Kitabı oku: «Grace Harlowe's Overland Riders in the High Sierras», sayfa 4
CHAPTER VII
BANDITS CATCH A TARTAR
The blow on the head had left Lieutenant Wingate unconscious. Without loss of a minute he was thrown over the back of the horse, in front of the rider, like a sack of meal on its way home from the mill, then the horse started away at a trot.
After a few moments of violent jolting, consciousness began to return to Hippy and he groped for something to take hold of to relieve the strain of his trying position. His fingers finally gripped the boot of his captor.
Quick as a flash, the bandit brought down the butt of his revolver on the captive’s head, whereupon Hippy went to sleep again, the blood trickling from nose and mouth. Other riders, in the meantime, had caught up with and passed the rider who was carrying him away. From what was said it was apparent that Hippy’s captor was the leader of the party, for the others deferred to his commands, and, riding on ahead, soon disappeared. The trail grew more and more rugged. On the right a solid granite wall rose sheer for several hundred feet, while on the left, the side over which Hippy’s head was hanging, the ground dropped away sharply for fully three hundred feet.
Lieutenant Wingate again began to recover consciousness. It seemed to him as if all the blood in his body were concentrated in his aching head and neck. He did not realize at the moment how the arms and hands were smarting from being dragged through bushes and against the rough edges of rocks, but he did discover that two large lumps had been raised on his head, one well down towards the base of the brain. Had the second blow been an inch farther down, it probably would have killed him.
His head becoming clearer, Hippy began to consider his situation – to think what he could do to extricate himself from his uncomfortable and perilous position. His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by an exclamation from the bandit and a sharp pressure of a spur against the pony’s side. Hippy could feel the rider’s leg contract as the spur was driven home. The pony reared and threatened to buck, but, evidently changing its mind, started away at a jolting trot.
The interruption had served one good purpose: it had given Hippy an opportunity to get one hand up to his shirt, where the hand fumbled for a few perilous seconds, then dropped cautiously to its former position. That hand now held a pin. Miserable as he was, Hippy smiled grimly and pricked the pony’s side with the pin.
The bandit roared as the animal jumped, and again applied the spur, followed instantly by a jab of Hippy’s new weapon, the pin. A lively few seconds ensued, and the pony bucked so effectively that its rider had all he could do to stick to the saddle, and at the same time manage his captive and the reins. Hippy jabbed the pin in again and again, though every buck of the animal nearly broke the Overlander in two.
A few seconds of this treatment and the end came suddenly. With a final humping of its back in a buck that lifted all four feet from the ground, the pony went up into the air with arching back and with head held stiffly close to its forefeet. The bandit threw all the strength of one hand into an effort to jerk that stubborn head back where it belonged, while the other hand grabbed desperately for the body of the captive, which was slowly slipping away. The bandit, as a result, came a cropper over the pony’s head. Hippy wriggled and slipped off, shooting head first down the sharp incline of smooth rocks that fell away from the left side of the trail. The pony galloped away a few rods; then, halting, gazed about him uneasily.
The bandit, after a few dazed seconds, got up and started for his mount, then halting suddenly began searching for his captive. Hippy Wingate was nowhere in sight, though his captor found where his body had crushed down the bushes as it slipped from the trail. The bandit finally gave it up, and, catching his pony, quickly rode away.
“No use. He’s done for,” growled the man before leaving the scene. “He’s gone clear to the bottom, mashed flat as a flapjack.”
The hoof-beats of the pony had no sooner died away than Hippy Wingate’s head was cautiously raised from behind the roots of a tree that clung to the side of the mountain, gripped into a deep crevice for anchorage.
“I’m not a flapjack just yet, old top,” he muttered. “I may be if I am not careful how I move about. I suppose I ought to hang on here till daylight, but those fellows may come back. They can’t afford to let me get away. I know too much.”
Hippy began crawling cautiously toward the trail, and finally gaining it, sat down to think over what he had better do next. He felt for his revolver and was relieved to find that it had not been taken from him, and thus fortified, he decided that the prudent course would be to find a hiding place and wait there for daylight, so he started away, taking the back track, which he followed until it had so widened that he was unable to keep to the trail. He then branched off to the right, holding as straight a course as possible. The trickle of water caught his ear, and, a moment later, Hippy was flat on his stomach, drinking long, deep draughts from a tiny mountain stream. He then bathed his face and head and his smarting, swollen arms. He knew that he ought to be moving, but what direction to take was the question. Being a good woodsman, he knew that to wander aimlessly about in the night surely would result in losing himself completely.
