Futilely the brigand kicked, struggled and struck. His right hand was numbing in the steel grip that held him vise-like — his revolver was useless. The fingers at his throat were shutting off his breath, so that to his first anger and chagrin was now added a real terror for his life.
“No,” said the man upon his chest, “they never will believe me, unless I take with me some token of this delightful meeting — and what evidence more conclusive than the person of The Rider himself! Ah, just the thing, my dear fellow! You shall accompany me! In the flesh and blood, and by the word of your own mouth shall you attest to the truth of the fact that I was waylaid, in the dead of night, upon a lonely road by none other and none less than the redoubtable and uncapturable Rider.”
As he finished speaking he tightened his grip upon The Rider’s wrist until the unhappy man thought that the bones must splinter beneath those steel fingers. At the same time the pressure at his throat was lessened.
“Lay aside your weapon, my friend,” admonished the cheerful voice above him; “Lay it aside lest you harm yourself with so dangerous a plaything.”
The revolver slipped from the relaxing fingers of the bandit.
“Thank you,” said the voice.
The hand left The Rider’s throat, and felt over his person for other weapons. Finding none, it reached out and gathered in the revolver which The Rider had just relinquished, then the, weight was removed from the bandit’s chest as the other rose and stood beside him.
“Come, get up!” cried the victor. “My, but you are a slothful fellow!”
The Rider scrambled to his feet, and faced his conqueror.
“Who the devil are you?” he cried.
“I might be a hostler,” replied the other; “but a grocer’s clerk — never! Now that I have a revolver, I could borrow your mask and set up in business as a brigand, eh? What sort of highwayman do you think I’d make, my friend?”
The Rider mumbled an unintelligible reply. His pride had been sorely lacerated and he was in no very good humor.
“Come on, sunshine,” cried his captor, “let us mount and seek my friends,” and he motioned The Rider toward the latter’s horse which stood where the bandit had left it in the middle of the road.
Here the captor removed a second revolver from a saddle holster, slipped it inside his shirt, and swung into his own saddle as The Rider mounted.
“Where are you going to take me?” asked the crestfallen brigand.
“To the inn of that old rogue, Peter, where my friends are waiting for me this two hours.”
A smile curved the lips of The Rider. Peter’s Inn! More than one of The Rider’s friends would be there, too.
“And there you will vouch for my story, eh, Sunshine? that I was stopped upon the highroad by none other than the great Rider.”
As the two rode on in the direction of the inn The Rider’s captor kept up a good natured raillery at the expense of the bandit, while the latter, still aggrieved, answered only in monosyllables when a question was put to him and bided his time against their arrival at the place where he was sure he would find enough of his followers to insure escape, as well as punishment for this presumptuous hostler who had dared to turn the tables upon the terror of the highways.
Chapter Four
AT THE INN, Alexander, Nicholas, and Ivan had finished their wine and were preparing to take their departure in search of their missing friend. A dozen or more rough and unkempt fellows were drinking in the open bar room and mine host Peter, together with trig little Bakla, was bustling about wiping off table tops, removing empty mugs and glasses, and replacing them with filled ones.
In the smoke begrimed kitchen adjoining the bar Peter’s frowzy frau broiled with her steaks before a glowing grill. From the pipe between her toothless gums to the dirt upon her bare feet she was all athrob with the ecstasy of a true artist, for tonight she was preparing a dinner for the fine young gentlemen from the capitol, who could appreciate such culinary achievements as her’s. The swine she ordinarily cooked for knew nothing of the divine exquisiteness of the food she served them, yet, being a true artist who labors first for the love of art. Peter’s frau cooked as well for them as for the more appreciative, though with scarce the same enthusiasm.
Upon her artistic reveries now broke Bakla, with a rude interruption. The gentlemen were leaving. They had sent word that they would return when they had located their missing friend. Tillie threw up her hands in horror. The dinner would be spoiled! In fifteen minutes it would be ready to serve. She rushed toward the doorway leading into the barroom. She would explain. She would entreat the fine, young gentlemen to eat first and seek their friend later. Bakla trotted in the wake of her mistress. She, too, was perturbed; but not on account of the spoiled dinner. Bakla shared the uneasiness of the departing guests over the unaccountable tardiness of the missing friend — the tall, black haired, grey-eyed young man who smiled much and spoke always in a soft and kindly voice. He had been coming here to Peter’s Inn for many months, and though she did not know who he might be she was convinced that he was a very fine gentleman with a great deal of money and a large and generous heart. Many were the sighs that Bakla had heaved to the heroic figure of this guest of guests.
