The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  Tom and Jim were captivated by his radiant pictures, and determined to accept his invitation, whether their parents consented or not. The near approach of the time set for their entrance at the high school made the prospect in that direction too distasteful to be faced.

  While they were still hesitating, with vivid recollections of the dismal failure of their earlier years, another letter came from Bob Budd. He told them he had not only selected the spot for their camp, but that the tent was up, and it was well stocked with refreshments of both a solid and liquid nature. He had painted a big sign, which was suspended to the ridge-pole and bore the legend,

  “CAMP OF THE PIKETON RANGERS.”

  This was not only ornamental, but served as a warning to all trespassers.

  “Everything is ready,” wrote Bob, “and every day’s delay is just so much taken from the sport and enjoyment that await you. Come at once, boys, and you’ll never regret it.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  FELLOW-PASSENGERS

  The two decided to give Bob Budd a surprise. They said it would be hard for them to get away, and more than likely they would have to wait several weeks before the matter could be decided. This letter was followed at once by themselves, and they were now within a few miles of Bob’s home without his suspecting anything of the kind.

  Having informed themselves fully, they rode to a station not far from Piketon, where they got off, leaving their trunks to go to the town, while they spent a half-day in hunting. Their luck was so poor that they gave it up, and were glad to use the stage for the rest of the journey.

  “What time are you due in Piketon?” asked Jim of the driver.

  “Half-past eight.”

  “That’s a good deal after dark.”

  “So it is, at this time of the year, and it’s going to be dark sooner than usual.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Don’t you notice how it has clouded up this afternoon? A big storm is coming and we’re going to catch it afore we strike Piketon.”

  “Well,” growled Wagstaff, “that isn’t pleasant; we were fools, Jim, that we didn’t stay in the train; but we can shut ourselves in with the curtains and let the driver run things.”

  “I reckon I haven’t druv over this road for twenty-five years,” said Lenman, “without striking a storm afore tonight.”

  “Sartinly, sartinly,” added Ethan Durrell; “life must have its shadows as well as sunshine, though I don’t like to be catched on a lonely road this way. I say, Bill,” he added, in a half-frightened voice,“are you troubled with any such pesky things as highway robbers?”

  “If you hadn’t asked me that question I wouldn’t have said anything about it; but I’ve been stopped and held up, as they say, just like them chaps out West.”

  “You don’t say so!” exclaimed the New Englander, while the young men on the back seat became interested.

  “I didn’t suppose you were ever troubled in this part of the world by such people,” said Wagstaff.

  “We aint often, but what place can you name where you don’t find bad people?”

  “How long ago was it you were held up?” asked Ethan.

  “About six months; fact is, I’ve felt shaky for the last week.”

  “Why so?” asked Wagstaff.

  “I’ve seen a suspicious character down in Black Bear Swamp.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s a piece of woods we pass through afore we reach Piketon; it jines the woods where you tell me Bob Budd has put up the tent, but it curves round and reaches the hills on t’other side.”

  The words of the driver deeply interested all three of the passengers. The knowledge that, though in the State of Pennsylvania, and in a section fairly well settled, they were in danger of being “held up” in the most approved style of the wild West was enough to startle any one.

  “Tell us all about it,” persisted Wagstaff, lighting a new cigarette, and leaning forward to catch the reply.

  “There isn’t much to tell,” replied the driver; “’cept there’s a holler close to t’other side of Black Bear Swamp, and three times in the past week, when I was passing, I’ve seen a tall, slim man moving around among the trees and watching me, tryin’ at the same time to keep me from seeing him.”

  “But if he was a robber—”

  “Who said he was a robber?” demanded Lenman, turning and looking sharply at the young man.

  “You said he was a suspicious character, and what else could he be?” demanded Wagstaff.

  “Perhaps a tramp, but I’ll admit I have thought it likely he was a man looking for a chance to rob the stage.”

  “Why didn’t he do it then?”

  “It happened that on each of the times I hadn’t a single passenger with me.”

  “And now you’ve got three,” remarked McGovern. “Well, I hope he will attack us tonight.”

  “What’ll you do if he does?” asked the New Englander.

  “Don’t you see we’ve each got a rifle? Beside that, Tom and I carry a Smith & Wesson apiece, and all our weapons are loaded; that fellow won’t have time to call out for us to give up our valuables before he’ll be filled as full of holes as a sieve.”

  “My gracious! you wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “Just give us a chance, that’s all,” said Wagstaff, with a shake of his head.

  Had the young men been watching Durrell and the driver at that moment, they would have seen a singular look pass between the two. It might have meant nothing, and it might have signified a good deal. No words were spoken, but the expression of their faces, to say the least, was peculiar.

  “I should have said,” continued the driver, “that the chap may have learned something about that box, which was expected at Belmar, and which I was to take to Piketon with me.”

  “What box?” asked Wagstaff.

  “The one that is strapped onto the rear of the stage.”

  “Jingo!” muttered Jim, “things are beginning to look dubious.”

