The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

“One of them young tenderfeet is missing, eh?”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I reached the camp of Bok-kar-oo last night within a half-hour after you’d gone; he and two other bucks are out on a hunt, which they haven’t any business to be, but that’s nothing to us. Bok-kar-oo told me what you had told him; it’s queer business, isn’t it?”

  “I should say it was. That Motoza has had a hand in it, and I’ve set out to find him and settle the account.”

  “Why are you so sure about Motoza?”

  “’Cause I know him!” said Hank, savagely; “and I’ve knowed him fur a good many years; there isn’t a worse Injin in Wyoming.”

  Instead of commenting on this remark, Tozer stood silent a moment, and then made a flirt with his head as a request for Hank to step aside with him. The cowman obeyed, and they seated themselves still further from Jack Dudley.

  “What makes you so afeard he’ll hear us?” asked Hazletine, impatiently, noting the suspicious glances which the man cast in the direction of the youth.

  “For the reason that I don’t want him to hear us; I’ve something to say about him and his friend.”

  “His father owns half of Bowman’s ranch.”

  Bill Tozer started with an angry exclamation.

  “Is that so?” he asked in amazement. “I thought it was the other fellow’s father.”

  “How should you know anything about it anyway?” demanded Hazletine, who made no attempt to conceal his dislike of the man. “I’d like to know where you picked up so much knowledge ’bout these two younkers.”

  “There’s no need of getting huffy about it, Hank; it seemed to me that I was to be on your heels for the last few days, for I stopped at the ranch and had a talk with the fellows only a short time after you left with the tenderfeet for this hunt. I understood Kansas Jim to say that it was the father of the Greenwood boy that owned half the ranch.”

  “If Jim told you that, which I don’t believe he done, he told you what ain’t so.”

  “But the father of the other boy—the one that’s missing—he’s rich too, ain’t he?”

  “I don’t know nothing ’bout it; what are you driving at? Bill, you know that my ’pinion of you is ’bout the same as it is of that tramp Motoza, so, if you’ve got anything to say to me, out with it! I hain’t any time to fool away.”

  “I have something to say, Hank, and it’s about them young tenderfeet: I’ve seen Motoza.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “Did you give him my message?”

  “Every word of it, as I received it from Bok-kar-oo; I made it as strong as I could.”

  “You couldn’t make it any too strong; how did he take it?”

  “It didn’t seem to worry him much; he says he don’t know anything about the missing boy and your threats don’t scare him. But, Hank,” added Tozer, lowering his voice almost to a whisper and glancing furtively around, “I suspect Motoza was lying.”

  “I know he was, fur he doesn’t know how to tell the truth.”

  “If he’s treated right, I believe he’ll produce the missing youngster.”

  Hank Hazletine was keener mentally than most of his friends suspected. He had more acumen than even Bill Tozer suspected. A great light flashed upon the cowman, and the questions and answers which fell from his lips during the next few minutes were intended to hide his real purpose.

  “What do you mean by treating Motoza right? If he was treated right he’d be kicking the air this very minute.”

  “I agree with you,” said Tozer, laughing; “but Motoza doesn’t, and he’s the one who asks to be treated right, as he considers it.”

  “I’ve said that if he produces the younker, and we find he hain’t been harmed, why we’ll call it a joke and drop the whole thing.”

  Tozer gazed at a distant mountain peak and thoughtfully chewed tobacco for a minute. He was approaching delicate ground and needed all his finesse.

  “That’s fair on your part, and is more than he ought to expect, but I’ve a suspicion it isn’t what he means.”

  “Do you know what he means, Bill?”

  “No; he hasn’t told me a word, but I think I can guess it.”

  “Wal, then, guess.”

  “Remember it’s only a guess, and I may be away off.”

  Hazletine nodded his head.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I suspect Motoza has the tenderfoot in hiding somewhere, where there’s no chance of his getting away or of any of his friends finding him.”

