Kitabı oku: «With Hoops of Steel», sayfa 8
“My stars! Do you see that ’uge boulder up there, just above the narrow place in the canyon? ’Ow easy it would be, now, wouldn’t it, for two men to get up there and pry it loose. It would crash down there and fill up that whole blamed trail, wouldn’t it, Mr. Wellesly?”
“Yes, and effectually wall up anybody who might have had the bad luck to be left in here,” Wellesly dryly replied. “But speaking of the dangers of crossing the desert,” he went on, “I remember a story told me once in Denver by a prospector who had been down in this country. It was about a lost mine, the Winters mine. Did you ever hear of it?”
“Yes,” said Jim, “I have. I’ve heard about it many a time. It’s in these mountains somewhere.”
“It was so rich,” Wellesly went on, “that Dick Winters knocked the quartz to pieces with a hammer and selected the chunks that were filled with gold. He said the rock was seamed and spotted with yellow and he brought out in his pocket a dozen bits as big as walnuts that were almost solid gold.”
The two men were listening with interested faces. Jim nodded. “Yes, that’s just what I’ve heard about it. But there are so darn many of them lost mines and so many lies told about ’em that you never can believe anything of the sort.”
“What became of this chap and ’is mine?” asked Haney.
“I reckon the mine’s there yet, just where he left it,” Jim answered, “but Dick went luny, crossin’ the desert, and wandered around so long in the heat without water that when he was picked up he was ravin’ crazy and he didn’t get his senses back before he died. All anybody knows about his mine is what he said while he was luny, and you can’t put much stock in that sort of thing.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Wellesly. “I had the story from the man who took care of him before he died, the prospector I spoke of just now – I think his name was Frank, Bill Frank. He said that the old man was conscious part of the time and told him a good deal about the strike – enough, I should think, to make it possible to find the place again.”
Haney and Jim were looking at him with intent faces, their interest thoroughly aroused. Wellesly decided to draw on his imagination for any necessary or interesting details that the prospector had not told him.
“What did he say,” Jim demanded, “and why didn’t he go after it himself?”
“As I remember it, he said that during his delirium Winters talked constantly of his rich find, that he seemed to be going over the whole thing again. He would exclaim, ‘There, just look at that! As big as my fist and solid gold!’ ‘Look at that seam! There’s ten thousand dollars there if there’s a cent!’ and many other such things. He would jump up in bed and yell in his excitement. If he was really repeating what he had seen and done while he was working his strike, Bill Frank said that he must have taken out a big pile, probably up near a hundred thousand dollars. That he really had found gold was proved by the nuggets in his pockets.”
“Did Winters tell him what he’d done with the ore?” Jim demanded. He was evidently becoming very much interested.
“Frank told me that at the very last he seemed to be rational. He realized that he was about to die and tried to tell Frank how to find the gold he had taken out. He said he had hidden it in several places and had tried to conceal the lead in which he had worked. It is likely that the strike, whatever it was, had upset his head a little and made him do queer things before he got lost and heat-crazed on the desert.”
“Well, did this man tell you where he’d hid the dust?”
“Do you know where it is?”
“My informant, Bill Frank, said that Winters was very weak when he came to his senses and could only whisper a few disconnected sentences before he died, and part of those,” Wellesly went on, smiling at the recollection, “Frank said ‘the darn fool wasted on gratitude.’ But he gathered that the Winters mine was somewhere in the southern part of the Oro Fino mountains, not far from a canyon where there was good water, and that he had hidden the nuggets and dust and rich rock that he had taken out, in tin cans and kettles and bottles in another canyon not far away.”
“Why didn’t your chap go and ’unt for it ’imself?” asked Haney.
“He did spend several weeks trying to find it, and nearly died of thirst, and broke his leg falling off a precipice, and had a devil of a time getting out and getting well again. Then he wanted me to grubstake him for another hunt for it, but I think a man is more likely to find a new mine than he is a lost one and so I sent him to the San Juan instead.”
“Lots of men have gone into these mountains hunting for the Winters mine,” said Jim, “but all I’ve known anything about have always gone farther north than this.”
“Yes,” said Wellesly, as easily as if it were not an inspiration of the moment, “Bill Frank told me that when he talked about it he always made people think that Winters had said it was in the northern part of the range, but that it was really in the southern part.”