After searching about for some time, Lieutenant Wingate found a high rock suited to his purpose. He climbed up and sat down.
“The scoundrels will have to move quickly if they get me this time,” he muttered. “They’ll – ” Hippy’s head drooped, and he sank slowly to the rock fast asleep.
When he again opened his eyes the sun was shining down into them, and his cheeks felt as if they were on fire.
“Morning! Who would think it?” he exclaimed.
Without wasting time, he made his way back to the stream where he drank and bathed. Now came the question as to the course he should follow.
“It is probable that some of my outfit will remain by the railroad where the hold-up occurred,” he reflected. “That’s where I am going.”
After a final look at the sun, Hippy started back briskly. He did not follow the trail, believing that he could find a more direct course, and that such a course eventually would lead him to the railroad a short distance to the west of where he had been the previous evening.
It was nearly noon when Hippy first began to realize that he was hungry. He had not thought of breakfast, nor would it have done him any good had he thought of it. An hour later he found a berry bush and ate all the fruit it held. That helped a little and he again plodded on. About four o’clock that afternoon he reached the railroad, and, not long after that, he was trotting around the bend to the scene of the hold-up. The place was deserted. Hippy fired a signal from his revolver and listened. There was no reply. A rabbit hopped across the tracks. He fired twice at it, missing each time.
“There goes my supper!” he exclaimed ruefully. “Next time I sight game I’ll throw a stone at it. I reckon I can throw stones better than I can shoot. I should have thought my friends would wait for me.”
Hippy did discover where the Overland ponies had been unloaded, then he understood that his companions had gone in search of him. This knowledge heartened him up a great deal, and he immediately set himself to work to discover which way the party had gone. What he was looking for was the trail of his own pony, whose shoeprints he believed he would be able to identify instantly. Hippy picked up the trail in a remarkably short time.
“Here I go. I’ve got to travel some if I am to catch them before dark,” he cried, starting away.
Darkness found Lieutenant Wingate wandering aimlessly near the place where the trail forked and where his companions were now discussing their further plans for the morrow. He concluded that he would have to spend another night in the open and alone, and had just ensconced himself on the highest ledge he could find when he caught sight of the light from Sheriff Ford’s camp-fire. Hippy gazed at it for some moments, then raised his revolver and fired three shots.
The camp-fire was suddenly blotted out.
“There! I’ve shot out the fire,” he grumbled. “Just the same, I don’t believe it is the bandit camp, and I’m going down.”
Moving with extreme caution, Hippy crept down the mountain-side until he believed that he was near the place where he had seen the fire.
“I reckon there’s nothing doing, boys,” Ford was saying. “Light the fire, but keep a sharp lookout.”
Hippy got up. Stacy’s keen eyes discovered him and the fat boy fired.
“Hi, there! Cut the firing! It’s Hippy,” called Lieutenant Wingate, ducking.
“Oh, wow!” howled Chunky.
A shout went up from the searching party when Hippy called out his warning, and he was fairly dragged into camp where Sheriff Ford hurriedly started a cook-fire and put over coffee as a starter. While this was being done, Lieutenant Wingate briefly related the story of his capture and escape.
“You say you know the man who was on foot when you were taken?” asked Tom Gray.
“Yes, I know him.”
“Give me one guess and see if I can name him,” spoke up Sheriff Ford, straightening up, frying-pan in hand.
“It’s yours. Who is he?” laughed Lieutenant Wingate.
“Our story-telling friend of the Red Limited, William Sylvester Holmes,” replied Ford confidently.
“You win,” chuckled Hippy. “How did you guess it?”
“I was suspicious of him all the time. At Summit my suspicions were, in a way, confirmed. He sent telegrams from there that, I now believe, informed the gang about the treasure car.”
“Was there really a treasure car on the train, Ford?” asked Tom.
“You might call it that. There was nearly three million dollars in gold on that car. Pretty good haul, eh? I reckon the authorities of this county will be glad to hear what you have to tell them. I will go to Gardner with you and we’ll have a confab with the sheriff there, if you will spare the time.”
“Sure we will,” spoke up Stacy. “We riders have to keep busy, you know.”
“It strikes me that you have been rather busy since I first met you,” returned the sheriff.
