, Brooke," said Buck Tom, "and very kind of you to interest yourself in me, but the love of God and the salvation of Christ are not for me. You don't know what a sinner I have been, a rebel all my life—all my life, mark you. I would count it mean to come whining for pardon now that the game is up. I deserve hell—or whatever sort o' punishment is due—an' I'm willing to take it."

"Ralph Ritson," said Brooke impressively, "you are a far greater sinner than you think or admit."

"Perhaps I am," returned the outlaw sadly, and with a slight expression of surprise. "Perhaps I am," he repeated. "Indeed I admit that you are right, but—but your saying so is a somewhat strange way to comfort a dying man. Is it not?"

"I am not trying to comfort you. I am trying, by God's grace, to convince you. You tell me that you have been a rebel all your days?"

"Yes; I admit it."

"There are still, it may be, a few days yet to run, and you are determined, it seems, to spend these in rebellion too—up to the very end!"

"Nay, I do not say that. Have I not said that I submit to whatever punishment is due? Surely that is not rebellion. I can do nothing now to make up for a mis-spent life, so I am willing to accept the consequences. Is not that submission to God—at least as far as lies in my power?"

"No; it is not submission. Bear with me when I say it is rebellion, still deeper rebellion than ever. God says to you, 'You have destroyed yourself but in me is your help.' He says, 'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow.' He says, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you shall be saved,' and assures you that 'whoever will' may come to Him, and that no one who comes shall be cast out—yet in the face of all that you tell me that the love of God and the salvation of Christ are not for you! Ralph, my friend, you think that if you had a chance of living your life over again you would do better and so deserve salvation. That is exactly what God tells us we cannot do, and then He tells us that He Himself, in Jesus Christ, has provided salvation from sin for us, offers it as a free unmerited gift; and immediately we dive to the deepest depth of sin by deliberately refusing this deliverance from sin unless we can somehow manage to deserve it."

"I cannot see it," said the wounded man thoughtfully.

"Only God Himself, by His Holy Spirit, can enable you to see it," said his companion; and then, in a low earnest voice, with eyes closed and his hand on his friend's arm, he prayed that the outlaw might be "born again."

Charlie Brooke was not one of those who make long prayers, either "for a pretence" or otherwise. Buck Tom smiled slightly when his friend stopped at the end of this one sentence.

"Your prayer is not long-winded, anyhow!" he said.

"True, Ralph, but it is comprehensive. It requires a good deal of expounding and explaining to make man understand what we say or think. The Almighty needs none of that. Indeed He does not need even the asking but He bids us ask, and that is enough for me. I have seen enough of life to understand the value of unquestioning obedience whether one comprehends the reason of an order or not."

"Ay," returned Buck quickly, "when he who gives the order has a right to command."

"That is so much a matter of course," rejoined Charlie, "that I would not think of referring to it while conversing with an intelligent man. By the way—which name would you like to be called, by Ralph or Buck?"

"It matters little to me," returned the outlaw languidly, "and it won't matter to anybody long. I should prefer 'Ralph,' for it is not associated with so much evil as the other, but you know our circumstances are peculiar just now, so, all things considered, I had better remain Buck Tom to the end of the chapter. I'll answer to whichever name comes first when the roll is called in the next world."

The conversation was interrupted at this point by the entrance of Hunky Ben bearing a deer on his lusty shoulders. He was followed by Dick Darvall.

"There," said the former, throwing the carcass on the floor, "I told ye I wouldn't be long o' bringin' in somethin' for the pot."

"Ay, an' the way he shot it too," said the seaman, laying aside his rifle, "would have made even a monkey stare with astonishment. Has Leather come back, by the way? I see'd him goin' full sail through the woods when I went out this mornin'."

"He has not yet returned," said Charlie. "When I relieved him and sat down to watch by our friend here, he said he felt so much better and stronger that he would take his gun and see if he couldn't find something for the pot. I advised him not to trust his feelings too much, and not to go far, but—ah, here he comes to answer for himself."

As he spoke a step was heard outside, and next moment Shank entered, carrying a brace of rabbits which he flung down, and then threw himself on a couch in a state of considerable exhaustion.

"There," said he, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "They've cost me more trouble than they're worth, for I'm quite done up. I had no idea I had become so weak in the legs. Ralph, my dear fellow," he added, forgetting himself for the moment as he rose and went to his friend's side, "I have more sympathy with you, now that I have found out the extent of my own weakness. Do you feel better!"

"Yes, old boy—much—much better."

