Charlie to the Rescue

Chapter Fourteen.

The Haunt of the Outlaws

After riding through the Blue Fork Charlie and Buck Tom came to a stretch of open ground of considerable extent, where they could ride abreast, and here the latter gave the former some account of the condition of Shank Leather.

“Tell me, Ritson,” said Charlie, “what you mean by Shank ‘nearly’ and ‘not quite’ belonging to your band.”

The outlaw was silent for some time. Then he seemed to make up his mind to speak out.

“Brooke,” he said, “it did, till this night, seem to me that all the better feelings of my nature—whatever they were—had been blotted out of existence, for since I came to this part of the world the cruelty and injustice that I have witnessed and suffered have driven me to desperation, and I candidly confess to you that I have come to hate pretty nigh the whole human race. The grip of your hand and tone of your voice, however, have told me that I have not yet sunk to the lowest possible depths. But that is not what I mean to enlarge on. What I wish you to understand is, that after Shank and I had gone to the dogs, and were reduced to beggary, I made up my mind to join a band of men who lived chiefly by their wits, and sometimes by their personal courage. Of course I won’t say who they are, because we still hang together, and there is no need to say what we are. The profession is variously named, and not highly respected.

“Shank refused to join me, so we parted. He remained for some time in New York doing odd jobs for a living. Then he joined a small party of emigrants, and journeyed west. Strange to say, although the country is wide, he and I again met accidentally. My fellows wanted to overhaul the goods of the emigrants with whom he travelled. They objected. A fight followed in which there was no bloodshed, for the emigrants fled at the first war-whoop. A shot from one of them, however, wounded one of our men, and one of theirs was so drunk at the time of the flight that he fell off his horse and was captured. That man was Shank. I recognised him when I rode up to see what some of my boys were quarrelling over, and found that it was the wounded man wanting to shove his knife into Shank.

“The moment I saw his face I claimed him as an old chum, and had him carried up to our headquarters in Traitor’s Trap. There he has remained ever since, in a very shaky condition, for the fall seems to have injured him internally, besides almost breaking his neck. Indeed I think his spine is damaged,—he recovers so slowly. We have tried to persuade him to say that he will become one of us when he gets well, but up to this time he has steadily refused. I am not sorry; for, to say truth, I don’t want to force any one into such a line of life—and he does not look as if he’d be fit for it, or anything else, for many a day to come.”

“But how does it happen that you are in such straits just now?” asked Charlie, seeing that Buck paused, and seemed unwilling to make further explanations.

“Well, the fact is, we have not been successful of late; no chances have come in our way, and two of our best men have taken their departure—one to gold-digging in California, the other to the happy hunting grounds of the Redskin, or elsewhere. Luck, in short, seems to have forsaken us. Pious folk,” he added, with something of a sneer, “would say, no doubt, that God had forsaken us.”

“I think pious people would not say so, and they would be wrong if they did,” returned Charlie. “In my opinion God never forsakes any one; but when His creatures forsake him He thwarts them. It cannot be otherwise if His laws are to be vindicated.”

“It may be so. But what have I done,” said Buck Tom fiercely, “to merit the bad treatment and insufferable injustice which I have received since I came to this accursed land? I cannot stand injustice. It makes my blood boil, and so, since it is rampant here, and everybody has been unjust to me, I have made up my mind to pay them back in their own coin. There seems to me even a spice of justice in that.”

“I wonder that you cannot see the fallacy of your reasoning, Ritson,” replied Charlie. “You ask, ‘What have I done?’ The more appropriate question would be, ‘What have I not done?’ Have you not, according to your own confession, rebelled against your Maker and cast Him off; yet you expect Him to continue His supplies of food to you; to keep up your physical strength and powers of enjoying life, and, under the name of Luck, to furnish you with the opportunity of breaking His own commands by throwing people in your way to be robbed! Besides which, have you not yourself been guilty of gross injustice in leading poor weak Shank Leather into vicious courses—to his great, if not irreparable, damage? I don’t profess to teach theology, Ralph Ritson, my old friend, but I do think that even an average cow-boy could understand that a rebel has no claim to forgiveness—much less to favour—until he lays down his arms and gives in.”