“What are your wishes, to go through to-night or wait until morning and get an early start?” he asked the two passengers.
“I’ll flag a train for myself down by the bend and you men can ride through. You can’t miss the way. There is a good trail all the way from here to Gardner, and you should be there by early afternoon.”
The two passengers said that, if the sheriff would flag the train for them, they would prefer to go by train too, as they were in haste to reach their destination on the coast, important business awaiting them there.
“All right. I’ll flag the next train after we get to the rails and put you two men aboard. I can then ride through with these three Overland men. I’d prefer a hoss to a Pullman any time.”
The party made themselves as comfortable as they could, sleeping on the ground, and before daylight next morning Mr. Ford had breakfast ready. Hippy was stiff and his hat hurt his head, but he made light of his discomfiture and was ready for the start which was made before sunup. Ford made good his word to stop the next train, which proved to be a local, and there was not so much grumbling by the train crew as there would have been had the train been a limited one.
The horseback ride that day was a hard one, but all were used to the saddle, and Sheriff Ford, himself a “rough-rider,” was interested in the riding of the three Overlanders. By this time he had grown to understand Stacy Brown better, and his laughter at the boy’s sallies was loud and appreciative. Late in the afternoon the delayed party rode into Gardner where a warm welcome awaited them from the Overland girls, who had already arranged for a posse to go out to look for the missing ones.
The authorities were keenly interested in the information that Sheriff Ford and the three Overland men had to offer, and declared their intention of starting out in an effort to round up the gang. That evening there was a genuine reunion of the Overlanders at which their further plans were discussed. It was left to Hippy to find a guide, while Stacy was to select the pack animals, and the girls the food and other equipment for the journey. The results of their quests were destined to furnish much amusement on the following day.
CHAPTER VIII
HEADED FOR THE HIGH COUNTRY
“I have found a guide,” announced Hippy next morning, walking into the post office where he found all the other members of his party writing postal cards to friends in the east.
“That’s good. Where is he?” asked Tom Gray.
“If you will look up you will see him.”
The Overlanders looked. Just to the rear of Hippy Wingate stood a grinning Chinaman, both hands hidden in the ends of his flowing sleeves. The Oriental was bowing and scraping, his queue animatedly bobbing up and down. Stacy uttered a loud “Ha, ha!”
“Permit me to introduce to you the Honorable Woo Smith whom I have selected, subject to your approval, to accompany us on our journey to the High Sierras,” announced Hippy Wingate.
“But surely, Hippy, this man cannot be a guide,” protested Elfreda Briggs. “We need a guide!”
“Perhaps he isn’t, but you can’t find anything else with a magnifying glass in this burg. Should you folks think best not to accept him, we’ll go it alone. I’ve done the best I can. Remember, too, that I’m a sick man, that I’ve been mauled and keelhauled by a bunch of bandits and – ”
“Do you speak English?” interrupted Grace Harlowe.
“Les. Me speak English velly fine.”
“You say his name is Woo Smith?” questioned Emma.
“The Honorable Woo Smith,” Hippy informed her.
“What has he done in the way of mountain work?” persisted Grace.
“I am informed that he has made frequent journeys to the mountains with prospecting parties and hunters as cook, guide and general handy man. At one time he was out with a government survey party.”
“As cook or guide?” interjected Nora Wingate.
“The former, I believe.”
“This outfit needs a good cook,” suggested Chunky.
“Woo, do you know horses?” asked Tom Gray.
“Les.”
“That reminds me, Chunky, what have you done about the pack animals?” demanded Lieutenant Wingate.
“Got three dandies. I have learned that we must travel light. They say that the trails are very rough in the High Country, and further, that we must depend upon the country for our food, generally speaking. I don’t know what Uncle Hip and I are going to do if it comes to short rations. Of course, as a last resort we can eat the pack-horses. They eat horses in France, so why shouldn’t we do the same, if we’re hungry enough.”
“That reminds me. One of the men out with us on our search for Hippy declared that our ponies would not be suitable for this journey, and that it requires animals accustomed to the peculiarities of the Sierras,” averred Tom Gray.
“Oh, pooh!” grunted the fat boy. “My pony could climb a tree.”
“How much money do you wish, Woo?” questioned Tom.
“Five dollah a week.”
“What do you say, good people?” asked Grace.
“I don’t care what you do,” exclaimed Hippy. “I want food and I want someone who knows how to cook it fit for human consumption, that’s all.”