"That's all right. I'm convinced that—hallo! why, who shot the deer!"

"Hunky Ben has beat you," said Charlie.

"Beat Leather!" exclaimed Darvall, "why, he beats all creation. I never see'd anything like it since I went to sea."

"Since you came ashore, you should say. But come, Dick," said Charlie, "let's hear about this wonderful shooting. I'm sure it will amuse Buck—unless he's too wearied to listen."

"Let him talk," said the invalid. "I like to hear him."

Thus exhorted and encouraged the seaman recounted his day's experience.

"Well, you must know, messmates," said he, "that I set sail alone this mornin', havin' in my pocket the small compass I always carry about me— also my bearin's before startin', so as I shouldn't go lost in the woods—though that wouldn't be likely in such an narrow inlet as this Traitor's Trap, to say nothin' o' the landmarks alow and aloft of all sorts. I carried a Winchester with me, because, not bein' what you may call a crack shot, I thought it would give me a better chance to have a lot o' resarve shots in the locker, d'ye see? I carried also a six-shooter, as it might come handy, you know, if I fell in wi' a Redskin or a bear, an' got to close quarters. Also my cutlass, for I've bin used to that aboard ship when I was in the navy.

"Well, away I went—makin' sail down the valley to begin with, an' then a long tack into the mountains right in the wind's eye, that bein' the way to get on the blind side o' game. I hadn't gone far when up starts a bird o' some sort—"

"What like was it?" asked the scout.

"No more notion than the man in the moon," returned the sailor. "What wi' the flutter an' scurry an' leaves, branches an' feathers—an' the start—I see'd nothin' clear, an' I was so anxious to git somethin' for the pot, that six shots went arter it out o' the Winchester, before I was quite sure I'd begun to fire—for you must know I've larned to fire uncommon fast since I come to these parts. Hows'ever, I hit nothin'—"

"Not quite so bad as that, Dick," interrupted the scout gravely.

"Well, that's true, but you better tell that part of it yourself, Hunky, as you know more about it than me."

"It wasn't of much consequence," said the scout betraying the slightest possible twinkle in his grey eyes, "but Dick has a knack o' lettin' drive without much regard to what's in front of him. I happened to be more in front of him than that bird when he began to fire, an' the first shot hit my right leggin', but by good luck only grazed the bark. Of course I dropped behind a rock when the storm began and lay quiet there, and when a lull came I halloo'd."

"Yes, he did halloo," said Dick, resuming the narrative, "an' that halloo was more like the yell of a bull of Bashan than the cry of a mortal man. It made my heart jump into my throat an' stick there, for I thought I must have killed a whole Redskin tribe at one shot—"

"Six shots, Dick. Tell the exact truth an' don't contradic' yourself," said Hunky.

"No, it wasn't," retorted the seaman stoutly. "It was arter the first shot that you gave the yell. Hows'ever, I allow that the echoes kep' it goin' till the six shots was off—an' I can tell you, messmates, that the hallooin' an' flutterin' an' scurryin' an echoin' an' thought of Redskins in my brain all mixed up wi' the blatterin' shots, caused such a rumpus that I experienced considerable relief when the smoke cleared away an' I see'd Hunky Ben in front o' me laughin' fit to bu'st his sides."

"Well, to make a long yarn short, I joined Hunky and allowed him to lead, seein' that he understands the navigation hereaway better than me.

"'Come along,' says he, 'an' I'll let you have a chance at a deer.'

"'All right,' says I, an' away we went up one hill an' down another—for all the world as if we was walkin' over a heavy Atlantic swell—till we come to a sort o' pass among the rocks.

"'I'm goin' to leave you here to watch,' says he, 'an' I'll go round by the futt o' the gully an' drive the deer up. They'll pass quite close, so you've only to—'

"Hunky stopped short as he was speakin' and flopped down as if he'd bin shot-haulin' me along wi' him.

"'Keep quiet,' says he, in a low voice. 'We're in luck, an' don't need to drive. There's a deer comin' up at this very minute—a young one. You'll take it. I won't fire unless you miss.'

"You may be sure I kep' quiet, messmates, arter that. I took just one peep, an' there, sure enough, I saw a brown beast comin' up the pass. So we kep' close as mice. There was a lot o' small bushes not ten yards in front of us, which ended in a cut—a sort o' crack—in the hill-side, a hundred yards or more from the place where we was crouchin'.

"'Now,' whispers Hunky to—"

"I never whisper!" remarked the scout.

