XXA PRISONER
When the early-morning mail train stopped at Yellow Creek Junction on Tuesday, Alex was at the little box-car station to greet Jack Orr and Wilson Jennings. Jack, who had not met Wilson before the latter boarded the train at Bonepile, had taken a liking to the easterner at once, and confided to Alex that he was “the real goods,” despite the “streak of dude.”
“We ought to have some good times together,” Jack predicted, as, with lively interest, he and Wilson accompanied Alex back toward the nondescript but businesslike-looking boarding-train.
Jack’s hope, as far as it concerned the three boys being together, was soon shattered. As they reached the telegraph-car, Superintendent Finnan appeared, and having cordially shaken hands with Jack and Wilson, turned to Alex. “Ward,” he said, “I have just decided to send you on to the Antelope viaduct. A courier has brought word from Norton, the engineer in charge, that trouble appears to be brewing amongst his Italian laborers, and I would like to get in direct touch with him. The telegraph line wasstrung within two miles of the bridge yesterday, and should reach Norton’s camp to-day. How soon could you start?”
“As soon as I have breakfast, sir,” responded Alex, stifling his disappointment. “It’s twenty miles there, isn’t it, Mr. Finnan? How am I to go?”
“You can ride a horse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Elder will have a pony here for you by the time you are ready. And you had better take an extra blanket with you,” advised the superintendent as he turned away. “You will be living in a tent, you know.”
Half an hour later Alex, mounted on a spirited little cow-pony, with a few necessities in a sweater, strapped to the saddle, and a blanket over his shoulder, army fashion, waved a good-by to Jack and Wilson, and was off over the prairie at a lope, following the telegraph poles.
It was a beautiful morning, and with the sun shining and the sparkling air brushing his cheeks and tingling in his nostrils, Alex quickly forgot his disappointment at being so quickly separated from Jack and Wilson, and soon was enjoying every minute of his ride. Keeping on steadily at a hand-gallop, before he realized he had covered half the distance, he came upon the wire-stringing and pole-erecting gangs. A half mile farther, a long, dark break appeared in the plain, and a muffled din of pounding began to reach him. And pushing ahead, Alex drew up on the brink ofa wide, deep gully, from either side of which reached out a great wooden frame, dotted with busy men.
It was the bed of the old Antelope river, which years before had changed its course, and which the railroad finally proposed crossing with a permanent fill.
Directly below, in a group of shrubby trees on the border of the stony creek which alone remained of the river, was a village of white tents. From Alex’s feet a rough trail slanted downward toward it. Giving his pony free rein, he descended.
“Where is Mr. Norton?” he asked of a water-boy at the foot of the path.
“That’s him at the table in front of the middle tent,” the boy directed. Thanking him, Alex urged the pony forward, and leaped to the ground beside a dark-haired, energetic young man bending over a sheet of figures.
“I am the operator Mr. Finnan sent on,” Alex announced as the engineer looked up.
“Glad to meet you,” said the engineer, cordially rising and extending his hand. “You are a trifle young for this rough work, though, are you not?” he ventured, noting Alex’s youthful face. “You are not the operator who caught that K. & Z. man Sunday?”
“I helped catch him,” Alex corrected.
“You’ll do, then,” said Norton. “And I’ll give you a place here in my own tent,” he added, turning and entering a small marquee, followed by Alex.
“This corner will be yours, and the box your ‘office.’ It will do for the instruments?”
“Fine,” responded Alex.
As the wire-stringing gang was not due to reach the viaduct before mid-afternoon, on completing his arrangements in the tent, Alex set out for a tour of his new surroundings. Climbing up the western slope of the gully, he found a large gang of foreigners, mostly Italians, working in a cutting. Judging that this was the gang which was causing the anxiety, Alex paused some moments to watch them.
Scattered over a system of miniature track, the men were shovelling earth into strings of small dump-cars, which when filled were run out over the completed western end of the viaduct, and dumped. As Alex stood regarding the active scene, a string of cars rumbled toward him from one of the more distant sidings. Others had been pushed by several men. This was being driven by a single burly giant. With admiration Alex watched. Suddenly a sense of something familiar about the figure stirred within him. The man came opposite, and Alex uttered an involuntary ejaculation. It was Big Tony, the Italian who had led the trouble amongst the trackmen at Bixton two years back, and with whom he had had the thrilling encounter at the old brick-yard.
When the Italian glanced toward him, Alex started back. But the foreigner did not recognize the young operator, with his two years of rapid growth, and passed on. Breathing a sigh of relief, Alex turnedand made his way to the foreman in charge of the gang.
“How do you do,” he said, introducing himself. “Who is that big Italian pushing the string of cars alone?”
