The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  The conceit was so odd that both boys smiled.

  “That certainly is a curious way to punish a man for doing a wrong. It seems to me that, since he had so much to do with abducting Fred, he ought to be arrested, tried, and punished. He should be made to suffer for his crime.”

  Hank showed his hard sense by replying:

  “I don’t deny that, but there’s no way of punishing him. He hasn’t done a thing fur which you could make the court say he’s guilty. The younker there that spent more time than he liked in the canyon has never even seed Bill Tozer. What reason, then, has he fur saying Bill had anything to do with the bus’ness?”

  “Didn’t he admit as much to you?”

  “Not a word! He give himself away in his talk, but whenever he said anything ’bout things he reminded me it was all guesswork.”

  “Could not Motoza be made to swear against him?”

  “He might, and he might not. If he did, why, Bill would swear t’other way, and make it look as if he was trying to play the friend for the younker. It would be like some folks, after the thing was over, proposing to buy Bill a gold medal fur showing himself such a good and noble man. No; my plan is best. When I give him the laugh he’ll feel worse than if he was sent up fur ten years.”

  “It looks as if there is no other way of punishing him,” remarked Fred; “but the case is different with Motoza.”

  “Wal, rather!”

  It would be impossible to convey a true idea of the manner of Hank Hazletine when he uttered these words. He nodded his head, clinched his free hand, and his eyes seemed to flash fire.

  “Do you mean to kill him, Hank?”

  “O, no,” was the scornful response; “I’m going to take his hand and tell him how much I love him. I’ll wipe the paint off one cheek, so as to make room fur a brotherly kiss. I’ll send him to your folks, that you may have him for a playmate. He’ll be so sweet and nice among the little younkers. That’s what I’ll do with dear Motoza!”

  It was impossible not to read the terrible purpose that lay behind all this. The boys made no mistake. Jack Dudley shuddered, but was silent. He knew the miscreant richly merited the threatened retribution, and yet he wished it were not impending.

  Surely, if anyone was justified in calling down vengeance upon the head of the vagrant Sioux it was his victim—he who had felt his hatred, and whose physical sufferings must remind him of the same for weeks to come. But Fred Greenwood was in a gracious and forgiving mood. His heart throbbed when he recalled what he had so recently passed through, but he could not lose sight of the blessed fact that he had passed through it all. He was with his beloved comrade again, not much the worse for his experience. In truth he was a little homesick, and was stirred with sweet delight at the thought that, if all went well, he should be with his parents within the coming week.

  And yet he was oppressed by the thought that one of the results of his short visit to Wyoming was to be the death of a human being. He was sure he could never shake off the remembrance, and should he ever wish to return in the future to renew his hunt under more favorable conditions, the memory would haunt him. It mattered not that the wretch deserved to be executed for the crime, in the commission of which he had been interrupted before he could complete it. He was a savage, a heathen, a barbarian, who was following the light as he understood it. Why, therefore, should not mercy be shown to him?

  There are many things which Jack Dudley and Fred Greenwood have done during their youthful lives that are creditable to them, but there is none which gives the two greater pleasure than the remembrance of the moral victory gained in their argument with Hank Hazletine. Fred opened the plea, and his comrade quickly rallied to his help. Their aim was to convince their guide that it was wrong for him to carry out his purpose regarding the Sioux. That the fellow should be punished was not to be questioned, but it should be done in a legitimate way and by the constituted authorities. Hazletine insisted that the conditions were such that Motoza would never be thus punished, at least not to the extent he ought to be; therefore, it was the duty of Hazletine to attend to the matter himself.

  The argument lasted for two hours. The boys were able, bright and ingenious, but they had truth on their side, and by and by the grim cowman showed signs of weakening. What knocked the props from under him was the fact which he was compelled to admit that the Sioux was only following the teachings he had received from infancy; that he lacked the light and knowledge with which Hazletine had been favored; that it was the duty of the white people to educate, civilize and Christianize the red men, who have been treated with cruel injustice from the very discovery of our country.