"Well, well; he said, in a low v'ice to me, says he, 'd'ye see that openin' in the bushes?' 'I do,' says I. 'Well then,' says he, 'it's about ten yards off; be ready to commence firin' when it comes to that openin'.' 'I will,' says I. An', sure enough, when the brown critter came for'id at a walk an' stopped sudden wi' a look o' surprise as if it hadn't expected to see me, bang went my Winchester four times, like winkin', an' up went the deer four times in the air, but niver a bit the worse was he. Snap I went a fifth time; but there was no shot, an' I gave a yell, for I knew the cartridges was done. By that time the critter had reached the crack in the hill I told ye of, an' up in the air he went to clear it, like an Indy-rubber ball. I felt a'most like to fling my rifle at it in my rage, when bang! went a shot at my ear that all but deaf'ned me, an' I wish I may niver fire another shot or furl another t'gallant-s'l if that deer didn't crumple up in the air an' drop down stone dead—as dead as it now lays there on the floor."

By the time Dick Darvall had ended his narrative—which was much more extensive than our report of it—steaks of the deer were sputtering in a frying-pan, and other preparations were being made for a hearty meal, to which all the healthy men did ample justice. Shank Leather did what he could, and even Buck Tom made a feeble attempt to join.

That night a strict watch was kept outside the cave—each taking it by turns, for it was just possible, though not probable, that the outlaws might return to their old haunt. No one appeared, however, and for the succeeding eight weeks the party remained there undisturbed, Shank Leather slowly but surely regaining strength; his friend, Buck Tom, as slowly and surely losing it; while Charlie, Dick, and Hunky Ben ranged the neighbouring forest in order to procure food. Leather usually remained in the cave to cook for and nurse his friend. It was pleasant work to Shank, for love and pity were at the foundation of the service. Buck Tom perceived this and fully appreciated it. Perchance he obtained some valuable light on spiritual subjects from Shank's changed tone and manner, which the logic of his friend Brooke had failed to convey. Who can tell?



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

SHOWS HOW THE SEAMAN WAS SENT ON A DELICATE MISSION AND HOW HE FARED.

"Shank," said Charlie one day as they were sitting in the sunshine near the outlaws' cave, waiting for Dick and the scout to return to their mid-day meal, "it seems to me that we may be detained a good while here, for we cannot leave Ralph, and it is evident that the poor fellow won't be able to travel for many a day—"

"If ever," interposed Shank sorrowfully.

"Well, then, I think we must send down to Bull's Ranch, to see if there are any letters for us. I feel sure that there must be some, and the question arises—who are we to send?"

"You must not go, Charlie, whoever goes. You are the only link in this mighty wilderness, that connects Ralph and me with home—and hope. Weak and helpless as we are, we cannot afford to let you out of our sight."

"Well, but if I don't go I can't see my way to asking the scout to go, for he alone thoroughly understands the ways of the country and of the Indians—if any should chance to come this way. Besides, considering the pledge he is under to be accountable for Buck Tom, I doubt if he would consent to go."

"The question is answered, then," said Shank, "for the only other man is Dick Darvall."

"True; and it strikes me that Dick will be very glad to go," returned Charlie with a smile of peculiar meaning.

"D'ye think he's getting tired of us, Charlie?"

"By no means. But you know he has a roving disposition, and I think he has a sort of fondness for Jackson—the boss of the ranch."

It was found when the question was put to him, that Dick was quite ready to set out on the mission required of him. He also admitted his fondness for Roaring Bull!

"But what if you should lose your way?" asked the scout.

"Find it again," was Dick's prompt reply.

"And what if you should be attacked by Indians?"

"Fight 'em, of course."

"But if they should be too many to fight?"

"Why, clap on all sail an' give 'em a starn chase, which is always a long one. For this purpose, however, I would have to command a good craft so I'd expect you to lend me yours, Hunky Ben."

"What! my Polly?"

"Even so. Black Polly."

The scout received this proposal gravely, and shook his head at first, for he was naturally fond of his beautiful mare, and, besides, doubted the sailor's horsemanship, though he had perfect faith in his courage and discretion. Finally, however, he gave in; and accordingly, one fine morning at daybreak, Dick Darvall, mounted on Black Polly, and armed with his favourite Winchester, revolvers, and cutlass, "set sail" down Traitor's Trap to visit his lady-love!

Of course he knew that his business was to obtain letters and gather news. But honest Dick Darvall could not conceal from himself that his main object was—Mary Jackson!