“Tony Martino. The best man in the gang,” responded the foreman. “Why? Do you know him?”
“He was on a surfacing-gang near my father’s station two years ago,” said Alex, “and caused no end of trouble. He was discharged finally.”
“He must have reformed, then,” the foreman declared. “He’s certainly the best man we have—more than willing, and strong as an ox.”
“He had nothing to do with the trouble you have had here, then?”
“He helped me put it down,” said the foreman. “No; I only wish we had a few more like him.”
Alex passed on, thoughtful. At Bixton Big Tony had been no more remarkable for his willingness to work than for his peaceableness. Had he really changed for the better? Or was it possible he was “playing possum,” to cover the carrying-out of some plan of revenge against the road?
Three evenings later, a beautiful, moonlit night, Alex left the camp for a stroll. To obtain a look up and down the old river-bed by the moonlight, he made his way out on the now nearly completed viaduct.
As he stood gazing down the ravine to the south, a half-mile distant a dark figure passed over a brightpatch of sand. It was quickly lost in the dark background beyond. But not before Alex had recognized the unmistakable figure and walk of the Italian, Big Tony. His suspicions at once awakened, Alex was but a moment in deciding to follow the foreigner, and returning to the eastern bank, he scrambled down to the gully bottom, and hastily followed, keeping well in the shadows on the eastern side of the ravine.
Reaching the spot at which he had seen the Italian, he went on more cautiously. A quarter-mile farther the ravine swung abruptly to the west. As Alex arrived at the bend, subdued voices reached him. Continuing cautiously, and keeping to the deepest shadows, Alex reached a clump of willow bushes.
He glanced beyond, and in a patch of moonlight discovered Big Tony in conversation with an almost equally tall stranger, apparently a cowboy. The latter’s back was toward him.
The stranger turned, and Alex drew back with a start, and then a smile.
It was the second man of the two who on the previous Sunday had attempted to wreck the track-machine—the one who had made his escape.
As the man turned more fully, and he caught his words, Alex’s jubilant smile vanished.
“... enough to blow the whole thing to matchwood, if you place it right,” he was saying.
There was no doubt what this meant. They were planning to blow up the viaduct.
“Oh, I fixa it alla right, alla right,” declared BigTony confidently. “No fear. I usa da dynamite all-aready. I blow up da beega da house once.”
“A house and a big wooden bridge are quite different propositions. And a wooden bridge isn’t to be blown up like a stone or iron affair, you know.”
“Suppose you come, taka da look, see my plan all-aright, den,” the Italian suggested. “No one on disa side da bridge, to see, disa time night.”
The cowman hesitated. “Well, all right. It would be best to make sure.
“We don’t want to carry this, though. Where’ll we put it?”
As he spoke the man leaned over and picked up a good-sized parcel done up in brown paper. From the careful way he handled it there could be no doubt of its contents. It was the dynamite they proposed using.
“Here, I fin’ da place.”
Alex caught his breath at the display of carelessness with which the foreigner took the deadly package. Backing into a nearby clump of bushes, Big Tony stooped and placed the dynamite on the ground, well beneath the branches.
“Dere. No one see dat. Come!”
As the two conspirators strode toward him, Alex crept closer into the shadows of the willows. Passing almost within touch of him, they continued up the gully, and soon were out of sight.
Before the footsteps of the two men had died away Alex was sitting upright, debating a suggestion thatcaused him to smile. With decision he arose, approached the bush under which the dynamite was concealed, and reaching beneath with both hands, very carefully brought the package forth and placed it on the ground in the moonlight. With great caution he then undid the twine securing the parcel, and opened it. On discovering a second wrapping of paper within, he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. Lifting out the inner parcel intact, he glanced about, and choosing a group of bushes some distance away, carried the dynamite there and concealed it. Returning, he secured the piece of outer wrapping paper, and proceeded to carry out his idea.
Where the moonlight struck the western wall of the gully was a bed of cracked, sun-baked clay. Making his way thither, Alex found a fragment a little larger than the package of dynamite, and with his knife proceeded to trim it into a square. Carefully then he wrapped this in the brown paper, and wound it about with the cord just as the original parcel was secured. And with a smile Alex placed this under the bush from which he had taken the genuine package.
“Dynamite with that as much as you please, Mr. Tony,” he laughed as he turned away.
When Alex had covered half the distance in returning to the viaduct he began keeping a sharp lookout ahead for the returning of the Italian and his companion. He was within a hundred yards of the great white structure when he discovered them. Turning aside, he concealed himself behind a small spruce.