As Tillie and Bakla rushed into the bar-room the three young gentlemen were just slipping on their military capes as they crossed the sanded floor toward the doorway at the opposite side of the room.
At the same moment the door swung open and a tall figure, booted and spurred, filled the doorway.
The upper half of his face was hidden beneath a black mask. The three departing guests halted in the middle of the floor, and three hands flew to the hilts of three swords. The man at the doorway stepped within, disclosing another, equally as tall, directly behind him. At the sight of the face of the latter, Ivan gave voice to an exclamation of relief.
“Dimmie!” he cried. “It’s Dimmie! Where have you been? We were just setting out to look for you, and who the devil have you with you?”
Dimmie stepped into the room and bowed low to his friends and the assembled guests, servants, and hosts of Peter’s Inn.
“Permit me,” he said, “to present my very good friend The Rider!”
A chorus of exclamations greeted the introduction. The roughs rose from their tables and pressed forward, as did the three guardsmen, Peter, Tillie, and Bakla.
“The Rider!” exclaimed Bakla, clasping her little hands together in an ecstasy of thrills.
“He held me up upon the road, Alexander,” cried Dimmie. “I knew you would never believe me unless I brought proof, and so I persuaded my good friend to come along with me and assure you that it is indeed true that I have been waylaid by no less a person than the much talked of Rider. Eh, Sunshine, is it not true?” and the speaker turned toward his captive.
A surly looking fellow who had been sitting alone at a far table now shouldered his way through the crowd about the two new comers. His evil, little eyes scanned the faces of them both; and it is a matter open to dispute as to which of the figures caused him the greater astonishment.
The Rider saw him and hung his head. Then he looked up, caught the other’s eye, and surreptitiously touched the empty holster at his hip. The other raised his eyebrows in mingled surprise and understanding.
Ivan was also examining the two men. He noted that he of the mask was unarmed, while Dimmie carried a long, evil looking revolver half hidden behind him. Suddenly he burst into a loud laugh.
Alexander and Nicholas looked at him in surprise. The Rider glanced quickly over the faces of the assembled guests. Fully half were men of his own stamp with whom he was familiar in the vice haunts of the city; but only one, he of the small and evil eyes, knew that their city crony and The Rider were one and the same.
Suddenly the bandit snatched the mask from his face, revealing a countenance wherein intelligence and bestiality were oddly combined. The forehead was high and broad, the ears well set, but a trifle too small, the chin and mouth se
nsitive without weakness. The man’s nose and eyes were the least prepossessing of his features. The former was slightly bulbous, while the latter were small and close-set.
At sight of The Rider’s face a number of the rougher guests gave vent to expressions of astonished recognition, and exclamations of, “The Wolf,” fell from the lips of several.
“Yes,” said The Rider, “I am The Wolf, your old friend and comrade. Will you see me dragged off to prison by a handful of dandies — me, who could send the half of you to the halter if I chose?”
“That we’ll not,” growled one of the drinkers.
“Come, comrades, pluck these fine chickens and throw them out to the dogs. We do not want them here. Peter’s place belongs to us. What business have they here? Come!” and he stepped truculently forward toward him whom Ivan had addressed as Dimmie.
Tillie, a large grilling fork in one huge, red hand, ran screaming toward the speaker.
“Pig!” she cried, “what would you do? Chase away the only guests who have brains enough to know what they are putting into their stomachs and purses long enough to pay for what they eat and drink and I’ll have the rotten heart out of you!”
But the man was already beside Dimmie. One pawlike hand was clutching for the young man’s shoulder. Alexander, Nicholas, and Ivan sprang forward with cries of mingled rage and horrified warning. The Rider, seeing his opportunity, also turned upon his captor; but Dimmie, still smiling good naturedly, let drive a smashing right that caught the would be deliverer of The Rider full in the mouth and sent him sprawling backward upon the floor. Then he wheeled upon The Rider just as the latter seized him about the body, reached quickly over his shoulders, caught him around the waist, and, lifting him bodily from the floor, hurled him completely over his head.