Jim got up and walked away and presently called Haney. Wellesly lay down and pulled his hat over his face. He fell into a light slumber and awoke himself with a snore. He heard the voices of the two men, and so he kept on snoring, listening intently, meanwhile, to their conversation. He could not hear all that they said, but he soon found that they were talking about the lost mine.
“If this here tenderfoot ain’t lyin’,” said Jim, “the Winters mine ain’t far from here. I know these mountains and I know this here spring is the only sweet water within ten miles, yes, twenty of ’em, unless there may be one up so high among the cliffs that nothing but a goat could find it. If Dick Winters’ mine is in the southern part of the Oro Fino mountains it’s somewhere within two miles of us.”
Then he heard them talk about “finishing up” with him and coming back to look for the mine. Haney suggested that as they had enough provisions to last two or three days longer they might spend a day examining the near-by canyons and “finish up” with Wellesly afterward.
“If we find the stuff,” he heard Haney say, “and this chap don’t conclude to be reasonable, we can leave ’im ’ere. If ’e does come to time, we’ll ’ave so much the more.”
Then they walked farther away and Wellesly heard no more. His scheme was coming out as he wished, for they would of course take him with them, and in their search for the lost mine they might become so interested that their vigilance would relax and he would find an opportunity to slip away unobserved. He thought he could find his way out of the mountains by following the downward course of the canyons. That would be sure to bring him to the desert.
After breakfast the next morning Haney said:
“Well, Mr. Wellesly, do you think you would like to go to El Paso to-morrow?”
Wellesly looked him squarely in the eye and replied: “I have no business in El Paso and do not care to go there.”
An ugly look came into Haney’s face, and Wellesly saw that his captors were ready to throw off all pretense and take extreme measures.
“Well,” said Haney; “this is what we’ve decided to do. We’ll give you till to-morrow morning to make up your mind whether you’ll go to El Paso and give us ten thousand dollars apiece for taking you there. If you don’t want to get away that bad, that big rock will roll down into this canyon and shut up that outlet and you will stay ’ere and starve. We are going to leave you ’ere alone to-day to think the matter over, and we are going to tie you fast to that big tree, so you won’t ’ave anything to distract your attention. We’ll be back to-night and then you can ’ave your supper and I ’ope we’ll find you in a reasonable frame of mind.”
Jim approached with a picket rope, and Wellesly whitened with anger. For a moment, earth and sky turned black before him, and before he realized what he was doing he had hit Jim a smashing blow in the jaw. Jim staggered backward, and then, with a howling oath, whipped out and leveled his revolver. Haney, who had grabbed one of Wellesly’s wrists and was struggling to keep it in his grasp, jumped between them and shouted in a tone of command: “Don’t shoot, Jim, don’t shoot! You’ll spoil the whole game if you kill ’im!”
Jim lowered his revolver sullenly and vented his anger in vile epithets instead of bullets.
“’Ere, stop your swearing and grab that arm,” said Haney. “You can’t blame the man for kicking. You or me would do the same thing in ’is place. Now push ’im up against this pine tree and ’and me the rope. I’m sorry we ’ave to treat you this way, Mr. Wellesly, but if you won’t be reasonable it’s the only thing we can do.”
Wellesly struggled at first, but he soon realized that they were much the stronger and wasted no more strength in useless resistance, though grinding his teeth with rage. They tied his arms to his body, and then, standing him upright, bound him close against the tree. They stepped back and Jim shook his fist at the captive.
“I’ll get even with you yet,” he shouted, “for the way you took me in the jaw! If you ain’t ready to do what we want to-morrow morning you won’t get a chance to starve, you hear me shout! I’ll wait till then, but I won’t wait no longer!”
“Shut up, Jim! Don’t be a fool!” said Haney. “After ’e’s meditated about it all day ’e’ll be reasonable.”
Wellesly did not speak, but the two men read a “never surrender” in his blazing eyes. Haney laughed excitedly and said, replying to his look:
“You’ll feel differently to-night, Mr. Wellesly. That rope’s likely to ’ave a big effect on your state of mind. Jim, we don’t want to leave any knives on ’im.”
They went through his pockets and took out everything they contained, dividing the money between them, while Haney took charge of his papers. Then they made ready for their own trip, saddling their horses and preparing to lead the two others.