With no apprehension of danger Alex waited, and the two men came opposite. Suddenly, without a motion of warning, the two turned and darted toward him, one on either side of the tree. Before Alex had recovered from his astonishment he found himself seized on either side, and threateningly ordered to be silent.
They dragged him on some distance, then into the moonlight. “Why, it’s one of the fellows who captured Bucks on Sunday!” declared the cowboy. “What are you doing here, boy?” he demanded angrily.
“I was out for a moonlight stroll,” Alex responded, stifling his apprehension.
“Why did you hide behind that tree, then?”
“Well—perhaps I was afraid,” said Alex vaguely. “There are some rough people here among the foreign laborers.”
As he spoke Alex noted with new alarm that the Italian was regarding him sharply. He turned his back more fully to the moonlight. Immediately he chided himself for his stupidity. The move emphasized the struggling sense of recognition in the Italian’s mind, he smartly turned Alex’s face full to the moon, and uttered a cry in Italian.
“Now I know! I know!” he cried exultingly. “I know heem before! And he a spy! A boy spy!”
Rapidly he gave the stranger a distorted account of the strike at Bixton, and Alex’s part in his final discomfiture.
The cowman listened closely. “Is that so, boy?” he demanded.
“Partly. But it was not a strike. It was a simple piece of murderous revenge against one man, the section-foreman. And I helped spoil it.”
“Good. That’s all I want to know,” said the cowboy with decision. “Not that I care one way or the other about the affair itself. It shows you are a dangerous man to leave around loose. I’ll just take you along with me. Come on!”
“Come? Where?” said Alex, holding back in alarm.
“Never mind! Just come!” Securing a new hold on Alex’s arms, the speaker and the Italian dragged him with them back down the gorge.
As they neared the spot at which the dynamite was supposed to be safely hidden, the stranger halted abruptly, studied Alex intently a moment, then sent Big Tony on ahead, after a whispered word in his ear.
Alex knew the foreigner had gone to learn whether the dynamite had been touched. In suspense he awaited the result. Would the Italian be deceived? Would he notice the new footprints about the bush?
Big Tony returned. “All-aright,” he announced. Alex breathed a sigh of relief, and continued forward with his captors.
They proceeded some distance in silence, and presently Alex had sufficiently plucked up courage to again ask what they proposed doing with him.
“I’m going to take you where you will be out ofmischief, that’s all,” replied the unknown cowman. As he spoke he halted, looked about, and resigning Alex to the guardianship of the Italian, disappeared in the shadow of an over-hang of the ravine. A moment later there was a clatter of hoofs, and he reappeared leading a horse.
“Make heem rida too?” questioned Big Tony.
“Hardly,” responded the cowman, at the same time freeing and swinging a lariat from the saddle-horn. “He’s going to trot along behind me like the blame little coyote he is.
“Hold out your hands, kid!” he ordered. Seeing resistance was useless, Alex reluctantly complied. Running the noose of the lassoo about the boy’s wrists, the cowman tightened it, and secured it with several knots. Swinging into the saddle, he fixed the other end to the saddle-horn.
“You may go now, Tony,” he said to the foreigner as he caught up the reins and headed the pony toward a path to the surface which Alex had not noticed.
“Gooda night, Meester Munson. And gooda-by, smart boy,” said the Italian. “Lucky for you I havanta my way. ‘Scrugk!’ That’s what you get,” he declared, drawing his hand across his throat.
“Munson, eh?” murmured Alex as the lassoo tightened, and he stumbled up the path behind the pony. “That’s another good thing learned.”
Arrived at the surface, his captor halted to look about, then set off across the plains due south, at a walk, Alex trailing after at the end of the rope.
The situation was not without its humorous side, it occurred to Alex after his first apprehension had worn off. When a few minutes later the pony broke into a slow canter, and he was forced into an awkward dog-trot, a chuckle broke from him.
The man ahead turned in surprise. “Well, you’re sure a game one,” he observed. “Imagine it’s funny, eh?”
“I was thinking how I would look to some of my friends, if they could see me here,” explained Alex good-naturedly. “Trotting along like a little dog on a string.”
The cowman pulled up and laughed. “Youngster, you’re all right,” he said heartily. “I’m sorry you’re—that is—”
“On the wrong side?” suggested Alex, smiling.
“Very well. Let it go at that. Look here! If I take that thing off, will you promise to come along, and not play any tricks?”
“Yes, I will,” agreed Alex readily. For he saw there was little chance of making his escape from the horseman on an open plain.
“Hold up your hands, then,” directed the cowboy. Alex complied, and quickly he was free.
“How far are we going?” he asked as they moved on, Alex walking abreast.
“About twenty miles,” replied the cowman.