Somehow it has come to be supposed or assumed that a jack-tar cannot ride. Possibly this may be true of the class as a whole to which Jack belongs, but it is not necessarily true of all, and it certainly is not true of some. Dick Darvall was an expert horseman—though a sailor. He had learned to ride when a boy, before going to sea, and his after-habit of riding the "white horses" of the Norseman, did not cause him to forget the art of managing the "buckers" of the American plains. To use his own words, he felt as much at home on the hurricane deck of a Spanish pony, as on the fo'c'sl of a man-of-war, so that the scout's doubt of his capacity as a rider was not well founded.

Tremendous was the bound of exultation which our seaman felt, then, when he found himself on the magnificent black mare, with the fresh morning air fanning his temples, and the bright morning sun glinting through a cut in the eastern range.

Soon he reached the lower end of the valley, which, being steep, he had descended with tightened rein. On reaching the open prairie he gave the mare her head and went off with a wild whoop like an arrow from a bow.

Black Polly required neither spur nor whip. She possessed that charmingly sensitive spirit which seems to receive an electric shock from its rider's lightest chirp. She was what you may call an anxiously willing steed, yet possessed such a tender mouth that she could be pulled up as easily as she could be made to go. A mere child could have ridden her, and Dick found in a few minutes that a slight check was necessary to prevent her scouring over the plains at racing speed. He restrained her, therefore, to a grand canter, with many a stride and bound interspersed, when such a thing as a rut or a little bush came in her way.

With arched neck, glistening eyes, voluminous mane, and flowing tail she flew onward, hour after hour, with many a playful shake of the head, and an occasional snort, as though to say, "This is mere child's play; do let me put on a spurt!"

It may not be fair to credit such a noble creature with talking, or even thinking, slang, but Dick Darvall clearly understood her to say something of the sort, for after a while he reduced speed to a kind of india-rubber walk and patted her neck, saying—

"No, no, lass, you mustn't use up your strength at the beginning. We've got a longish trip before us, Polly, an' it won't do to clap on all sail at the beginnin' of the voyage."

At David's store Dick stopped for a short time to obtain a little refreshment for himself and Polly. There he found a group of cow-boys discussing the affairs of their neighbours, and enlarging noisily on things in general under the brain-clearing and reason-inspiring influence of strong drink! To these he recounted briefly the incidents of the recent raid of the troops into Traitor's Trap, and learned that Jake the Flint had "drifted south into Mexico where he was plying the trade of cattle and horse stealer, with the usual accompaniments of that profession—fighting, murdering, drinking, etcetera." Some of the deeds of this notorious outlaw, as narrated by the cow-boy Crux, who happened to be there, made the blood of Dick run cold—and Dick's blood was not easily made to run otherwise than naturally by any one—except, of course, by Mary Jackson, who could at all events make it run hot, also fast or slow, very much according to her own sweet will!

But the seaman had no time to lose. He had still a long way to go, and the day was advancing. Remounting Black Polly he was soon out again on the prairie, sweeping over the grassy waves and down into the hollows with a feeling of hilarious jollity, that was born of high health, good-nature, pleasant circumstances, and a free-and-easy mind.

Nothing worthy of particular notice occurred after this to mar the pleasure of our sailor's "voyage" over the prairie until he reached a belt of woodland, through which for half a mile he had to travel. Here he drew rein and began to traverse the bit of forest at a quiet amble, partly to rest Polly, and partly that he might more thoroughly enjoy the woodland scenery through the umbrageous canopy of which the sun was sending his slanting rays and covering the sward with a confused chequer-work of green and gold.

And here Dick Darvall became communicative; entered into conversation, so to speak, with himself. After a few minutes, however, this did not prove a sufficient outlet to his exuberant spirits.

"Come, Dick," he exclaimed, "give us a song. Your voice ain't, perhaps, much to speak of as to quality, but there's no end of quantity. Strike up, now; what shall it be?"

Without replying to the question he struck up "Rule Britannia" in tones that did not justify his disparaging remark as to quality. He reached the other end of the wood and the end of the song at the same time. "Britons," shouted he with unalterable determination—"Never, never, ne-ever, shall be—Redskins!"

This unnatural termination was not an intentional variation. It was the result of a scene that suddenly burst upon his view.

Far away on the prairie two riders were seen racing at what he would have styled a slant away from him. They were going at a pace that suggested fleeing for life.

"Redskins—arter somethin'," murmured Dick, pulling up, and shading his eyes from the sun with his right hand, as he gazed earnestly at the two riders.

"No-n-no. They're whites," he continued, "one o' them a man; t'other a woman. I can make that out, anyhow."