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CHAPTER VII – ONE AFTERNOON IN AUTUMN
The lumbering old stage-coach that left Belmar one morning in autumn was bowling along at a merry rate, for the road was good, the grade slightly down-hill, and the September afternoon that was drawing to a close cool and bracing.
The day dawned bright and sunshiny, but the sky had become overcast, and Bill Lenman, who had driven the stage for twenty-odd years, declared that a storm was brewing, and was sure to overtake him before he could reach the little country town of Piketon, which was the terminus of his journey.
A railway line had been opened from this bright, wide-awake place, and, though the only public means of conveyance between Piketon and Belmar was the stage, its days were almost numbered, for the line was branching and spreading in nearly every direction.
Bill had picked up and set down passengers, on the long run, until now, as the day was closing, he had but a single companion, who sat on the seat directly behind him, and kept up a continuous run of questions and answers.
This gentleman’s appearance suggested one of the most verdant of countrymen that ever passed beyond sight of his parent’s home. He was fully six feet tall, with bright, twinkling-gray eyes, a long peaked nose, home-made clothing, and an honest, out-spoken manner which could not fail to command confidence anywhere.
He had made known his name to every person that had ridden five minutes in the coach, as Ethan Durrell, born in New England, and on a tour of pleasure. He had never before been far from the old homestead, but had worked hard all his life, and had some money saved up, and his parents consented to let him enjoy his vacation in his own way.
“You see, I could have got to Piketon by the railroad,” he said, leaning forward over the back of Lenman’s seat and peering good-naturedly into his face, “but consarn the railroads! I don’t think they ever oughter been allowed. I read in the Weekly Bugle, just afore I left home, that somewhere out West a cow got on the track and wouldn’t get off! No, sir, wouldn’t get off, till the engine run into her and throwed her off the track, and likewise throwed itself off, and some of the folks on board come mighty nigh getting hurt.”
The driver was naturally prejudiced against railways, and was glad to agree with Ethan’s sentiments.
“Yas,” he said, as he nipped a fly off the ear of the near horse, by a swing of his long lash, “there ought to be a law agin them railroads; what’s the use of folks being in such a hurry, that they want to ride a mile a minute! What good does it do ’em? Why aint they content to set in a coach like this and admire the country as they ride through it?”
“Them’s been my sentiments ever since I knowed anything,” replied the New Englander, with enthusiasm, “but it looks as everbody is fools except us, Bill, eh?” laughed Ethan, reaching over and chucking the driver in the side; “leastways, as we can’t bender ’em from doing as they please, why, we won’t try.”
“I guess you’re ’bout right,” growled Bill, who could not see the stage-coach approaching its last run without a feeling of dissatisfaction, if not sadness.
“Helloa!” exclaimed Ethan, in a low voice, “I guess you’re going to have a couple more passengers.”
“It looks that way; yes, they want to ride.”
The coach had reached the bottom of the hill, and was rumbling toward the small, wooden bridge, beyond which the woods stretched on both sides of the highway, when two large boys climbed over the fence and, walking to the side of the road, indicated that they wished to take passage in the coach.
These young men were our old friends, Tom Wagstaff and Jim McGovern, and they were dressed in sporting costume, each carrying a fine rifle, revolver, and hunting-knife. Although they had not yet executed their plan of a campaign against the aborigines of the West, they were on a hunting jaunt, and were returning, without having met with much success.
The young men had hardly taken their seats in the stage when Wagstaff produced a flask and invited the driver and Ethan Durrell to join him and his friend. The invitation being declined, McGovern drew forth a package of cigarettes, and he and Tom soon filled the interior of the coach with the nauseating odor. But for the thorough ventilation, Ethan declared he would have been made ill.
Tom and Jim were not long in finding a subject for amusement in the person of the New Englander. He was as eager as they to talk, and Bill, sitting in front with the lines in hand, turned sideway and grinned as he strove not to lose a word of the conversation.
“Are you going to Piketon?” asked Ethan, when the young men were fairly seated in the stage.
“That’s the town we started for,” replied Wagstaff.
“Ever been there before?”
“No; we’re on our way to visit our friend, Bob Budd; we live in New York, and Bob spent several weeks down there last spring, when we made his acquaintance. Bob is a mighty good fellow, and we promised to come out and spend our vacation with him, though it’s rather late in the season for a vacation. I say, driver, do you know Bob?”