XXITURNING THE TABLES
The moonlight had given place to darkness, and Alex was thoroughly exhausted from his long walk when the fence of a corral, then a group of small buildings, loomed up, and his captor announced that they were at their destination.
“Do you live here all alone?” Alex asked, seeing no lights.
“Since you fellows captured Bucks—yes,” responded the cowboy, halting at the corral bars. Dismounting, he whipped saddle and bridle from the pony as it passed inside, and replacing the bars, led the way to the house.
It was a small, meagerly-furnished room that a match, then a lamp, disclosed. Against the rear wall was a small stove, in the center a rough table, at either end a low cot, and in one corner a cupboard. Two or three chairs, some pictures and calendars and two or three saddles completed the contents. The floor was of hard earth.
“That’ll be your bunk there,” said the owner, indicating one of the cots. “And you can turn in just as soon as you like.”
Crossing the room, he stood at the foot of the bed,thinking. “What’s the trouble? It looks comfortable enough,” observed Alex, following.
“I have it,” said the cowman, and going to the saddles, he returned with a coiled lariat. Alex laughed uncomfortably.
“Lie down,” the man directed. “Or, hold on! Let’s see first if you have any knives about you.” Objection would have been fruitless, and Alex of his own accord surrendered his pocket-knife.
“Now lie down.”
With what grace he could, Alex complied. Making a slip-loop in the center of the lariat, the cowman passed it over one of the boy’s ankles, and made the holding-knot as firm as he could draw it. Then passing the two ends of the rope inside one of the lower legs of the cot, he ran them across the room and secured them to his own bed.
“That’ll leave you comfortable, and put the knots out of temptation,” he remarked. “Also, if you start any wriggling this old shake-down of mine will act as watch-dog. It squeaks if you look at it. And I’m a powerful light snoozer, and powerful quick with the gun when it’s necessary,” he added, with an emphasis which Alex could not doubt.
Nevertheless, when presently the cowman blew out the light, and retired, Alex only waited until a steady, deep snore announced that the man was asleep. Cautiously he sat up, and reached toward his encircled ankle.
The knots had been secured cleverly and tightly.Pry and pull as he could, they gave no more than if they had been made of wire.
Working lower, Alex sought to reach the cot leg, to see whether it was fixed to the floor. With some difficulty, because of the sitting position made necessary, he was straining toward it, when suddenly the bound foot lunged from him, the rope tightened, and from the cot opposite came a squeak. The snoring instantly ceased, and Alex sat motionless, holding his breath. The ominous silence continued, and finally he lay back with a movement as though turning in his sleep.
Minute after minute passed, and still the breathing of the man across the room did not resume.
Then suddenly, it seemed, Alex found himself sitting upright, and daylight flooding the room. He had fallen asleep.
The second cot was empty, but a moment after the door opened and the cowman appeared.
“How did you sleep, stranger?” he inquired. “I thought for a spell last night you were trying some funny business.”
Alex laughed. “I slept like a log,” he declared truthfully, ignoring the last remark. “Are you going to keep me tied up here all day?”
“Until after breakfast anyway,” responded his host, proceeding to start a fire in the stove. “Suppose you’ll have some bacon and coffee?”
“Thank you, yes. I’m more than hollow, after that Marathon run you gave me last night.”
As the cowman turned to the cupboard Alex seized the opportunity to examine the leg of the cot about which the lassoo was passed. With disappointment he discovered it to be a stout post driven into the floor.
Despite the discomfort of his position Alex enjoyed the simple breakfast of biscuits and bacon. He was passing his cup for a third filling of the fragrant coffee, when his host abruptly sat the coffee-pot down and listened. “Someone coming,” he remarked. Alex also heard the hoofbeats. They approached rapidly, there was a step at the door, and a tall, well-dressed figure in riding-breeches and leggings appeared. At sight of Alex he halted in surprise.
“Who’s this, Munson?” he demanded.
The cowman led the way outside and closed the door, and low words told Alex that he was explaining the previous night’s occurrences. More, they told him that this well-dressed man was the connecting link between the K. & Z. and the men who were seeking to interfere with the Middle Western in the race for the Yellow Creek Pass.
What would be the outcome of the man’s visit for him? Alex asked himself. For the newcomer would not fail to appreciate the disadvantage of having been seen there by the young employee of the M. W.
The young operator was not left long in doubt. The door again opened, and the stranger re-entered, followed by the cowman, and without preliminary placed a chair before Alex and dropped into it.
“Look here, my boy,” he began, “how would you like to earn some extra money—a good decent sum?”
At once seeing the man’s intention, Alex bridled indignantly. But suppressing his feelings, he responded, “I’d like to as well as anyone else, I suppose—if I can earn it honorably.”