“Had any other man but you, Charlie Brooke, said half as much as you have just said to me, I would have blown his brains out,” returned the outlaw sternly.

“I’m very glad no other man did say it, then,” returned Charlie, “for your hands must be sufficiently stained already. But don’t let anger blind you to the fact, Ralph, that you and I were once old friends; that I am your friend still, and that, what is of far greater importance, the Almighty is still your friend, and is proving His friendship by thwarting you.”

“You preach a strange doctrine,” said Buck Tom, laughing softly, “but you must end your sermon here in the meantime, for we have reached the entrance to Traitor’s Trap, and have not room to ride further abreast. I will lead, and do you follow with care, for the path is none o’ the safest. My asking you to follow me is a stronger proof than you may think that I believe in your friendship. Most strangers whom I escort up this gorge are usually requested to lead the way, and I keep my revolver handy lest they should stray from the track!”

The defile or gorge which they had reached was not inappropriately named, for, although the origin of the name was unknown, the appearance of the place was eminently suggestive of blackness and treachery. Two spurs of the mountain range formed a precipitous and rugged valley which, even in daylight, wore a forbidding aspect, and at night seemed the very portal to Erebus.

“Keep close to my horse’s tail,” said Buck Tom, as they commenced the ascent. “If you stray here, ever so little, your horse will break his neck or legs.”

Thus admonished, our hero kept a firm hand on the bridle, and closed up as much as possible on his guide. The moon was by this time clouded over, so that, with the precipitous cliffs on either side, and the great mass of the mountains further up, there was only that faint sombre appearance of things which is sometimes described as darkness visible. The travellers proceeded slowly, for, besides the danger of straying off the path, the steepness of the ascent rendered rapid motion impossible. After riding for about three miles thus in absolute silence, they came to a spot where the track became somewhat serpentine, and Charlie could perceive dimly that they were winding amongst great fragments of rock which were here and there over-canopied by foliage, but whether of trees or bushes he could not distinguish. At last they came to a halt in front of what appeared to be a cliff.

“Dismount here,” said Buck in a low voice, setting the example.

“Is this the end of our ride?”

“It is. Give me the bridle. I will put up your horse. Stand where you are till I return.”

The outlaw led the horses away, leaving his former friend and schoolfellow in a curious position, and a not very comfortable frame of mind. When a man is engaged in action—especially if it be exciting and slightly dangerous—he has not time to think much about his surroundings, at least about their details, but now, while standing there in the intense darkness, in the very heart—as he had reason to believe—of a robber’s stronghold, young Brooke could not help questioning his wisdom in having thus thrown himself into the power of one who had obviously deteriorated and fallen very low since the time when in England they had studied and romped together. It was too late, however, to question the wisdom of his conduct. There he was, and so he must make the best of it. He did not indeed fear treachery in his former friend, but he could not help reflecting that the reckless and perhaps desperate men with whom that friend was now associated might not be easy to restrain, especially if they should become acquainted with the fact that he carried a considerable sum of money about him.

He was yet pondering his position when Buck Tom returned.

“Ralph Ritson,” he said, laying his hand on the arm of the outlaw, “you’ll forgive my speaking plainly to you, I know. With regard to yourself I have not a shadow of doubt that you will act the part of an honourable host, though you follow a dishonourable calling. But I have no guarantee that those who associate with you will respect my property. Now, I have a considerable sum of money about me in gold and silver, which I brought here expressly for the benefit of our poor friend Shank Leather. What would you advise me to do in regard to it?”

“Intrust it to my care,” said Buck promptly.

Charlie could not see the outlaw’s face very clearly, but he could easily detect the half-amused half-mocking tone in which the suggestion was made.

“My good fellow,” said Charlie, in a hearty voice, “you evidently think I am afraid to trust you. That is a mistake. I do not indeed trust to any remnant of good that is in your poor human nature, but I have confidence in the good feeling which God is arousing in you just now. I will freely hand over the money if you can assure me that you can guard it from your comrades.”

“This will make it secure from them,” returned Buck, with a short defiant laugh.