  It cannot be said that the guide yielded with good grace, but yield he did, and the victory was secured. He pledged the boys not to offer any harm to Motoza for his last crime, and indeed would never harm him, unless it should become necessary in self defence.

  “But I s’pose you hain’t any ’bjection to my giving the laugh to Bill?” he said, with ludicrous dismay; “there ain’t nothing wrong in that, is there?”

  “Nothing at all,” replied the pleased Fred; “we shall enjoy it as much as you.”

  “Which the same being the case, it’s time you went to sleep; I’ll keep watch and call you when I git ready.”

  Bidding their friend good-night, the boys wrapped themselves in their blankets and speedily sank into slumber.

  The kind-hearted guide did not disturb either, and when they opened their eyes the sun was in the sky. Fred Greenwood was in a bad shape with his swollen and lacerated feet, but his naturally rugged frame recovered rapidly from the trying strain to which it had been subjected. He proved that his appetite was as vigorous as ever, and was eager to reach the ranch with the least possible delay. Hank promised him no time should be wasted.

  A lookout was kept for Bill Tozer, the boys remaining in the cavern, where they could not be seen. There was the possibility, of course, that the man had learned of the escape of the young prisoner, but all doubt was removed when, at the appointed time, he appeared on the edge of the plateau and strode confidently to the point where Hazletine, just outside the cavern, awaited his coming.

  The two shook hands and immediately got down to business. The scamp felt that he commanded the situation and he was disposed to push matters.

  “I’ve been thinking over what you said yesterday,” remarked the guide, “and have made up my mind that I can’t do it.”

  “You can’t, eh? It’s the only thing you can do; Motoza insists that the price shall be ten thousand dollars, but I’ll stick by the original agreement and call it half that sum.”

  “Let me see,” said the cowman, thoughtfully; “you promise to give us back the younker safe and sound, provided his friends hand you five thousand dollars?”

  “That’s it; you understand the whole business. You know, of course, Hank, that I’m only acting as the friend—”

  “Don’t git over any more of that stuff, Bill. Are we to give you the money afore you produce the younker?”

  “Certainly; that’s the only way to do business.”

  “S’pose you bring him, and then I’ll ask his folks if they want to make you a present of five thousand dollars—how’ll that work?”

  Tozer broke into laughter.

  “You ought to be ashamed to talk such nonsense. The only way by which you can see your young friend again is to hand us the money, give a pledge not to ask any questions or try to punish Motoza or me—”

  The jaw of the man suddenly dropped and he ceased speaking, for at that moment he saw Jack Dudley and his limping companion walk out from the cavern and smilingly approach.

  The whole truth flashed upon him. He was outwitted as he had never been outwitted before in all his life. Without speaking a syllable, he wheeled around and started at a rapid stride across the plateau toward the point where he had first appeared, with feelings which it is impossible to imagine.

  And didn’t Hank Hazletine “give him the laugh?” He ben
t over with mirth, staggering backward until he had to place his hand against the side of the cavern to save himself from falling. It really seemed as if his uproarious mirth must have penetrated a mile in every direction, and it did not cease until some minutes after the discomfited victim had disappeared. Jack and Fred laughed, too, until their sides ached; and who shall deny that there was not full cause for their merriment?

  An hour later, the ponies, saddled and bridled, were threading their way out of the foot-hills for the ranch, which was reached without further incident. There the boys remained several days until Fred had recovered to a large extent from his hurts, when they rode to the station at Fort Steele, where they shook hands with the honest Hank Hazletine and bade him good-by.

  And thus it came about that on the first Monday in the following November Jack Dudley and Fred Greenwood were in their respective seats at school, as eager and ambitious to press their studies as they had been to visit Bowman’s ranch, in Southwestern Wyoming, in which ranch, by the way, they advised Mr. Dudley to retain his half-ownership.