“Oh! yes,” replied Lenman, looking back in the faces of the young men; “I’ve knowed him ever since he was a little chit; he lives with his Uncle Jim now – rich old chap – and lets Bob do just as he pleases ’bout everything.”
“That’s the right kind of uncle to have,” remarked Jim; “I wouldn’t mind owning one of them myself. Bob wrote us that he was going to camp out near a big mill-pond and some mountains; of course, driver, you know the place.”
“I was born and reared in this part of the country; I don’t know the exact spot where Bob means to make his camp, but I’ve no doubt you’ll enjoy yourselves.”
“It won’t be our fault if we don’t,” said Tom, with a laugh; “that’s how we came to leave the governor, without asking permission or saying good-bye.”
“I hope you didn’t run away from home, boys,” said Ethan, in a grieved manner.
“No, we didn’t run away,” said Jim, “we walked.”
Ethan Durrell checked the reproof he was about to utter, and the young men laughed.
“You’ll be sorry for it some day,” remarked the New Englander, “you may depend on that.”
“Did you ever try it?” asked Wagstaff.
“I did once, but I didn’t get fur; the old gentleman overtook me a half-mile down the road; he had a big hickory in one hand and with the other he grabbed me by the nape of the neck; well,” added the gentleman, with a sigh, “I guess there’s no need of saying anything more.”
“He must have had a father like Billy Waylett,” remarked Jim, aside to his companion, both of whom laughed at the story of their new friend, “he wasn’t as lucky as we.”
The reader has already learned considerable about these two young men. They were wayward, disobedient, and fond of forbidden pleasures. It was the intention of their parents to place them in school that autumn, but while arrangements were under way the couple stealthily left home, first providing themselves with fine hunting outfits, and started for Piketon, with the intention of spending a couple of weeks in the woods.
They did not not make their plans known to Billy Waylett, who was such a willing companion several years before. Billy still lived in Ashton and could have been easily reached, but they knew that he would not only reject their proposal, but, as likely as not, acquaint their parents with it.
The unwise indulgence of Mr. Wagstaff and Mr. McGovern was producing its inevitable fruit. They had had much trouble with their boys, but hoped as they grew older, and finished sowing their wild oats, they would settle down into sedate, studious men, and that the end of all their parents’ worriment would soon come.
Among the undesirable acquaintances made by Jim and Tom was Bob Budd, who, as they intimated, spent several weeks in the city of New York. He was a native of Piketon, which was becoming altogether too slow for him. He chafed under the restraints of so small a country town, and wrote them glowing accounts of the good times they would have together in the camp in the woods. He urged them to come at once, now that the hunting season was at hand.
Tom and Jim were captivated by his radiant pictures, and determined to accept his invitation, whether their parents consented or not. The near approach of the time set for their entrance at the high school made the prospect in that direction too distasteful to be faced.
While they were still hesitating, with vivid recollections of the dismal failure of their earlier years, another letter came from Bob Budd. He told them he had not only selected the spot for their camp, but that the tent was up, and it was well stocked with refreshments of both a solid and liquid nature. He had painted a big sign, which was suspended to the ridge-pole and bore the legend,
“CAMP OF THE PIKETON RANGERS.”
This was not only ornamental, but served as a warning to all trespassers.
“Everything is ready,” wrote Bob, “and every day’s delay is just so much taken from the sport and enjoyment that await you. Come at once, boys, and you’ll never regret it.”
CHAPTER VIII – FELLOW-PASSENGERS
The two decided to give Bob Budd a surprise. They said it would be hard for them to get away, and more than likely they would have to wait several weeks before the matter could be decided. This letter was followed at once by themselves, and they were now within a few miles of Bob’s home without his suspecting anything of the kind.
Having informed themselves fully, they rode to a station not far from Piketon, where they got off, leaving their trunks to go to the town, while they spent a half-day in hunting. Their luck was so poor that they gave it up, and were glad to use the stage for the rest of the journey.
“What time are you due in Piketon?” asked Jim of the driver.
“Half-past eight.”
“That’s a good deal after dark.”
“So it is, at this time of the year, and it’s going to be dark sooner than usual.”
“How’s that?”
“Don’t you notice how it has clouded up this afternoon? A big storm is coming and we’re going to catch it afore we strike Piketon.”