  “As I was about to say,” continued the driver, “if that chap has made up his mind to hold us up—and it looks mighty like it—this is the night it will be done.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Haven’t I got three passengers for Piketon, which is the biggest number I’ve took through in a couple of weeks, and, more’n all, that box is with me? The night is going to be as dark as a wolf’s mouth, and when we strike Black Bear Swamp—”

  “Why do they call it Black Bear Swamp?” asked Durrell.

  “I don’t know of any reason, onless it is that there never was a black bear found there, though they’re up among the mountains, where there’s a deer now and then. But won’t the scamp be fooled, though?” chuckled the driver.

  “How’s that?”

  “I never carry any shooting-irons, but you’ve got enough for us all, and, when he sings out and you shove the muzzles of your guns forward and let drive, why the State will be saved a big expense.”

  “That’s so!” exclaimed Wagstaff, with a fierceness too vivid to be wholly genuine; “we’ve started out for a hunting trip with Bob Budd, and expect to bag all the bears and deer in the country, but we weren’t looking for stage robbers, because I don’t know that we have lost any, but if they choose to run into our way, why who’s to blame?”

  “That’s so,” assented his companion, who, in truth, regretted more than ever that they had not made the entire journey to Piketon by train instead of partly in the lumbering stage-coach.

  “It would be better,” he added, after a moment’s thought, “if the rogue had chosen the daytime.”

  “Why so?” queried the New Englander.

  “We can see to aim better.”

  “So can he, can’t he?”

  “Yes, but we would have prepared better than we can at night,” replied Wagstaff, nervously.

  “And it would be the same with him. If you’re afraid you can’t shoot straight, I’ll take one gun and Bill the other, and
you can crawl under the seats.”

  “Who’s talking about crawling under the seats—what’s that?”

  A peal of thunder rumbled overhead, and it was already beginning to grow dark. The afternoon was merging into night, which, as has been explained, was closing in sooner than usual, because of the cloudy sky.

  “We’re going to catch it afore we get home,” remarked the driver, glancing upward and twitching the lines, so as to force the team into a moderate trot.

  “Why don’t you hurry up your nags more, and get home sooner?” asked Wagstaff.

  “A good master is marciful to his beast; I aint likely to gain anything by hurrying, for the storm may come and be over afore we get to town, while the animals are so used to this work, that, if I made it a rule to push ’em now and then, they are likely to break down, and trade aint good enough for me to afford that.”

  “But if you should do it once, it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Another thing,” added the driver, as if the fact was a clincher to the discussion, “if we should go rattling through Black Bear Swamp ahead of time, that suspicious chap would miss us.”

  “Well?”

  “And we would miss him, which we don’t want to do. Being as you’ve got your guns and are so anxious to use ’em on him, why I won’t be mean enough to rob you of the chance.”

  CHAPTER IX

  DICK HALLIARD

  The conversation was not of a nature to improve the courage of the occupants of the stagecoach, for, when children spend an evening in exchanging ghost stories, they find the darkness of their bed-rooms more fearful than before.

  Since the young gentlemen on the rear seat began to believe that a meeting with a stage robber was quite certain to take place before reaching Piketon, they saw the need of an understanding all round.

  The driver repeated that he never carried firearms, for, if he did, he would be tempted to use them with the surety of getting himself into trouble.

  “If a man orders you to hold up your hands and you do it, why he aint going to hurt you,” was the philosophy of the old man; “all he’ll do is just to go through you; but if you have a gun or pistol, you’ll bang away with it, miss the chap, and then he’ll bore you; so it’s my rule, when them scamps come along, to do just as they tell me; a man’s life is worth more to him than all his money, and that’s me every time.”

  “But you might be quick enough to drop him first,” suggested Wagstaff, who would have preferred the driver to be not quite so convincing in his arguments.

  “Mighty little chance of that! You see the feller among the trees is all ready and waiting; he can take his aim afore you know he is there; now when you fellers fire at him it won’t do for you to miss—remember that!”

  “We don’t intend to,” replied McGovern.

  “Of course you don’t intend to, but the chances are that you will, and then it will be the last of you!”

  “But won’t you be apt to catch it on the front seat?”

  “Not a bit of it, for them chaps are quick to know where a shot comes from, and they always go for the one that fires; they know, too, that a stage driver never fights—helloa!”

  At that moment, a bicycle guided by a boy glided silently along the right of the stage, turning out just enough to pass the vehicle. The youth whose shapely legs were propelling it, slackened his gait so that for a few minutes he held his place beside the front wheels of the coach.

  He was a handsome, bright-faced youth about sixteen years old, who greeted the driver pleasantly, and, turning his head, saluted the others, without waiting for an introduction.

  “I’m afraid a storm is coming, and I shall have to travel fast to get home ahead of it; do you want to run a race with me, Bill?”

  “Not with this team,” replied the driver, “for we couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

  “I don’t know about that,” replied the boy, with a laugh; “there are plenty who can beat me on a bicycle.”

  “But there aint any of ’em in this part of the country, for I’ve seen too many of ’em try it. Bob Budd bragged that he would leave you out of sight, but you walked right away from him.”