  “It’s worth all it cost you, father,” said Jack, “and perhaps one of these days you will want the V. W. W. to go out and take another look at it.”

  “Perhaps,” was the dubious reply of the parent.

  THE RANGER

  OR, THE FUGITIVES OF THE BORDER

  CHAPTER I.

  ZEB AND HIS MASTER.

  At the southern part of Ohio, where the river of that name swerves from its south-western course, and makes a sweeping bend toward the north-west, many years ago stood a large and imposing dwelling. Its character, so different and superior to others found here and there along the Ohio, showed that its owner must have been a man both of superior taste and abundant means. It had been built by Sir William Leland, who had emigrated from Europe with his young wife, and erected a home in the western wilderness. Here they lived a goodly number of days; and when, at last, they took their departure within a year of each other, they left behind them a son and daughter to cherish and inherit their home.

  George Leland, at the time of which we speak, was but twenty, while his sister Rosalind was three years his junior. Yet both, with the assistance of a faithful negro servant, managed to live quite comfortably. The soil was exceedingly rich, and, with a little pains, yielded abundantly every thing that could be wished, while the river and wood were unfailing resources. Three years had elapsed since the elder Leland’s death, and during that time, although living in a country swarming with Indians, nothing had occurred to alarm the fears of our friends, or even to give them the slightest suspicion that danger threatened them.

  When Sir William settled in this section, he followed the example of the great founder of Pennsylvania, and purchased every foot of his land from those who claimed it; and, in addition to the liberal remuneration which each received, they were given some charming present by their pale-faced brother. This secured their friendship; and, although many miles intervened between the whites and their nearest kindred, yet they had nothing to fear from the savages who surrounded them. Thus matters stood when George and Rosalind were left orphans, some years before the opening of our story.

  It was a pleasant day in early summer that George and his sister were seated in front of their house. The sun was just setting, and they had remained thus a long time. Zeb, the negro, was absent for the time, and they were thus undisturbed.

  “Do you really think,” pursued the sister, “it can be true that the Indians have perpetrated the outrages which have been reported?”

  “I should be glad to think differently, could I have reason for doing so; but these reports certainly have foundation; and what is more alarming, the suspicion that we are not safe, which was awakened some time ago, is now confirmed. For two or three days I have detected suspicious appearances, and Zeb informed me that he discovered a couple of savages lurking around the edge of the forest. I fear there is strong reason to apprehend danger.”

  “But, brother, will not the kindness which our parents showed them while living be a guaranty of our protection?”

  “It may, to some extent; but you must remember that there are hundreds of Indians who have never seen or heard of them, who would not hesitate to kill or take us prisoners at the first opportunity.”

  “Can it be possible?”

  “It is not only possible but true. You remember Roland Leslie, who was here last summer? Yesterday I saw him up the river, and he gave me the information that I have repeated. At first I deferred mentioning it to you, for the reason that I did not wish to alarm you until it could not be avoided.”

  “Why did he not come here?” asked the sister.

  “He said that he should shortly visit us. He had heard rumors of another massacre some miles up the river, and wished to satisfy himself in regard to it before calling here. Leslie, although young, is an experienced hunter and backwoodsman, and I have not much fear for his personal safety. He assured me that, should he find the Indians above ravaging the country as fearfully as reported, he would immediately return to us.”

  “I hope so,” earnestly replied Rosalind.

  “Still,” continued George, “what can we do, even then? He intends to bring a hunter back with him, and that will make only three of us against perhaps a thousand savages.”

  “But have we not the house to protect us?”

  “And have they not the forest? Can they not lurk around until we die of hunger, or until they fire the building? There are a hundred contingencies that will bar an escape, while I confess no prospect of getting safely away presents itself.”

  “We have arms and ammunition,” said Rosalind. “Of course Leslie and his friend are good marksmen, and why can we not do enough to deter and intimidate the savages? Finding us well prepared, they will doubtless retreat and not disturb us again. I hope the trouble will soon be over.”