“We won’t leave ’im the least possibility of getting away,” said Haney to Jim, “even if ’e should ’appen to get loose.”
“He’ll never get out of that rope till we let him out.”
“If the ’orses ain’t ’ere he won’t ’ave any temptation to try. ’E’d never undertake the desert alone and afoot.”
As they started, Haney called out, as good-naturedly as if they were the best of friends: “Good morning, Mr. Wellesly! I ’ope we’ll find you more reasonable to-night.”
Jim took out his revolver and turned in his saddle toward the captive. Haney grabbed his arm.
“Don’t you worry,” said Jim. “I ain’t a-goin’ to kill him, like I ought to do. I’m just a-goin’ to put my mark on him.”
Wellesly heard the clicking of the trigger and the thought sped through his mind that this was his last moment on earth. He saw the flash and heard the report, and then it seemed many long minutes until the whizzing of the bullet filled his ear and he heard it thump into the bark of the tree beside his head. There was a stinging in the rim of his left ear, where it had nicked out a little rounded segment.
“There!” said Jim, with an ugly laugh, as he put away his gun, “he’s my maverick now, and if anybody else claims him there’ll be war.”
CHAPTER XIII
The next morning after his arrest Nick Ellhorn was released on bail. He came out thoroughly sobered, and when he learned what had been the result of his drunken trick his vocabulary of abusive epithets ran dry in his effort to characterize his conduct.
“How did you happen to get drunk, Nick?” Judge Harlin asked. “I thought you had quit. What did you do it for?”
“Sure, and what did I do it for?” said Nick, and the strong Irish accent in his speech told how deeply he felt his misdeed. For he was always most Irish when most moved. “I reckon,” he went on, and the rolling intonation fell from his tongue like a faint breath from the green isle itself, “I reckon I did it just to show my friends what a measly, coyote, white-livered, tackey, ornery, spavined, colicky, mangy, blitherin’ sort of a beast I am. Sure, now, Judge, I just wanted everybody to know what a gee-whillikined damn fool I can be if I try. And they know, now. Oh, yes, they know. There’s nothin’ more I can tell. Hold on, Judge! Sure, and I’m thinkin’ it all came along of the way I mixed my drinks yesterday when I first struck the Palmleaf. I had beer, and whisky, and some mint juleps, yes, and maybe a cocktail, and I think there was some more beer – yes, there was more beer, and I think likely that I had some brandy up there in that sick man’s room. For I seem to remember that I took a drink of brandy because it was goin’ to kill him if he drank it, and so I took it in his place. Yes, I must have had some brandy, sure, because nothin’ but brandy will set me up that way. Now, just look at that, Judge! Ain’t that a fine lay-out for a man to swallow that knows better? If I’d never been inside a saloon before there’d be some excuse. But me a-mixin’ my drinks like that! It’s plumb ridiculous!”
“Jim Halliday isn’t sorry you did it. He’s as proud as a boy with his first pants over the haul he made yesterday. I hear he’s going to be measured for a brand-new, tailor-made cartridge belt and six-shooter as a memento of the occasion.”
“He’d better hurry up, then, before the occasion turns a back somersault on him. I reckon what he needs most is a new hat that will be about six sizes too big for him a week from now. Jim Halliday’s all right as long as he keeps to his own side of the street, but he’d better not come over here or he’ll be filled so full of bullets that he won’t know himself from a dice box. Say, Judge, what’s become of that John Chiny’s pigtail they say I cut off?”
“I suppose it’s in the hands of the district attorney and will be brought in as part of the evidence when your case is tried.”
“Harry Gillam’s got it, has he? Well, I want it myself. It’s mine, and I want it as a reminder not to mix my drinks. What had I better do about this business, Judge?”
“There’s only one thing you can do, Nick – plead guilty and throw yourself on the mercy of the court, and trust to your confounded Irish luck to get you off easy.”
Nick Ellhorn sent a telegram to Thomson Tuttle to return as quickly as possible and then attended to the shipment of Emerson Mead’s cattle. When he appeared on Main street again in the afternoon he found the town dividing itself into two hostile camps. The Palmleaf and the White Horse saloons were, respectively, the headquarters of the two factions, and men were dropping their work and leaving their shops and offices to join the excited crowds that filled the two saloons and gathered in groups on the sidewalks. On the west side of Main street the general temper was pleased, exultant, and inclined to jeer at the other side whenever a Republican met a Democrat. On the east side, anger and the determination to get even, shone in men’s eyes and sounded in their talk.