  “What does the scamp mean by doing that?”

  “He must have had an idea that the father of the Greenwood boy has enough money to pay a good sum to recover him unharmed.”

  “That’s a new scheme! I’ve heard of such things in the East, but never knowed ’em to be tried in this part of the country.”

  “Bear in mind,” Tozer hastened to add, “that it’s all guesswork on my part.”

  “You’ve said that afore, but it’s powerful good guessing, Bill. It’s my ’pinion you ain’t a thousand miles from the truth, but you can see this makes a mighty different thing of the bus’ness.”

  “How so?”

  “The younker’s father lives in New York; he’s got to be reached, and the question laid afore him. How much money will Motoza ask to produce the younker?”

  “Certainly not much—something like five thousand dollars, I should say.”

  “That is rather a healthy pile for you or me, but I don’t ’spose it’s more than a trifle for them folks in the East.”

  “Of course not; they’ll raise it at once, and be glad to do so.”

  “But it’ll take two weeks at least.”

  “Not necessarily; you can telegraph from Fort Steele, and two or three days ought to wind up the whole business.”

  “But you can’t telegraph the money.”

  “Yes, you can; nothing is easier.”

  Hazletine was silent a minute or two.

  “It sounds easy ’nough, the way you put it, but it won’t be so powerful easy after all. I s’pose the Sioux will want the money afore he turns over the younker?”

  “Of course; that’s business.”

  “How can we know he’ll give up the younker after he gits the money?”

  “In a matter of this kind, a point must be reached where one party has to trust the other, and Motoza wouldn’t dare play you false.”

  “He wouldn’t, eh? Just give him the chance.”

  “Then we won’t let him. I’ll guarantee that he shall keep his part of the agreement in spirit and letter.”

  It was on Hazletine’s tongue to ask who should guarantee the honesty of Bill Tozer, but for reasons of his own he kept back the question.

  “Wal, now, to git down to bus’ness, as you say; s’pose Doctor Greenwood sends word that he won’t or can’t raise the money you ask—what then?”

  Tozer shrugged his shoulders suggestively.

  “Don’t forget that I am guessing all the way through. I should say, however, that Doctor Greenwood would never see his boy again.”

  “I’m afraid he never will, as the matter now stands.”

  “That depends on the parent. If he is not rich, the father of that young man over yonder is, and he would let him have the money.”

  “No doubt he’d do that very thing; but s’pose the thing is all fixed and carried out as you’ve been saying—does Motoza fancy there won’t be some accounts to be squared with him afterwards?”

  “You know what a cunning fellow he is. He wouldn’t go through with the job until he was guaranteed against any punishment for his part in it.”

  “The father of the younker would give the pledge, and he’d keep it, too, if he’s anything like his son. But what ’bout Hank Hazletine?”

  “He would have to make the same promise—that is, I presume he would. It might be, however, that Motoza would feel able to take care of himself, so far as you are concerned. But we are
talking blindly.”

  “Is there any other way to talk?”

  “You say you were just about starting out to hunt up Motoza. You won’t be able to find him, for he’ll keep out of your sight. Leave that part of the business to me.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  “I’ll explain the situation to him, and then come back and have another talk with you.”

  “All right; you can’t do it any too soon.”

  CHAPTER XVI.

  WATCHING AND WATCHED.

  Bill Tozer rose to his feet. The interview was over, and little remained to be said between the two.

  “Then, Hank, you’ll leave matters with me till I see you again?”

  “When will that be?”

  The man stood a moment in thought.

  “In order that there shall be no mistake, let us agree that I shall call here tomorrow morning—twenty-four hours from now. How does that strike you?”

  “That will do.”

  “I can make it less time than that, if you wish it.”

  “That suits; it’s a go; good-by.”

  “Good-by,” and the visitor turned on his heel and strode across the plateau, disappearing on the further margin, where he had first shown himself.