“I second the motion,” agreed Stacy. “We can’t all live on soul-transmigration stuff. I’d get mental indigestion on that food in thirty seconds by the watch.”
“We had a Chinaman on our journey across the Great American Desert, and he was an excellent man,” declared Elfreda Briggs. “I move that we take this one.”
The others agreed with her, and Grace, turning to Woo, told him that he was engaged.
“What has been done about the general equipment?” asked Tom.
Grace said that experienced men had advised against the Overlanders burdening themselves with tents or any heavy equipment.
“We have slept in the open many times before, so I think we shall be able to get along very nicely,” she added.
Stacy Brown protested vigorously. He declared that he would not sleep out of doors where bugs and other undesirable things could get at him, but, after discussing the matter further, every one agreed that the tents would prove an unnecessary encumbrance. They went over their list critically, eliminating several articles that they thought they could do without.
“I have an idea!” exclaimed Stacy.
“Keep it,” urged Emma. “They seem to be reasonably scarce with you.”
“At least I don’t transmigrate them,” retorted Chunky. “As I was about to remark when interrupted, I have an idea that this outfit will have to browse with the horses if it wishes food.”
“It would be a great flesh-reducer,” murmured Emma, giving Chunky a sidelong glance.
Elfreda suggested that they have a look at the pack-horses selected by Stacy, so they all walked over to the corral, and expressed themselves as well satisfied with Stacy’s selections. One white, mischievous little animal, with a circle of delicate pink about each eye, they named Kitty. The name seemed to fit her. The other two animals they, decided to name later on after learning their peculiarities.
“I’ve ordered pack saddles for them,” announced Hippy, “and a pair of kyacks for each horse.”
“What is a kyack? Something good to eat?” questioned Stacy.
“A kyack is an alforgas,” Emma Dean informed him. “I am amazed at your ignorance.”
“I agree with you, Emma. For once I do,” nodded Hippy. “For your information, Stacy, a kyack is a packing outfit. These are made either of heavy canvas or of rawhide, shaped square and dried over boxes. After drying, the boxes are removed, leaving the stiff rawhide or canvas, like small trunks, open at the top. They are in reality sacks – ”
“Me savvy klyack,” chuckled the Chinaman, rubbing his palms together gleefully.
“Mr. Smith knows,” nodded Hippy.
“The explanation is not satisfactory. Once more I rise to ask if this kyack thing is some sort of dried beef that we are expected to eat when real food is scarce?” insisted Chunky.
“You and I, lad, would have to be pretty hungry to eat a kyack,” laughed Hippy. “The loops of the kyack are slung on each side of the horse. They are used to pack belongings over the mountains. I have also ordered sawbuck trees for the pack-saddles, together with pack-cinch, and pack-rope for each animal. I also took the liberty of buying blankets from which to make saddle-pads. It will be cheaper than trying to get along with horses with sore backs, I think. Then there are hobbles for the horses, a couple of cow bells – ”
“Are we going to take cows along with us?” wondered Chunky, opening his eyes a little wider.
“Not quite. Only a calf or two,” murmured Emma Dean.
“The bells are for the horses, so that they may be easily found in the morning,” spoke up Tom Gray. “I thought you had been out before.”
“I have, but never with such an outfit as this, especially the transmigration end of it,” retorted Stacy, giving Emma a quick look to see if his shot had gone home. “I see,” he added. “But every time I hear the bells a-ringing, I shall think of home and a pitcherful of warm milk.”
“Perfectly proper food for the species to which I so recently referred,” observed Emma airily. “However, from all accounts, you will have nothing more nourishing than snow-water from the tall peaks of the Sierras.”
“Br-r-r-r!” shivered Stacy.
At Hippy’s direction, the Honorable Woo Smith led the pack-horses over to the general store, and there, with Stacy to assist him, Hippy began packing their equipment, throwing a diamond hitch about each pack. The girls, observing the work, discovered that Stacy Brown was quite as familiar with “throwing packs” as was his Uncle Hippy.
“Mister Brown is not quite the fool he would have us believe,” declared Elfreda Briggs. “It is my opinion that he believes in putting his worst foot forward, keeping the other one hidden behind it.”
A group of mountaineers were standing near, observing the operations with interest. One stepped up and examined the much-worn saddle on Hippy Wingate’s pony.
“Son,” said he, “do ye reckon on climbin’ mountains with that thing?”