In the afternoon news came that the territorial district court had decided in favor of the Democrats a controversy over the sheriff’s office that had been going on ever since the election the previous autumn, when on the face of the returns the Republican candidate, John Daniels, had been declared elected. The Democrats had cried “fraud,” and carried the case into the courts, where it had ever since been crawling slowly along, while Daniels held the office. The election had been so hotly contested that each side had counted more votes than had been registered. But each had felt so confident that it could cover up its own misdeeds and hide behind its execration of those of its enemy that neither had had any doubt about the outcome.
The news of the decision embittered the quarrel which had been opened by the arrest of Emerson Mead. There were threats of armed resistance if the Democrats should attempt to take the office, and both John Daniels and Joe Davis, who had been the Democratic candidate, went about heavily armed and attended by armed friends as bodyguards, lest sudden death at the mouth of a smoking gun should end the dispute.
Toward night the angry talk and the buzzing rumors again centered about Emerson Mead. It began to be said on the west side of the street that this whole controversy over the sheriff’s office had been worked up by Mead and his friends in order that they might get his party into power and, under its protection, harass the cattle company and by arrests and murders ruin their business and take their stock. As the talk whizzed and buzzed along the street men grew more and more reckless and angry in their assertions. They lashed themselves into a state in which they really believed, for the time being, that Mead’s continued existence would be a peril to themselves and a danger to the community. Suggestions of lynching were hazarded and quickly taken up and discussed. There were many who thought this the best thing that could be done, and a little group of these got together in the coolest corner of the White Horse saloon and formed themselves into a secret vigilance committee. News of these things came by way of the back door into Judge Harlin’s office. He took the lead on the Democratic side of the street and organized a party of twelve of their bravest men and best shots to guard the jail during the night and resist any attempt to take out Emerson Mead. He was careful also to see that news of what he was doing was carried to the leaders on the other side. Late in the evening he and Ellhorn and the rest of their party posted themselves in dark corners and convenient hiding-places in the neighborhood of the jail. An hour or more passed and there was no sign that the vigilance committee had survived the fervors of the afternoon. Finally Nick Ellhorn began to suspect what had happened and he called Judge Harlin to account.
“I call it downright mean, Judge,” he complained, “to bring us fellows out here in the hope of havin’ a scrimmage and then send the other side word we’re here, so they’ll be sure not to come! You’ll be runnin’ on their ticket next thing we know! Now that we are out here and all ready for business, and nothin’ to do, we’d better just slam-bang ourselves against that jail over there and get Emerson out.”
Judge Harlin, Ellhorn, Joe Davis and two others were standing in the recess of a deep doorway under a portal. On the top of the portal, stretched at full length, with one ear over the edge, lay a Mexican listening to their talk. He could not hear Harlin’s reply to Nick’s suggestion, but one of the others quickly agreed. The listener did not wait to hear more, and in five minutes the back room of the White Horse saloon was in a bustle of excitement. John Daniels and Jim Halliday called for a posse of citizens to help them defend the jail, and the party set out at once on a quick run up the street.
Judge Harlin was trying to restrain Ellhorn’s enthusiasm over the idea of assaulting the jail. “No, Nick,” he said, “we don’t want to do anything illegal. We are all right so far, because we are here to protect human life and uphold the law. But the minute you throw yourself against the doors of the jail you forfeit the law’s protection and – ”
“Here they come!” Nick interrupted excitedly. His quick ear had caught the hurried tramp of the approaching party.
With Daniels, Whittaker and Halliday in the lead and the others trailing on close behind, they came down the middle of the street on a half run, plainly revealed in the bright moonlight. They expected to find the Democrats battering down the jail door, if they were not already taking the prisoner out, and all their attention was turned toward that building. Presently they saw that the entrance and all the street round about were silent and apparently deserted, and they concluded that the rescuing party was already inside the jail. Daniels turned and made a hushing gesture.
“Softly, boys,” he said in a repressed voice. “Come along as quietly as you possibly can and get up to the door in a bunch. Have your guns ready.”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when from the darkness and silence of a portal a block beyond them came a flash and a report, and on the instant a dozen more blazed out along that side of the street, for half a block.