“Well,” growled Wagstaff, “that isn’t pleasant; we were fools, Jim, that we didn’t stay in the train; but we can shut ourselves in with the curtains and let the driver run things.”
“I reckon I haven’t druv over this road for twenty-five years,” said Lenman, “without striking a storm afore to-night.”
“Sartinly, sartinly,” added Ethan Durrell; “life must have its shadows as well as sunshine, though I don’t like to be catched on a lonely road this way. I say, Bill,” he added, in a half-frightened voice, “are you troubled with any such pesky things as highway robbers?”
“If you hadn’t asked me that question I wouldn’t have said anything about it; but I’ve been stopped and held up, as they say, just like them chaps out West.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the New Englander, while the young men on the back seat became interested.
“I didn’t suppose you were ever troubled in this part of the world by such people,” said Wagstaff.
“We aint often, but what place can you name where you don’t find bad people?”
“How long ago was it you were held up?” asked Ethan.
“About six months; fact is, I’ve felt shaky for the last week.”
“Why so?” asked Wagstaff.
“I’ve seen a suspicious character down in Black Bear Swamp.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s a piece of woods we pass through afore we reach Piketon; it jines the woods where you tell me Bob Budd has put up the tent, but it curves round and reaches the hills on t’other side.”
The words of the driver deeply interested all three of the passengers. The knowledge that, though in the State of Pennsylvania, and in a section fairly well settled, they were in danger of being “held up” in the most approved style of the wild West was enough to startle any one.
“Tell us all about it,” persisted Wagstaff, lighting a new cigarette, and leaning forward to catch the reply.
“There isn’t much to tell,” replied the driver; “’cept there’s a holler close to t’other side of Black Bear Swamp, and three times in the past week, when I was passing, I’ve seen a tall, slim man moving around among the trees and watching me, tryin’ at the same time to keep me from seeing him.”
“But if he was a robber – ”
“Who said he was a robber?” demanded Lenman, turning and looking sharply at the young man.
“You said he was a suspicious character, and what else could he be?” demanded Wagstaff.
“Perhaps a tramp, but I’ll admit I have thought it likely he was a man looking for a chance to rob the stage.” “Why didn’t he do it then?”
“It happened that on each of the times I hadn’t a single passenger with me.”
“And now you’ve got three,” remarked McGovern. “Well, I hope he will attack us to-night.”
“What’ll you do if he does?” asked the New Englander.
“Don’t you see we’ve each got a rifle? Beside that, Tom and I carry a Smith & Wesson apiece, and all our weapons are loaded; that fellow won’t have time to call out for us to give up our valuables before he’ll be filled as full of holes as a sieve.”
“My gracious! you wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“Just give us a chance, that’s all,” said Wagstaff, with a shake of his head.
Had the young men been watching Durrell and the driver at that moment, they would have seen a singular look pass between the two. It might have meant nothing, and it might have signified a good deal. No words were spoken, but the expression of their faces, to say the least, was peculiar.
“I should have said,” continued the driver, “that the chap may have learned something about that box, which was expected at Belmar, and which I was to take to Piketon with me.”
“What box?” asked Wagstaff.
“The one that is strapped onto the rear of the stage.”
“Jingo!” muttered Jim, “things are beginning to look dubious.”
“As I was about to say,” continued the driver, “if that chap has made up his mind to hold us up – and it looks mighty like it – this is the night it will be done.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Haven’t I got three passengers for Piketon, which is the biggest number I’ve took through in a couple of weeks, and, more’n all, that box is with me? The night is going to be as dark as a wolf’s mouth, and when we strike Black Bear Swamp – ”
“Why do they call it Black Bear Swamp?” asked Durrell.
“I don’t know of any reason, onless it is that there never was a black bear found there, though they’re up among the mountains, where there’s a deer now and then. But won’t the scamp be fooled, though?” chuckled the driver.
“How’s that?”
“I never carry any shooting-irons, but you’ve got enough for us all, and, when he sings out and you shove the muzzles of your guns forward and let drive, why the State will be saved a big expense.”
“That’s so!” exclaimed Wagstaff, with a fierceness too vivid to be wholly genuine; “we’ve started out for a hunting trip with Bob Budd, and expect to bag all the bears and deer in the country, but we weren’t looking for stage robbers, because I don’t know that we have lost any, but if they choose to run into our way, why who’s to blame?”