  Hank Hazletine stood looking after him as long as he was in sight. When at last he vanished, an expression of scornful contempt darkened the bearded face of the cowman, and he muttered:

  “Bill Tozer, you think you’re smart, but I understand you!”

  In the interview which has just been recorded the visitor believed he had outwitted the guide at every step, and yet exactly the reverse was the fact. Hank Hazletine had pretended a stupidity which was not real. He noted the contradictions in the declarations of Tozer the instant they were made, but gave no evidence of it, his object being to draw out the miscreant, in which purpose he succeeded perfectly.

  The whole truth was manifest to the guide. Fred Greenwood had been abducted not by Motoza alone, but by him and Bill Tozer. Beyond a doubt the daring scheme was the invention of the white man, who found a willing partner in the vagrant Sioux, who burned with enmity toward the youth. It was Tozer who made the mistake of supposing that the father of Fred was half-owner of the ranch, and, therefore, presumably a rich man. Tozer had formed the plan of the abduction while at Bowman’s ranch, and showed by his promptness that he had not allowed the grass to grow under his feet.

  These meditations occupied but a few minutes, when the cowman walked toward Jack, who, seeing him approaching, advanced to meet him. Hazletine felt that the change of conditions made it necessary to talk more freely than heretofore with the boy.

  “Hank, it seems to me we are throwing away time,” said the youth, a trifle impatiently.

  “I’m not so sure of that, younker. I’ve news fur you.”

  The guide had a good memory, and he repeated, almost word for word, all that had been said by Tozer and himself. Jack was astounded. His first emotion was of profound gratitude and delight, for the interview seemed to establish that Fred Greenwood was alive, and consequently within reach of recovery.

  “He’s not dead!” exclaimed the happy lad; “thank Heaven for that! I shall soon see him! It seems too good to be true.”

  “It isn’t best to be sartin of anything in this world,” remarked his friend, with a gravity of expression that ought to have chilled the ardor of Jack, but it did not. The tidings were too exhilarating for that.

  “Now, younker,” added the man, “we’ve got more time on our hands than we know what to do with. Come over by the fire and set down fur a while. How’s that appetite of yours?”

  “I am beginning to feel hungry.”

  “I thought so,” observed Hank, with a smile.

  “But there’s no hurry. I can wait a little while.”

  “You’ll have to.”

  “Now tell me who this man Tozer is?”

  “Wal, he’s a reg’lar Motoza, except in blood. I run across him five years ago in Arizona, where he had been in the stage-robbin’ bus’ness. Things got so hot he had to git out. I didn’t hear anything more of him till I was driving cattle in Montana, when I discovered he was one of the worst rustlers in that part of the world. I’m sartin he has done a good many things fur which he ought to hang, but he’s more cunning in his way than the Sioux, and has kept out of the penitentiary when anyone else would have been doing a life-term. Bill is a great gambler, and has made and lost fortunes, but he is always out of money and figgering how to git it ag’in. There isn’t anything too mean fur him to do fur money. He doesn’t care any more fur the feelings of others than Geronimo.”

  “It looks as if the plan of abducting Fred and holding him for ransom is his.”

  “There ain’t no doubt of it; he come to the ranch soon after we’d gone and larned all ’bout you tenderfeet from the boys themselves. The thought come to him at once that one of the chances of his lifetime was his. It’s queer he made the mistake of believing that it was the father of the other younker as owned part of the ranch, but he got matters twisted in some way. You can see that if it hadn’t been fur that blunder of his, it would be you that your friend and me would be looking fur.”

  “I wish it were,” was the honest exclamation of Jack Dudley; “but how was it he came to form his partnership with Motoza?”

  “You’ve heard it said the devil takes care of his own; Bill and Motoza are old friends and have been in more than one shady job. I can’t know, but I think Bill must have larned or suspicioned that the Sioux warn’t fur off and he set out to hunt him up. Anyway they managed to come together, and the job was fixed up atween ’em. Howsumever,” said the guide, “there ain’t no use of talking and guessing over what has been, but we must face what is. Now, if Doctor Greenwood has word by telegraph that he must pay five thousand dollars to git his younker back agin, what’ll he think?”