At the last word a flush mounted to the stranger’s cheeks, but he continued. “Well, that’s all a matter of opinion, you know. Every man has his own particular code of honor. However—
“You probably have guessed who I am?”
“A K. & Z. man.”
“Yes. Now look here: Suppose the K. & Z. was anxious to know from day to day the precise progress the Middle Western is making in this race for Yellow Creek, and suppose they were willing to pay a hundred dollars a month for the information—would that proposition interest you?”
Alex replied promptly, “No, sir. And anyway, it’s not the information you want. It’s my silence.”
The man’s face darkened. He had one more card to play, however.
“Well, let it go at that, then. And suppose, in addition to a hundred a month to keep silent as to seeing me here, and what you have learned generally, I should give you—” He thrust his hand into an inside pocket and brought forth a long pocketbook. “Suppose I should give you, say two hundred dollars, cash?”
Alex caught a knee between his hands and leaned back against the wall.
“I’m not for sale,” he replied quietly.
The would-be briber thrust the book back into his pocket and sprang to his feet, purple with anger.
“Very well, my young saint,” he sneered, “stay where you are, then—till we’re good and ready to let you go!”
He strode to the door, Munson following him. “If he tries to get away,” Alex heard him add as he mounted his horse, “shoot him! I’ll protect you!”
“Youarea young fool, all right,” Munson said, returning. “You’ve simply made it worse for yourself. You’ve sure now got to stay right here, indefinite.
“And, as he ordered,” the cowman added determinedly, “if you try to make a break-away of it, I’ll sure shoot—and shoot to kill! When I go into a thing, I put it through!”
Alex, however, had no intention of staying, whatever the risks, and when presently Munson, after assuring himself that the knots were secure, passed out, he immediately addressed himself to the task of making his escape. It did not look difficult at first sight, since both hands were free, and only one foot tied. But an energetic attempt to loosen the cleverly-tied slip-loop failed as completely as it had the night before. Likewise, strain as he could at the cot leg, he could not budge it, so firmly was it driven into the hard ground.
With something like despair Alex at last relinquished these endeavors, and turned to the problem of cutting the rope in some way. In the hope of finding a nail with which he might pick or fray the lariat apart, he made a thorough examination of the cot. There were nails, but they were driven in beyond hope of drawing with his fingers.
Dispiritedly Alex relinquished the search, and sat up. His eyes wandered to the window near him. Starting to his feet, he strained toward it.
The lower corner of one of the panes had been broken, and the triangle of glass leaned inward loosely. With a low expression of hope Alex was reaching for it, when from the rear of the cabin sounded the returning footsteps of the cowman. Speedily Alex sank back on the cot, and assumed an air of dejection.
A few minutes later the boy again found himself alone. But in the meantime he had decided to leave the securing of the fragment of glass and the attempt at escape until night. In further preparation for the attempt Alex that afternoon stretched himself on the cot, and slept several hours.
To the young operator it seemed that the cowman would never retire that night. And when at length he blew out the light, and threw himself upon his bed, he apparently lay an interminable time awake. At length, however, when the moonlight in the window pointed to approaching midnight, there came a faint regular breathing, then a full long snore. Without loss of time Alex got to his feet at the foot of the cot,and leaning against the wall, reached toward the window.
He could just touch the broken corner of pane with the tips of his fingers. Moving his supporting hand farther along the wall, he drew back, and reached forward with a lunge. This time he got his wrist on the window-ledge. Thus leaning, he finally secured a hold on the fragment of glass with his fingers, and pulled on it. A crackle caused him to falter. Munson’s breathing continued undisturbed. At the next pull the piece came free. The next moment Alex was sitting on the cot-end, sawing at the rope with the sharp edge of the broken glass.
To his disappointment, the edge, though sharp to the feel, did not cut into the closely-woven and seasoned twine as he had expected. Vigorously he sawed away, however, and at last found that the extemporized knife was taking hold.
And finally, as the last gleam of moonlight died from the window-panes, the remaining strand was severed, and there was a faint slap as the rope fell to the floor. A restless move by the sleeper and a momentary cessation of the snoring gave Alex a thrill of fear. Then the heavy breathing resumed, and getting to his feet, he slipped to the door, found the catch, lifted it, and passed out.
As he closed the door, Alex paused a moment to assure himself that the cowman was still breathing regularly, and turned away jubilantly.
Exultation over his escape was considerably temperedwhen Alex discovered that the moon was almost down in the west, and that in addition the sky overhead was clouding. He set off immediately, however, heading straight north, and when a safe distance had been put between him and the cabin, broke into a run.
