Charlie to the Rescue Part 27

d.i.c.k 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 a.s.sociated with, the outlaws.

"It's a queer story," said Hunky Ben, who, besides being what his friends called a philosopher, was p.r.o.ne 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 d.i.c.k 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 a.s.sociated 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 a.s.sisted 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 carca.s.s.

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 "G.o.d-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 p.r.o.nounce his fellow-man G.o.d-forsaken.

In the meantime we feel it to be no breach of charity to say that Jake had forsaken G.o.d, for his foul language and b.l.o.o.d.y 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 circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstance.

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?"

"All right--pitch it down."

Jake threw the coin, which fell on the ground a few feet in front of the trooper, who stooped to pick it up.

With one agile bound the outlaw leaped from the window and descended on the trooper's back, which was broken by the crashing blow, and Jake rolled over him with considerable violence, but the poor man's body had proved a sufficient buffer, and Jake rose unhurt. Deliberately taking the carbine from the dead man's hand, and plucking the revolver from his belt, he sauntered off in the direction of the stables. These being too small to contain all the troop-horses, some of the animals were picketed in an open shed, and several troopers were rubbing them down. The men took Jake for one of the cow-boys of the ranch, for he pa.s.sed them whistling.

Entering the stable he glanced quickly round, selected the finest horse, and, loosing its halter from the stall, turned the animal's head to the door.

"What are ye doin' wi' the captain's horse?" demanded a trooper, who chanced to be in the neighbouring stall.

"The captain wants it. Hold his head till I get on him. He's frisky,"