  “He will think that this has been a pretty expensive outing for Fred,” replied Jack, whose buoyancy of spirits prompted his trivial answer.

  “Will he pay the money?”

  “Yes, and twice as much more, if it is necessary; but won’t he be startled and puzzled to know the meaning of it all! He will come right out here himself and bring some of the best detectives in the country.”

  “And if he does that, he’ll never see his boy alive.”

  Jack looked at Hazletine in alarm and amazement. The cowman saw phases of this extraordinary business that had not presented themselves to the youth, and he now proceeded to impress them upon him. In the first place, the cunning Tozer would make sure of protecting himself and Motoza, though the last was purely a matter of policy and self interest, since he was always ready to sacrifice a comrade. In arranging the ransom or exchange, Tozer would take no chances. The friends of Fred Greenwood would have to remain out of sight and in the background. It would be impossible for any of them to try to checkmate him without his quickly learning it, whereupon he would abandon the job and turn over the boy to the savage will of the Sioux.

  “And you know what that means,” added the cowman, impressively. “I should tell you something else, too. It’s my belief that if the money is give to Tozer, and the Sioux is ordered to surrender the younker, he hates him that bad that he’ll try to bring about his death and run the chances of hanging for it. Where two such wretches as him and Tozer are in a job there’s bound to be crooked work, and I won’t never believe you’re going to shake the hand of t’other younker till I see it done with my own eyes.”

  The emphasis of this declaration sent a thrill of alarm through the frame of Jack Dudley, though it could not wholly destroy the exhilaration caused by the knowledge that Fred Greenwood was alive.

  It was proof of the kindliness of Hank Hazletine that he made no mention of a strong suspicion that had been in his mind from the first. This was that when Tozer met Motoza he learned that the Sioux had already slain his prisoner, for Hank knew of the furious hate the fellow held toward the youth. Consequently, Tozer had arran
ged to carry out his original scheme, and was now seeking to gain a large sum of money, knowing that it was out of his power ever to fulfill his part of the bargain.

  Hazletine, we repeat, strongly believed that this ghastly phase of the business was true, but, inasmuch as there was no certainty of it, he was too considerate to bring additional grief to the heart of Jack Dudley.

  But the cowman had formed a resolution which he carefully held back from his companion. An interval of twenty-four hours must pass before the second interview with Tozer, during which, as the latter was given to understand, the negotiation would be left wholly with him. Hank and Jack were to remain quiescent, at least until after the next meeting. But the cowman nursed a very different determination. He intended to employ all the time and the utmost ability he possessed in defeating the atrocious plot of the miscreants. It will be seen that the easiest plan for him was quietly to help forward the negotiations, but his nature forbade such meek submissiveness on his part.

  This course, however, was perilous to the missing boy; for, if Tozer or Motoza saw himself in danger of losing the prize, he would make short work of the prisoner. It was clear that all the skill and woodcraft of which the cowman was master would be needed in the delicate task he had assigned to himself.

  “Younker,” he said, when the conversation had continued a while longer, “after thinking over this bus’ness, I’ve made up my mind it’s better we should keep apart fur the day.”

  “Follow your own judgment. I shall try to be back this evening.”

  “To-morrer morning will be time ’nough. I had my supper last night not fur from here, and if the wild animals haven’t visited the spot since, we shall find ’nough to make a square meal.”

  This was acceptable news, and the result all that could be desired. Hank had cooked a considerable quantity of venison at a romantic place among the rocks, his first intention being to carry enough of it to headquarters to supply his young friends with what they needed. Afterward he changed his mind and decided that it was time they learned to provide for themselves. Upon making his way to the spot he found everything as it had been left the previous evening, and thus much more readily than Jack had dared to expect he secured the needed food.