  The boy blushed modestly and said:

  “Bob don’t practice as much as he ought; he’s a good wheelman, but he’s fonder of camping out in the woods, and I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a good deal more fun in it. I believe he expects some friends to go into camp with him.”

  “Them’s the chaps,” remarked the driver, jerking the butt of his whip toward the rear seat.

  The bicyclist bowed pleasantly to the young men, who were staring curiously at him and listening to the conversation. They nodded rather coldly in turn, for they had already begun to suspect the identity of this graceful, muscular lad, of whom they had heard much from Bob Budd.

  Their country friend had spoken of a certain Dick Halliard who was employed in the store of Mr. Hunter, the leading merchant in Piketon, and who was so well liked by the merchant that he had presented him with an excellent bicycle, on which he occasionally took a spin when he could gain the time.

  Bob, who detested young Halliard, had said enough to prove that he had taken the lead in all his studies at school and surpassed every boy in the section in running, swimming, ’cycling, and indeed, in all kinds of athletic sports. This was one reason for Bob’s dislike, but the chief cause was the integrity and manliness of young Halliard, who not only held no fear of the bully, but did not hesitate to condemn him to his face when he did wrong.

  “I hope you will have a good time in camp,” said Dick (for it was he), addressing the two city youths.

  “That’s what we’re out for,” replied Wagstaff, “and it won’t be our fault if we don’t; will you join us?” asked the speaker, producing his flask.

  “I’m obliged to you, but must decline.”

  “Maybe you think it isn’t good enough for you,” was the mean remark of Wagstaff.

  “I prefer water.”

  “Ah, you’re one of the good boys who don’t do anything naughty.”

  It was a mean remark on the part of Wagstaff, who was seeking a quarrel, but Dick Halliard showed his manliness by paying no heed to the slur.

  “Well,” said he, addressing the driver, “since you won’t run me a race, I shall have to try to reach home ahead of the storm. Good-bye all!”

  The muscular legs began moving faster, the big, skeleton-like wheel shot ahead of the stage, coming back into the middle of the highway, and the lad, with his shoulders bent forward, spun down the road with a speed that would have forced the fastest trotting horse to considerable effort.

  “By gracious!” exclaimed the New Englander, with his chin high in air, as he peered over the head of the driver, “that youngster beats anything of the kind I ever seen.”

  “I don’t s’pose they have those sort of playthings in your part of the world,” remarked Jim, with a sneer.

  “Yes, we have enough to send a few of ’em down your way for you folks to learn on. Bill, who is that chap?”

  “Dick Halliard, and there aint a finer boy in Piketon.”

  “He’s got a mighty fine face and figure.”

  “You’re right about that; I want to give you chaps a little advice,” added the driver, turning his head, so as to look into the countenance of the city youths; “I heerd what you said to him and he had sense enough not to notice it, but you’ll be wise if you let Dick Halliard alone.”

  “Is he dangerous?” asked Wagstaff, with a grin.

  “You will find him so, if you undertake to put onto him; mebbe he isn’t quite so old as you and mebbe he don’t smoke cigarettes and drink whisky, but I’ll bet this whole team that if either or both of you ever tackles him, you’ll think five minutes later that you’ve been run through a thrashing mill.”

  The youths were not disturbed by this bold statement, which neither believed.

  “You’re very kind,” said Tom, “and we won’t forget what you’ve said; when we see him comin
g ’long the road, we’ll climb a tree to get out of the way, or else run into the first house and lock the door.”

  Bill had said all he wished, and now gave his attention to his team. The thunder was rumbling almost continuously, and now and then a vivid streak of lightning zigzagged across the rapidly darkening sky. No rain fell, but the wind blew blinding clouds of dust across the highway and into the stage, where the occupants at times had to protect their eyes from it.

  A short distance from the road on the left was a low, old-fashioned stone house, but no other dwelling was in sight between the stage and Black Bear Swamp, which was no more than half a mile ahead, appearing dark and forbidding in the gathering gloom. The trees at the side of the highway swayed in the gusty wind, and, when the flying dust allowed them to see, Dick Halliard was observed far in advance like a speck in the distance. He was traveling with great speed, and the stage seemed to have gone no more than a hundred yards after the interview when the young wheelman disappeared.

  It was as if he had plunged under full headway right among the trees. Piketon lay about two miles beyond Black Bear Swamp, but since the width of the dense forest through which the public road wound its way was fully a fourth of a mile, it will be seen that a considerable drive was still before the stage.

  The passengers would have viewed their approach to the woods with relief, but for the fear of the highwayman. Its dense growth and abundant vegetation offered a partial protection from the storm, which promised to be violent; but the youths would have much preferred (had they dared to speak their sentiments) to stand bareheaded in the coming storm than to encounter that “suspicious” party, who they believed was awaiting their coming.

  CHAPTER X

  A STARTLING SUMMONS

  The stage was within a hundred yards of Black Bear Swamp when something like a tornado struck it. The horses stopped, and the vehicle was partly lifted from the ground. For an instant it seemed to be going over. The driver and the New Englander started with suppressed exclamations, while Wagstaff emitted a cry of alarm, as he and his companion attempted to leap out.