Charlie to the Rescue

Chapter Nineteen.

The Rescue and its Consequences

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, it’s Charlie Brooke! Hurrah!” yelled Darvall with delight.

“An’ Buck Tom!” roared Jackson in amazement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mysteries?” echoed Dick.

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

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

“That may be, boy, but there’s some mystery about him, somehow.”

“Can ye explain what the mystery is, Jackson?”

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

“Don’ know,” said Dick, with a look of solemn wonder.

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

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

“He’s the greatest scout an’ the best an’ truest man on the frontier,” replied Jackson.

“H’m! so Miss Mary seems to think too.”

“An’ Mary thinks right.”

“An’ who may this Jake the Flint be?” asked the sailor.

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

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

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

“Fizzi-what-umy?” interrupted Dick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twenty.

Jake The Flint In Difficulties

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You couldn’t remove these things, could you?” he said, holding out his fettered hands.

“No,” answered the trooper, sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?” demanded the trooper, still covering the outlaw, however, with his carbine.

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