“Humph” exclaimed Charlie with a shrug. “I’ve not much confidence in that safeguard. No doubt, in certain circumstances, and on certain occasions, the revolver is a most important and useful instrument, but, taking it all round, I would not put much store by it. When you met me at the Blue Fork to-night, for instance, of what use was my revolver to me? And, for the matter of that, after you had dropped it on the road of what use was yours to you? It only wants one of your fellows to have more pluck and a quicker eye and hand than yourself to dethrone you at once.”

“Well, none of my fellows,” returned Buck Tom good-humouredly, “happen to have the advantage of me at present, so you may trust me and count this as one o’ the ‘certain occasions’ on which a revolver is a most important instrument.”

“I dare say you are right,” responded Charlie, smiling, as he drew from the breast of his coat a small bag and handed it to his companion.

“You know exactly, of course, how much is here?” asked Buck Tom.

“Yes, exactly.”

“That’s all right,” continued Buck, thrusting the bag into the bosom of his hunting coat; “now I’ll see if any o’ the boys are at home. Doubtless they are out—else they’d have heard us by this time. Just wait a minute.”

He seemed to melt into the darkness as he spoke. Another minute and he re-appeared.

“Here, give me your hand,” he said; “the passage is darkish at first.”

Charlie Brooke felt rather than saw that they had passed under a portal of some sort, and were advancing along a narrow passage. Soon they turned to the left, and a faint red light—as of fire—became visible in the distance. Buck Tom stopped.

“There’s no one in the cave but him, and he’s asleep. Follow me.”

The passage in which they stood led to a third and shorter one, where the light at its extremity was intense, lighting up the whole of the place so as to reveal its character. It was a corridor about seven feet high and four feet wide cut out of the solid earth; arched in the roof and supported here and there by rough posts to make it still more secure. Charlie at once concluded that it led to one of those concealed caverns, of which he had heard more than once while crossing the country, the entrances of which are made in zig-zag form in order to prevent the possibility of a ray of light issuing from the outside opening.

On reaching the end of the third passage he found that his conjecture was right, for the doorway or opening on his left hand conducted into a spacious cave, also hollowed out of the earth, but apparently against a perpendicular cliff, for the inner end of it was of unhewn rock. The roof of the cave was supported by pillars which were merely sections of pine-trees with the bark left on. These pillars and the earthen walls were adorned with antlers, skulls, and horns of the Rocky mountain sheep, necklaces of grizzly-bear’s claws, Indian bows and arrows, rifles, short swords, and various other weapons and trophies of the chase, besides sundry articles of clothing. At the inner end of the cave a large fireplace and chimney had been rudely built, and in this was roaring the pine-wood fire which had lighted them in, and which caused the whole interior to glow with a vivid glare that seemed to surpass that of noon-day.

A number of couches of pine-brush were spread round the walls, and on one of these lay a sleeping figure. The face was turned towards the visitor, who saw at a glance that it was that of his former friend and playmate—but it was terribly changed. Hard toil, suffering, sickness, dissipation, had set indelible marks on it, and there was a slight curve about the eyebrows which gave the idea of habitual pain. Yet strange to say, worn and lined though it was, the face seemed far more attractive and refined than it had ever been in the days of robust health.

Buck Tom went to the fire and began to stir the contents of a big pot that hung over it, while Charlie advanced and stood for some minutes gazing at the countenance of his friend, unwilling to disturb his slumbers, yet longing to cheer him with the glad news that he had come to succour him. He chanced, however, to touch a twig of the pine branches on which the sleeper lay, and Shank awoke instantly, raised himself on one elbow, and returned his friend’s gaze earnestly, but without the slightest symptom of surprise.

“O Charlie,” he said at last in a quiet voice, “I wish you hadn’t come to me to-night.”

He stopped, and Charlie felt quite unable to speak, owing to intense pity, mingled with astonishment, at such a reception.

“It’s too bad of you,” Shank went on, “worrying me so in my dreams. I’m weary of it; and if you only knew what a terrible disappointment it is to me when I awake and don’t find you there, you wouldn’t tantalise me so. You always look so terribly real too! Man, I could almost pledge my life that you are no deception this time, but—but I’m so used to it now that—”

“Shank, my dear boy,” said Charlie, finding words at last, “it is no deception—”

He stopped abruptly; for the intense look of eager anxiety, doubt, and hope in the thin expressive face alarmed him.