“That’s so,” assented his companion, who, in truth, regretted more than ever that they had not made the entire journey to Piketon by train instead of partly in the lumbering stage-coach.
“It would be better,” he added, after a moment’s thought, “if the rogue had chosen the daytime.”
“Why so?” queried the New Englander.
“We can see to aim better.”
“So can he, can’t he?”
“Yes, but we would have prepared better than we can at night,” replied Wagstaff, nervously.
“And it would be the same with him. If you’re afraid you can’t shoot straight, I’ll take one gun and Bill the other, and you can crawl under the seats.”
“Who’s talking about crawling under the seats – what’s that?”
A peal of thunder rumbled overhead, and it was already beginning to grow dark. The afternoon was merging into night, which, as has been explained, was closing in sooner than usual, because of the cloudy sky.
“We’re going to catch it afore we get home,” remarked the driver, glancing upward and twitching the lines, so as to force the team into a moderate trot.
“Why don’t you hurry up your nags more, and get home sooner?” asked Wagstaff.
“A good master is marciful to his beast; I aint likely to gain anything by hurrying, for the storm may come and be over afore we get to town, while the animals are so used to this work, that, if I made it a rule to push ’em now and then, they are likely to break down, and trade aint good enough for me to afford that.”
“But if you should do it once, it wouldn’t hurt.”
“Another thing,” added the driver, as if the fact was a clincher to the discussion, “if we should go rattling through Black Bear Swamp ahead of time, that suspicious chap would miss us.”
“Well?”
“And we would miss him, which we don’t want to do. Being as you’ve got your guns and are so anxious to use ’em on him, why I won’t be mean enough to rob you of the chance.”
CHAPTER IX – DICK HALLIARD
The conversation was not of a nature to improve the courage of the occupants of the stagecoach, for, when children spend an evening in exchanging ghost stories, they find the darkness of their bed-rooms more fearful than before.
Since the young gentlemen on the rear seat began to believe that a meeting with a stage robber was quite certain to take place before reaching Piketon, they saw the need of an understanding all round.
The driver repeated that he never carried firearms, for, if he did, he would be tempted to use them with the surety of getting himself into trouble.
“If a man orders you to hold up your hands and you do it, why he aint going to hurt you,” was the philosophy of the old man; “all he’ll do is just to go through you; but if you have a gun or pistol, you’ll bang away with it, miss the chap, and then he’ll bore you; so it’s my rule, when them scamps come along, to do just as they tell me; a man’s life is worth more to him than all his money, and that’s me every time.”
“But you might be quick enough to drop him first,” suggested Wagstaff, who would have preferred the driver to be not quite so convincing in his arguments.
“Mighty little chance of that! You see the feller among the trees is all ready and waiting; he can take his aim afore you know he is there; now when you fellers fire at him it won’t do for you to miss – remember that!”
“We don’t intend to,” replied McGovern.
“Of course you don’t intend to, but the chances are that you will, and then it will be the last of you!”
“But won’t you be apt to catch it on the front seat?”
“Not a bit of it, for them chaps are quick to know where a shot comes from, and they always go for the one that fires; they know, too, that a stage driver never fights – helloa!”
At that moment, a bicycle guided by a boy glided silently along the right of the stage, turning out just enough to pass the vehicle. The youth whose shapely legs were propelling it, slackened his gait so that for a few minutes he held his place beside the front wheels of the coach.
He was a handsome, bright-faced youth about sixteen years old, who greeted the driver pleasantly, and, turning his head, saluted the others, without waiting for an introduction.
“I’m afraid a storm is coming, and I shall have to travel fast to get home ahead of it; do you want to run a race with me, Bill?”
“Not with this team,” replied the driver, “for we couldn’t hold a candle to you.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied the boy, with a laugh; “there are plenty who can beat me on a bicycle.”
“But there aint any of ’em in this part of the country, for I’ve seen too many of ’em try it. Bob Budd bragged that he would leave you out of sight, but you walked right away from him.”
The boy blushed modestly and said:
“Bob don’t practice as much as he ought; he’s a good wheelman, but he’s fonder of camping out in the woods, and I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a good deal more fun in it. I believe he expects some friends to go into camp with him.”
“Them’s the chaps,” remarked the driver, jerking the butt of his whip toward the rear seat.