The sheriff’s party came to a sudden stop, stunned for a moment by the complete surprise. One of their number threw out his hands and sank down groaning into the dust.
“We’re ambushed, boys! It’s a trick!” shouted a man in the rear, and he started off as fast as his legs could carry him. Another and another followed his example, and three others picked up the wounded man and carried him away. Daniels and Halliday and three or four others returned the fire, guessing at the location of the enemy, but one of their party fell to the ground and another dropped his pistol as his arm suddenly went limp and helpless.
“It’s nothin’ but a trick to get us out here and kill us,” said Daniels.
“It’s no use to stand here and make targets of ourselves in the moonlight,” added Halliday. “We’d better get out as quick as we can.”
They picked up the wounded man, and supporting him between two others, sought the shadow of the sidewalk and hurried away, followed by a jeering “Whoo-oo-oo-ee” in Nick Ellhorn’s well-known voice.
“No more shooting, boys!” shouted Judge Harlin. “We’ve buffaloed ’em – let ’em go!”
“You’re always spoilin’ the fun, Judge,” Nick complained. “This job was too easy! Now, did you ever see such a pack of cowards start on a lynchin’ bee? But I reckon they’ve learned one lesson and won’t try to lynch Emerson again in a hurry.”
The next day excitement ran higher than ever. The Republicans, smarting under their defeat, were in a white heat of indignation over what they believed was a deliberate plan to ambush and kill their leading men. The Democrats, while they were jubilant over their victory, were equally indignant over what they declared was an attempt, by the very men who ought to have protected him, to lynch Emerson Mead. In reality, each side had been trying to protect him and uphold the law, but each scoffed at and spurned the story of the other. Main street was in two hostile camps and all the fire-arms in the town that were not already in evidence in holsters and hip pockets, were brought to the center of hostilities and placed within handy reaching distance in shops and offices. Behind the bar in each of the saloons was a stack of shot-guns and rifles. The sidewalk on each side of the street was constantly crowded, but nobody crossed from one side to the other.
The women began to feel the war spirit and early in the day Judge Harlin’s wife and John Daniels’ wife, who were ordinarily the dearest friends, passed each other on the street without speaking. The ladies of Las Plumas were accustomed to meet at frequent teas, luncheons and card parties on terms of the greatest cordiality, but long before night, if any one whose masculine affiliations were on one side met one belonging to the other, they passed with a haughty stare.
Sheriff Daniels was much disturbed over the situation, fearing that he would be unable to keep his prisoner in jail. He talked the matter over with his advisers and together they decided that the best plan would be to get Emerson Mead out of town for the present, and accordingly a telegram was sent to the sheriff of the adjoining county asking permission to lodge Mead temporarily in his jail. The Democrats heard of this plan, and Nick Ellhorn fumed indignantly. Judge Harlin was secretly pleased, and contrived to send word to Colonel Whittaker, Sheriff Daniels and Jim Halliday that he approved their plan and would do his best to control the Democratic faction while they were making the change. He did not tell Nick Ellhorn that he had done this, but he reasoned with that loyal friend at great length on the matter.
“But see here, Judge,” Nick replied to all his arguments, “I got Emerson into trouble this time and I’ve got to get him out. If he hadn’t been chasin’ around alone, tryin’ to get me out of the beastly drunken scrape I’d been fool enough to get into, this wouldn’t have happened. You know it wouldn’t, Judge. It’s all my fault, and I’ve got to get Emerson out of it.”
“That’s all right, Nick. Your loyalty to Emerson does you great credit. Much more than your judgment does. But if you’ll just wait a week or two the grand jury will pronounce on his case, and they’re bound to let the bottom out of the whole thing. They’ll never find a true bill against him, with no evidence to go on and no proof even that Will Whittaker is dead. Then Emerson will come out a vindicated man and they will have to let him alone after that. His interests will not suffer now by his being detained a few days, and he will gain in the respect of the community by submitting quietly. Take my advice, Nick, and keep still, and let matters follow their legal course for the next week or two.”
“A week or two, Judge! And let Emerson stay in jail all that time? When he’s no more right to be there than you or me! Sure, now, Judge! and what do you-all take me for, anyway?”
“For a sensible man, Nick, who will see the reason in what I have been saying and will take my advice in the matter.”