“Charlie!” gasped, rather than said, the invalid, “you—you never spoke to me before in my dreams, and—you never touched—the grip of your strong h— O God! can it be true?”

At this point Buck Tom suddenly left off his occupation at the fire and went out of the cave.

Chapter Fifteen.

Lost and Found

“Try to be calm, Shank,” said Charlie, in a soothing tone, as he kneeled beside the shadow that had once been his sturdy chum, and put an arm on his shoulder. “It is indeed myself this time. I have come all the way from England to seek you, for we heard, through Ritson, that you were ill and lost in these wilds, and now, through God’s mercy, I have found you.”

While Charlie Brooke was speaking, the poor invalid was breathing hard and gazing at him, as if to make quite sure it was all true.

“Yes,” he said at last, unable to raise his voice above a hoarse whisper, “lost—and—and—found! Charlie, my friend—my chum—my—”

He could say no more, but, laying his head like a little child on the broad bosom of his rescuer, he burst into a passionate flood of tears.

Albeit strong of will, and not by any means given to the melting mood, our hero was unable for a minute or two to make free use of his voice.

“Come, now, Shank, old man, you mustn’t give way like that. You wouldn’t, you know, if you had not been terribly reduced by illness—”

“Yes, I would! yes, I would!” interrupted the sick man, almost passionately; “I’d howl, I’d roar, I’d blubber like a very idiot, I’d do any mortal thing, if the doing of it would only make you understand how I appreciate your great kindness in coming out here to save me.”

“Oh no, you wouldn’t,” said Charlie, affecting an easy off-hand tone, which he was far from feeling; “you wouldn’t do anything to please me.”

“What d’ye mean?” asked Shank, with a look of surprise.

“Well, I mean,” returned the other, gently, “that you won’t even do such a trifle as to lie down and keep quiet to please me.”

A smile lighted up the emaciated features of the sick man, as he promptly lay back at full length and shut his eyes.

“There, Charlie,” he said, “I’ll behave, and let you do all the talking; but don’t let go my hand, old man. Keep a tight grip of it. I’m terrified lest you drift off again, and—and melt away.”

“No fear, Shank. I’ll not let go my hold of you, please God, till I carry you back to old England.”

“Ah! old England! I’ll never see it again. I feel that. But tell me,”—he started up again, with a return of the excited look—“is father any better?”

“N–no, not exactly—but he is no worse. I’ll tell you all about everything if you will only lie down again and keep silent.”

The invalid once more lay back, closed his eyes and listened, while his friend related to him all that he knew about his family affairs, and the kindness of old Jacob Crossley, who had not only befriended them when in great distress, but had furnished the money to enable him, Charlie, to visit these outlandish regions for the express purpose of rescuing Shank from all his troubles and dangers.

At this point the invalid interrupted him with an anxious look.

“Have you the money with you?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” returned Shank, with something of a groan, “you are in a den of thieves!”

“I know it, my boy,” returned Charlie, with a smile, “and so, for better security, I have given it in charge to our old chum, Ralph Ritson.”

“What!” exclaimed Shank, starting up again with wide open eyes; “you have met Ralph, then?”

“I have. He conducted me here.”

“And you have intrusted your money to him?”

“Yes—all of it; every cent!”

“Are you aware,” continued Shank, in a solemn tone, “that Ralph Ritson is Buck Tom—the noted chief of the outlaws?”

“I know it.”

“And you trust him?”

“I do. I have perfect confidence that he is quite incapable of betraying an old friend.”

For some time Shank looked at his companion in surprise; then an absent look came into his eyes, and a variety of expressions passed over his wan visage. At last he spoke.

“I don’t know how it is, Charlie, but somehow I think you are right. It’s an old complaint of mine, you know, to come round to your way of thinking, whether I admit it or not. In days of old I usually refused to admit it, but believed in you all the same! If any man had told me this morning—ay, even half an hour since—that he had placed money in the hands of Buck Tom for safe keeping, knowing who and what he is, I would have counted him an incurable fool; but now, somehow, I do believe that you were quite right to do it, and that your money is as safe as if it were in the Bank of England.”