At a steady jog Alex kept on for several miles over the dimly-lit plain. Then the moon finally disappeared, and he fell into a rapid walk. Some time later he halted in alarm. Was he going in the right direction? On every hand was a wall of darkness, and overhead not a star was to be seen.
He moved on, and again halted to debate the situation. Certainly, for the time being, he was lost. What should he do? Remain where he was till daylight? or go ahead, and take the chance of circuiting back? He decided to continue.
Perhaps an hour later, still pushing ahead, Alex strode full tilt into a barb-wire fence. As he staggered back a second cry broke from him. Had he circled back to Munson’s corral?
His heart in his throat, he felt hurriedly along the top wire to a post, and reached upward. A gasp of relief greeted the discovery that the top of the post was well within his reach. The corral posts were not less than eight or nine feet, with wires to the top.
A further cheering idea followed. On the ride to the Antelope viaduct he had noted a three-wire fence similar to this paralleling the right-of-way for several miles. Perhaps this was the same fence?
If he only knew its direction!
Dropping to the ground for a brief rest, Alex set his brains at recalling every bit of woods or plains lore he had ever heard or read of for the telling of direction.
It was a puff of air against his cheek that suggested the answer.
The prevailing wind! What was it here?
Southwest!
In a moment he was on his knees at the foot of the adjacent fence-post.
On the farther side, half covering the dead grass, was a small eddy of sand!
Hopefully Alex hastened to the next post.The same!
To make doubly sure, he tried the third, and with an exulting, “The same again!” started to his feet, and struck on, whistling gaily, confident he was heading due north, and that this was the same fence he had seen along the new embankment.
A further cheering thought occurred to the young operator presently. The construction-train should not be far from the stretch of road which paralleled the fence!
Onward he pushed through the darkness at a steady, swinging gait, feeling frequently for the fence, to make sure he was not wandering.
For what seemed several hours Alex had been walking, when a faint light appeared in the sky. It was to his right. His plainsmanship had not put him amiss.
As the light brightened he gazed anxiously ahead. The ragged, thin-posted fence stretched unbroken to the northern horizon. He had hoped the light would reveal the swing to the east, and the dark shape of the construction-train.
Alex continued steadily ahead, however, buoying up his lagging energies with pictures of a hot, appetizing meal and a pleasant meeting with Jack and the rest of his friends on the train. And finally, when the sun had been some time above the horizon, he uttered a shout. Far in front, but distinct in the beautifully clear air, the fence turned abruptly to the east. And less than a mile sun-ward was a long dark shape and columns of smoke rising lazily into the air.
Scrambling through the fence, Alex set off on a bee-line for the train, whistling a brisk march.
Five minutes later the whistler paused in the middle of a note and spun sharply about. The color left his bronzed face. A mile to the rear, on the other side of the fence, a horseman was following him at full speed. A glance at the white-faced pony told it was Munson, and turning, Alex was off, running with every ounce of his remaining energy.
The thud of the hoofs gained rapidly.
Closer they came, and Alex headed off farther from the fence. Perhaps he’ll be afraid to put the horse at the wire, he thought hopefully. He glanced back. The cowman was wheeling off for the jump.
In despair Alex looked over the long mile still separating him from the train, and again over his shoulder.Would the horse make it? He slightly slowed his steps as the animal made the rush.
It went over like a bird.
Gritting his teeth, Alex dashed straight back for the fence. “I’ll make him jump his head off before he gets me, anyway,” he said grimly. Flogging the pony, the cowman endeavored to head the boy off, but Alex reached the wire, and dove safely through. Scrambling to his feet, he was on again, this time keeping closer to the fence.
It was as the pony drew up abreast fifty feet distant, and while the train was still a good mile away, that the idea of signalling for help on the fence-wire occurred to Alex. He acted immediately. Catching up a good-sized stone, he ran forward, and on the topmost wire, near one of the posts, pounded with all his might the telegraph dot letters “Oh! Oh! Orr! Orr!”
Munson had pulled up as Alex ran for the fence. When the boy began pounding the wire he at once recognized its purpose, and sprang from his horse, drawing his pistol.
Instantly Alex darted on, carrying the stone. The cowman ran after. But the man was slow on his feet, and despite his fatigue, Alex drew away from him.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” cried the cow-puncher. “Pull up! I will!”
“Go ahead, and they’ll hear you at the train!” called Alex, though secretly trembling. The cowman hesitated, then returned the revolver to its holster, andran back for his horse. Immediately Alex was again at the wire, pounding out, “Oh! Oh! Orr! Orr!”
The cowman was again up with him, and once more he ran on, gazing anxiously toward the train for signs of commotion to show his appeal had been heard.