The bicyclist bowed pleasantly to the young men, who were staring curiously at him and listening to the conversation. They nodded rather coldly in turn, for they had already begun to suspect the identity of this graceful, muscular lad, of whom they had heard much from Bob Budd.
Their country friend had spoken of a certain Dick Halliard who was employed in the store of Mr. Hunter, the leading merchant in Piketon, and who was so well liked by the merchant that he had presented him with an excellent bicycle, on which he occasionally took a spin when he could gain the time.
Bob, who detested young Halliard, had said enough to prove that he had taken the lead in all his studies at school and surpassed every boy in the section in running, swimming, ’cycling, and indeed, in all kinds of athletic sports. This was one reason for Bob’s dislike, but the chief cause was the integrity and manliness of young Halliard, who not only held no fear of the bully, but did not hesitate to condemn him to his face when he did wrong.
“I hope you will have a good time in camp,” said Dick (for it was he), addressing the two city youths.
“That’s what we’re out for,” replied Wagstaff, “and it won’t be our fault if we don’t; will you join us?” asked the speaker, producing his flask.
“I’m obliged to you, but must decline.”
“Maybe you think it isn’t good enough for you,” was the mean remark of Wagstaff.
“I prefer water.”
“Ah, you’re one of the good boys who don’t do anything naughty.”
It was a mean remark on the part of Wagstaff, who was seeking a quarrel, but Dick Halliard showed his manliness by paying no heed to the slur.
“Well,” said he, addressing the driver, “since you won’t run me a race, I shall have to try to reach home ahead of the storm. Good-bye all!”
The muscular legs began moving faster, the big, skeleton-like wheel shot ahead of the stage, coming back into the middle of the highway, and the lad, with his shoulders bent forward, spun down the road with a speed that would have forced the fastest trotting horse to considerable effort.
“By gracious!” exclaimed the New Englander, with his chin high in air, as he peered over the head of the driver, “that youngster beats anything of the kind I ever seen.”
“I don’t s’pose they have those sort of playthings in your part of the world,” remarked Jim, with a sneer.
“Yes, we have enough to send a few of ’em down your way for you folks to learn on. Bill, who is that chap?”
“Dick Halliard, and there aint a finer boy in Piketon.”
“He’s got a mighty fine face and figure.”
“You’re right about that; I want to give you chaps a little advice,” added the driver, turning his head, so as to look into the countenance of the city youths; “I heerd what you said to him and he had sense enough not to notice it, but you’ll be wise if you let Dick Halliard alone.”
“Is he dangerous?” asked Wagstaff, with a grin.
“You will find him so, if you undertake to put onto him; mebbe he isn’t quite so old as you and mebbe he don’t smoke cigarettes and drink whisky, but I’ll bet this whole team that if either or both of you ever tackles him, you’ll think five minutes later that you’ve been run through a thrashing mill.”
The youths were not disturbed by this bold statement, which neither believed.
“You’re very kind,” said Tom, “and we won’t forget what you’ve said; when we see him coming ’long the road, we’ll climb a tree to get out of the way, or else run into the first house and lock the door.”
Bill had said all he wished, and now gave his attention to his team. The thunder was rumbling almost continuously, and now and then a vivid streak of lightning zigzagged across the rapidly darkening sky. No rain fell, but the wind blew blinding clouds of dust across the highway and into the stage, where the occupants at times had to protect their eyes from it.
A short distance from the road on the left was a low, old-fashioned stone house, but no other dwelling was in sight between the stage and Black Bear Swamp, which was no more than half a mile ahead, appearing dark and forbidding in the gathering gloom. The trees at the side of the highway swayed in the gusty wind, and, when the flying dust allowed them to see, Dick Halliard was observed far in advance like a speck in the distance. He was traveling with great speed, and the stage seemed to have gone no more than a hundred yards after the interview when the young wheelman disappeared.
It was as if he had plunged under full headway right among the trees. Piketon lay about two miles beyond Black Bear Swamp, but since the width of the dense forest through which the public road wound its way was fully a fourth of a mile, it will be seen that a considerable drive was still before the stage.
The passengers would have viewed their approach to the woods with relief, but for the fear of the highwayman. Its dense growth and abundant vegetation offered a partial protection from the storm, which promised to be violent; but the youths would have much preferred (had they dared to speak their sentiments) to stand bareheaded in the coming storm than to encounter that “suspicious” party, who they believed was awaiting their coming.