Nick leaned his face on his hand and gloomed across the desk at the big judge, who sat calm and judicial on the other side. Judge Harlin pleased himself much by believing that he could handle Nick Ellhorn better than any other man in the county, except Emerson Mead, and he liked to have the opportunity to try his hand, just as he liked to drive a nervous, mettlesome, erratic horse. He could drive the horse, but he could not manage Nick Ellhorn. The tall Texan had learned not to batter words against the judge’s determination, which was as big and bulky as his figure. He simply gave tacit acquiescence, and then went away and did as he pleased. If his scheme succeeded he adroitly flattered the judge by giving him the credit; if it failed he professed penitence and said how much better it would have been to follow the judge’s advice. He saw that Judge Harlin had decided to allow Emerson Mead to stay in jail until the grand jury should meet, so he presently said:
“Oh, I reckon you-all are right about it, Judge, but it’s damn hard on Emerson. But if it’s the only way to keep this blamed town from fallin’ to and gettin’ rid of itself I reckon we’ll have to let him stand it.” He got up and walked up and down the room for a few minutes and then, with his black eyes dancing and a broad smile curling his mustache around the dimple in each cheek, he went to the telegraph office and sent to Thomson Tuttle a telegram which read:
“Get off the train to-morrow at Escondida and ride to Bosque Grande, where you will find Missouri Bill with horses and instructions.” Escondida was the first station on the railroad north of Las Plumas and the Bosque Grande was a river flat, covered with a dense growth of cottonwoods and willow bushes through which the railroad ran, about midway between the two towns. Missouri Bill was one of Mead’s cow-boys who had come in with the herd of cattle.
When it became known that Emerson Mead was to be taken to the Silverado county jail to await the session of the grand jury and that the Democrats would not object to the scheme, the war feeling at once began to abate. The town still rested on its arms and glared across Main street, each party from its own side. There was no more talk of extreme measures and there were no more threats of blood letting. So things went on for a few hours, until the matter of Mead’s transfer to the Silverado jail was finally settled. Then all the town looked on while Judge Harlin strolled leisurely across the street, nodded to Colonel Whittaker and Sheriff Daniels, and the three men went into the White Horse saloon and clinked glasses together over the bar. A little later Jim Halliday went to the Palmleaf and he and Joe Davis joined in a friendly “here’s luck.” After which all the town put away its guns and went quietly about its usual affairs.
The Republicans frankly gave out that Emerson Mead would be taken away on the north bound overland train, which passed through Las Plumas in the middle of the day. Nick Ellhorn decided that this was told too openly to be true. He guessed that the journey would be made on a “local” train which passed through the town in the early morning and that Sheriff Daniels hoped, by thus secretly carrying off his prisoner, to forestall any possible attempt at a rescue. Accordingly, he sent another telegram to Tuttle to be in the Bosque Grande for this train and started off Missouri Bill with two extra horses before daybreak on the second morning after the fight.
With Sheriff Daniels beside him and Jim Halliday walking close behind, Emerson Mead stepped into the rear coach of the “local” train with none to witness his departure other than the handful of regular travelers, and a half dozen well armed Republicans who were at the station to help prevent any attempt at escape. Mead greeted these with smiling good nature, as if there were no thought of quarrel between them, and cast his eyes about for sight of his own friends. Not one could he see. He did not know what plan for his assistance Ellhorn and Tuttle might have schemed, he did not even know that Tuttle had gone away, but he felt sure they would not allow him to be taken away from Las Plumas any more than they would allow him to remain in jail longer than the earliest possible moment at which they could get him out. So he went along quietly and good-naturedly with his keepers, his eyes watchful and his mind alert, alike for any relaxation of their vigilance which would give him a chance of escape, and for the first sign from his friends.
Nick Ellhorn did not appear on the station platform at all. He rushed up from the opposite side just as the train was starting and jumped on the steps of the smoking car. Inside he saw a man whom he knew, and, sitting down beside him, they smoked and chatted and laughed together until the train reached the edge of the Bosque Grande, when Nick walked leisurely into the baggage compartment which formed the front half of the smoking car. He nodded a friendly good morning to the baggage man, handed him a cigar, lighted a fresh one himself, and with one eye out at the open door stood and bandied a joke or two with the train man. Presently he caught sight of a bunch of horses behind a willow thicket a little way ahead and saw a big, burly figure near the track.