For some distance the strange race continued, the cowman, angry and puzzled, on one side of the fence, Alex keeping close to the wires on the other, in readiness to dodge under should his pursuer jump.
Finally the rider again swung off, and headed in at a gallop. Grimly Alex halted. With a rush the horse came directly toward him. Waiting until it was within a few yards of him, he dropped to his knees, and crawled half way through the fence.
It was his undoing. Straight at him the horseman came, as though to jump. Then suddenly the rider whirled broadside, leaned from the saddle, and before Alex, wildly scrambling, could withdraw, had him firmly by the hair. By main force the cowboy dragged his prisoner through the fence, and upright beside him.
With a half-stifled sob Alex lurched limply against the pony’s shoulders. “Never mind, kid,” said the cowman not unkindly. “You made a good fight of it. You did your best. But I had to do my best too.
“If you’ll give me your word to go quiet, I’ll let you ride behind me,” he added. “Promise?”
Alex cast a last look back toward the construction-train. A few figures were moving about, slowly. Clearly his signals had not been heard.
“All right,” he said wearily, and with some difficulty mounting behind the cowboy, they were off the weary way he had come.
Jack, at the construction-train, rose late that morning. He had been up nearly all night, awaiting news from the viaduct search-party, which throughout the entire day had been scouring the nearby country for his unaccountably missing chum. As he emerged from the telegraph-car door he found the Indian, Little Hawk, on the adjoining steps of the store-car.
“Good morning, Mr. Little Hawk,” he said. “Sunning yourself?”
“I wait for you. I hear noise—knock,” the Indian said.
“Knock, like little tick-knock in car,” he added as Jack regarded him, mystified.
“Tick-knock? What do you mean?”
“On fence,” said the Indian stolidly. “Hearum twice. Like dis:” And while Jack’s eyes opened wide, with a stone he held in his hand the Indian tapped on the iron hand-rail of the car the telegraph words, “Oh—Oh—Orr.”
In a moment Jack was on the ground before him, all excitement. “Where? Where did you hear it?” he cried.
“Fence. Sleep dar,” said the Indian, pointing to the nearby fence. “No t’ink much about. Den see horse run—way dar. Den t’ink tick-knock, an’ come you.”
Uttering a shrill shout Jack was off on the jump to find Superintendent Finnan. And fifteen minutes later the superintendent, Little Hawk, and one of the foremen, mounted, were away on the gallop along the ranch fence toward the point at which the Indian had seen the disappearing horseman.
Alex was thoroughly exhausted when he found himself once more at the ranch. Slipping to the ground, he entered the cabin of his own accord, and threw himself dejectedly upon the couch.
“You’ve near spoiled a dinged fine rope,” observed Munson, following him, and kicking at the lariat, still stretched across the floor. “Oh, well, I can take it out of the K. & Z.
“Now for some breakfast. Suppose you don’t feel too bad to grub, eh? Though you sure don’t deserve none.”
As on the previous morning, Alex and his jailer were near the conclusion of the meal when hoofbeats again told of the approach of a visitor. Going to the door, the cowman announced “Bennet.”
“So that’s his name, is it?” said Alex quickly.
“What? Did I say—Well, let it go. I don’t see that it makes much difference. Yes, Bennet’s his name.
“And mighty lucky thing I have you back here,” he added over his shoulder.
“Good morning, Mr. Bennet,” he said. “Caught us at breakfast again.”
“Breakfast! What are you doing at breakfast this time of day?” inquired the K. & Z. man, entering. When the cowman explained, the newcomer glowered at Alex threateningly. “Why didn’t you shoot?” he demanded.
“Too near the train. They would have heard it,” responded Munson.
“Well, clear off the table. I have something I want to show you,” said Bennet, producing what looked like a map from his pocket.
“And you get off to a corner,” he snarled at Alex. “Why isn’t he tied up?” he demanded of the cowboy.
“He agreed to a twenty-four hours’ truce—not to make another break in that time,” the cowman answered as he swept their few dishes into the cupboard.
Bennet’s lip curled under his moustache. “And you believe him, eh?”
There was a suggestion of tartness in the cowman’s prompt “Sure! He rode behind me all the way back, on his word not to attempt anything, and kept it. Could have pulled my own gun on me if he’d wanted to.”
“The more fool,” muttered the railroad man as he spread the roll of paper on the table.
Alex meantime had stepped to the window from which he had taken the fragment of glass, and was disconsolately watching a half dozen hens scratching about below.
Lifting his eyes, he glanced out over the plain. The men at the table heard a sharply-indrawn breath. Itwas immediately changed into a low whistling, however, and they gave their attention again to the map.