“Why not?” demanded Hippy.
“I reckon it might be all right for the Rockies, but yer saddle’ll be on the critter’s tail afore ye git half way to the top of the Big Sierras.”
Hippy stroked his chin reflectively.
“You mean I ought to have a double-cinch on the riding saddles? Is that it?”
“I reckon.”
“Thanks, Buddy. I’ll fix it. I should have thought of that, but I am not at all familiar with the lay of the land up here.”
“Ye will be, pardner, after ye’ve fell off it a few thousand times. The landscape in these here parts be rather sudden in spots,” drawled the mountaineer.
A yell from the Honorable Woo Smith interrupted the dialogue. Kitty, the mischievous pack-horse, had playfully seized the queue of Woo Smith between her teeth and was jerking her head up and down, and, with each jerk, the Chinaman was jolted backwards, howling lustily, chattering in volleys in his native tongue. The street, near the village store, filled with cowboys and citizens as if by magic. They set up yells, shouts and cat-cries that smothered the chatter of the new guide.
Grace, being nearest to the mischievous animal, sprang forward and gave the white pack-horse a smart slap with the flat of her hand on Kitty’s plump stomach. The mare instantly dropped the howling Chinaman, and, whirling on Grace with wide open mouth, looked as if she were about to devour the Overland Rider. The girl never flinched.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Kitty?” she chided. “If ever I see you do a thing like that again I’ll surely have you punished. Do you understand?”
The mare’s mouth closed slowly, her upper lip quivered, she nibbled gingerly at Grace Harlowe’s sleeve, and looked as meek as was possible for a mischievous pony to look. The cowboys grunted disgustedly. They were disgruntled that Grace had spoiled their fun, disappointed that the white mare had not taken a large slice, either out of the Chinaman or Grace Harlowe herself.
“Grace, do you know, you have given us a most remarkable demonstration of the transmigration of thought,” declared Emma. “It was your thought, transmitted to the mentality of the white mare, that caused her to desist, to beg of you to forgive and – ”
“Yeo-o-o-o-ow!” howled Chunky.
“Young man, your rudeness is inexcusable,” rebuked Emma.
“That’s what the white mare wanted to say to Grace,” retorted Stacy.
While all this was taking place, Tom and Elfreda were talking with the mountaineers, getting all the information they could about trails and conditions in the mountains. The result of the information gleaned was that the Overland Riders decided that they would take the “Cold Stream Trail” for the High Country, a section seldom visited, but which Woo Smith declared he knew all about. The spectators were inclined to make sport of the explorers, and especially of the idea that women could ride the Sierras. Even the postmaster sought to dissuade them from making the attempt.
“It’s a bad country,” he confided to Tom. “With that bunch of gals on your hands, you’ll starve to death, sure’s you’re a foot high.”
“There is plenty of game there, is there not?” questioned Tom.
“Yes, for them that knows how to shoot.”
“Then I reckon we will not starve. What other objection is there?”
“The Jones Boys. You watch out right smart for them.”
“Who are they?” demanded Elfreda, who had been an interested listener to the conversation between Tom and the postmaster.
The postmaster glanced about him apprehensively before replying, then, leaning towards Tom, spoke in a half-whisper.
“Outlaws!” he said. “I reckon you’ve heard of them. It is suspected that they’re the fellows that held up the Red Limited the other night. I reckon you know something about that affair.” The postmaster squinted knowingly at Tom, who nodded.
“So, that’s it, eh?”
“Yes. Better look out for them. They have their hang-out somewhere in the mountains, but nobody has ever been able to trail them to it, and I don’t reckon no one ever will – and come back to tell about it. A squad of Pinkerton detectives went into the mountains looking for those fellows, but not one of that bunch of detectives has ever been heard from since.”
“It sounds shivery, doesn’t it?” spoke up Elfreda. “However, we have no especial reason to fear the bandits because there could be no object in their interfering with us. We do not carry money with us – not enough to make it worth their while to try to rob us – nor are we looking for trouble.”
“No object!” exploded the postmaster. “Lady, those fellows would kill you for two bits and a piece of string.”
In his own mind, Tom Gray was not so positive that the bandits had no reason for interfering with them. On the contrary, if the Jones Boys knew that it was the Overland Riders who had assisted in driving them from the scene of the attempted train robbery, the Overlanders might confidently look for some stirring times in the High Sierras.