  “I hope so too; but it is hoping against hope. This war will be a long and bloody one, and when it is over the country will present a different appearance. Many lives must be lost ere it is done, and perhaps ours are among that number.”

  “Perhaps so, brother; but do not be so depressed. Let us hope and pray for the best. It is not such a sad thing to die, and the country which has given us birth has certainly a strong claim upon us.”

  “Noble girl,” exclaimed George, “it is so, and we have no cause for murmuring.”

  At this moment Zeb appeared. He was a short, dumpy, thick-set negro, with a most luxuriant head of wool, a portion of which hung around his head in small, close braids, resembling bits of decayed rope. His eyes were large and protruding, and his face glistened like a mirror. He was a genuine African. Some of their qualities in him were carried to the extreme. Instead of being a coward, as is often the case with his nation, he seemed never to know when there really was danger. He always was reckless and careless, and seemed to escape by accident.

  “Heigh! massa George, what’s up?” he exclaimed, observing the solemn appearance of the two before him.

  “Nothing but what is known to you, Zeb. We were just speaking of the danger which you are aware is threatening us. Have you seen anything lately to excite suspicion?”

  “Nothin’ worth speakin’ of,” replied he, seating himself in front of George and Rosalind.

  “What was it, Zeb?” asked the latter.

  “When I’s out tendin’ to things, I t’ought as how I’d sit down and rest, and ’cordin’ly I squats on a big stone. Purty soon de stone begin to move, and come to look, ’twas a big Injin.

  “‘Heigh!’ says I, ‘what you doin’ here?’

  “‘Ugh!’ he grunted.

  “‘Yes, I’ll “ugh!” you,’ says I, ‘if I cotches you here ag’in.’ With dat I pitches him two, free rods off, and tells him to make tracks fur home.”

  “Heavens! if you would only tell the truth, Zeb. Did you really see an Indian, though?”

  “’Deed I did, and he run when he see’d me in arnist.”

  “And you
saw others yesterday, did you?” remarked Rosalind.

  “Two or free, down toward de woods. I spied ’em crawlin’ and smellin’ down dar, and axes dem dar business. Dey said as how dey’s lookin’ for a jack-knife dat dey lost dar last summer. I told ’em dat dey oughter be ’shamed demselves to be smellin’ round dat way; and to provide against dar doin’s in future, I give dem each a good kick and sent dem away.”

  “Do not exaggerate your story so much,” said Rosalind. “Give the truth and nothing else.”

  “Qua’r, folks won’t believe all dis pusson observes,” said he, with an offended air.

  “Tell the truth and they will in all cases; but should you deceive once, you will always be suspected afterward.”

  “Dat’s it,” commenced the negro, spreading out his broad hand like an orator to illustrate the point. “If I tells de truf dey’re sure to t’ink I’s lyin’, and what’s de use?”

  “Zeb,” commenced George, not regarding the last remark, “you, as well as we, are aware that we are encompassed by peril. You have seen that the Indians are constantly prowling around, and evidently for no good purpose. What would you advise us to do under the circumstances?”

  “Give ’em all a good floggin’ and set ’em to work,” he replied.

  “Come, come, Zeb, we want no jesting,” interrupted Rosalind.

  “Dar ’tis ag’in. Who war jestin’? Dat’s what I t’ink is de best. Give ’em a good lickin’, and set ’em to work clearin’ off de wood till dar spunk is gone.”

  “Fudge!” said George, impatiently, turning his back toward Zeb, whose head ducked down with a chuckle.

  “Rosalind,” said George, “the best plan is certainly to wait until Leslie returns, which will be either tomorrow or the next day. We will then determine upon what course to pursue. Perhaps we shall be undisturbed until that time. If not, it cannot be helped.”

  “Wished dis pusson warn’t so hungry,” remarked Zeb, picking up a stick and whittling it.