Alex had discovered three horsemen heading for the ranch from the north. And the leading pony he would have known in a hundred. It was Little Hawk’s heavily-mottled horse.
That they were coming to his assistance—that someone had heard the knocking on the wire—he had not a doubt.
The horsemen were still some distance out of hearing. Ceasing the whistling, Alex glanced casually toward the table. Seated in chairs, the two men were still deeply engrossed in the plan before them, talking in low voices.
When on turning back to the window Alex recognized the second horseman as Superintendent Finnan, he shot a further glance toward the K. & Z. man at the table, and a smile of anticipation and delight overspread his face.
Then suddenly it occurred to him that in a few minutes the hoofbeats of the on-coming horses would be heard, and that Bennet would have time to get to the door and escape.
He must halt his rescuers, and signal them to approach on foot!
A moment Alex thought, then casually remarking to the cowman, “I’m going to open the window. It’s hot,” unlatched and swung the sash inward. The move passed unnoticed, and leaning out he pretended to call the chickens.
What he was in reality doing was energetically waving his handkerchief backwards and forwards below, making the railroad “stop” signal.
The horsemen came on. If they came much farther they would be heard!
He paused, and waved again, more energetically. The third horseman pulled up. Quickly Alex followed with the signal to “come ahead with caution.” The rear pony spurred forward, pulled up beside the second, and apparently at a call, the Indian also halted. On Alex repeating the last signal, all dismounted, and he knew he had been understood.
Leaving their horses where they were, the three men came on at a quick walk. Alex, continuing to talk to the hens, could scarcely contain his secret delight.
When his rescuers were within a hundred yards of the cabin, he once more signalled caution, and they continued stealthily, revolvers in hand.
They reached the corner of the house, unheard by the men at the table. The superintendent raised his eyebrows questioningly. Alex glanced over his shoulder, and nodded sharply. The next moment there was a rush of feet without, and all in a twinkle Bennet and the cowman were out of their chairs, at the door, and staggering back before three threatening revolvers. Staring open-mouthed, they brought up beside the overturned table.
Alex’s words were the first. “These were the chickens I was calling, Mr. Bennet,” he remarked gleefully. The K. & Z. man recovered himself and turned onthe boy, white with passion. He was stopped by an exclamation from Finnan. “Bennet! George Bennet! What are you doing here?”
“Perhaps this will explain, sir,” said Alex, handing over the map, which he had caught up during the excitement. Bennet made a frantic move to intercept him, but promptly Little Hawk’s revolver was in his face, and he sank back into a chair, gritting his teeth.
“A plan showing every bridge and culvert on our line, and directions for blowing them all up, simultaneously! Well—” Words failed the superintendent.
“And this is what you have come to, Bennet? I’d never have believed it!”
There was a second awkward silence, when Superintendent Finnan suddenly broke it with, “Look here. I’ve got you now, haven’t I? I’ve got you where I can put you in jail for a year or so at least. Well, instead of doing that, I’ll make you a proposition:
“Drop all this kind of work; guarantee that there will be no more of it—agree to make it a straight, square building race between your road and mine, the first one to reach the Pass to win—guarantee that, and I’ll let you go.
“Do you agree?”
Bennet rose to his feet and held out his hand. “I’ll give you my solemn word, Finnan.
“And—and I’m awfully sorry I ever consented to go into this kind of thing,” the K. & Z. man went on, a quaver in his voice. “But it was put up to me, andwhen I’d taken the first step, I thought I’d have to carry it through.”
He turned to Alex. “I’m sorry for the way you have been treated, my lad. You are a plucky boy, and straight. You keep on as you have, and you’ll never find yourself in the position I am.
“I offered him two hundred dollars cash and a hundred a month to keep his mouth quiet,” the speaker explained to the superintendent, “and he refused it.”
“How about the Antelope viaduct, Mr. Finnan?” Alex asked as they rode away, he on one of Munson’s loaned ponies. “It wasn’t blown up?”
“No, but an attempt of some kind was made. Rather a mysterious affair,” the superintendent said. “Late last night an Italian of the fill gang was seen stealing to one of the main foundations, then kicking and tearing something to pieces. Norton followed him, and found some fuses, and fragments of paper that had been wrapped about some strange kind of explosive, which apparently had failed to ignite. The Italian has not been seen since.”
Alex was chuckling. “I think I can guess why that ‘strange explosive’ failed to go off, sir,” he said. “It was clay.” And continuing, he explained the mystery in detail. Superintendent Finnan laughed heartily.
“Well, Ward, you are certainly due a vote of thanks,” he declared seriously. “You saved the viaduct, and now you probably have brought about the ending of the entire trouble with the K. & Z. people. I’ll not fail to turn in a thorough report of it.”