In the mean time the three guardsmen were engaged with others of the roughs who had entered the fracas in the defense of their friends. No weapons had been drawn upon either side — as yet it was but a rough and tumble fist fight. The revolver which Dimmie had held when he entered the room he had slipped inside his shirt with its fellow, and now that he had disposed temporarily of the two who had attacked him he ran to the assistance of his friends.
Ivan and Nicholas were holding their own with ease; but three men had engaged Alexander at once, and he was in a fair way to being beaten into insensibility when Dimmie leaped upon the back of one of his adversaries, hurled him aside, and struck another a blow upon the chin that might have dropped a horse. As the third attempted to scramble from his path, the young man swung his foot in a kick that sent the fellow sprawling beneath a table.
Tillie, appalled by the dimensions and ferocity of the fracas, had retreated to the side of the room, where she stood with Bakla and the trembling Peter, wringing her hands and screaming out a torrent of invective. Beside her and next to Bakla stood the surly rough who had been the first to recognize The Rider. He had taken no part in the fight, and now one of his friends discovered him, and taunted him with his seeming cowardice.
The man muttered an oath, and turning to Bakla, said: “If the fools knew who they were fighting with they’d break all your windows trying to see which could get out of here first and lose himself in the woods.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bakla. “Can they not see that they are attacking officers of The Black Guard?”
“I don’t mean them fellows,” growled the man. “It’s the other — do you mean to say you don’t none of you know who he is?”
“Why of course I know who he is,” cried the girl. “He has been coming here for months — he is M. Dimmie.”
“M. Dimmie, hell,” cried the man. “That’s — ,” and he leaned close to Bakla’s ear and whispered a name that brought her eyes and mouth open in incredulous astonishment.
The fight seemed to be going all the guardsmen’s way, when The Rider bolted suddenly for the door. Dimmie sprang across a table in a mad effort to head off the escaping bandit, and the two met before the exit. Once again The Rider went down before the superior skill of his antagonist; and Dimmie turned with his back to the doorway as Alexander, Ivan, and Nicholas ran to his side.
A laugh was on the lips of the conqueror of the redoubtable highwayman as the latter crawled to his feet, nursing a bloody nose with one hand, and, turning to his friends, who were now grouped in sullen defiance before the bar, called to them to rush the four at the doorway and make good their escape.
“I was afraid the fun was over, Ivan,” said Dimmie; “but evidently it has only begun.”
“Come!” whispered Alexander, in his ear. “The door is behind us — let’s get out of here before any blood is spilled. The thing has gone far enough. These fellows are getting nasty, and there is no telling what may happen — there are more than a few knives and revolvers in that crowd.”
“Never!” cried Dimmie. “I am having the time of my life, old killjoy; and I’m going to stick for the finish. Run, if you want to — the door is there, and we will cover your retreat.”
Alexander flushed. “You know that I would not desert you,” he cried. “I only thought of the danger to your—”
“Sh-sh-sh!” admonished Dimmie with a gesture of arrogance. “Forget it!”
The roughs were advancing slowly across the bar-room, when one of them passing a table which had not been overturned in the previous scrimmage, seized an empty bottle and hurled it viciously at the four guardsmen. It grazed Dimmie’s head and splintered on the oak panel behind him. Instantly Alexander leaped in front of his friend, and drew his sword.
“Stop!” he cried. “This has gone far enough. In the king’s name, I command you to halt where you are!”
The answer to his order was a volley of glasses and bottles. Ivan seized a small table and raised it as a shield before them. Nicholas drew his sword and took his place on one side of the improvised barrier, while Alexander held the other.
At sight of the drawn weapons the crowd of cut-throats and thieves cast discretion to the winds. Knives flashed, and revolvers flourished. A sullen roar rose from the pack.
Dimmie, the inextinguishable smile still upon his lips, thrust aside his protectors, and stepped out before the menacing foe, one hand upraised for silence and attention.
“Hold, my friends,” he said “We have enjoyed a Pleasant evening. None more so than I. Let us not spoil it now by the spilling of blood.”
As he spoke a man stepped forward from the crowd advancing from the bar. A revolver glistened in his hand. Blood streamed down his brutal face from a wound above one eye. Behind him, unnoticed came Bakla.
“You have come here once too often, you dandies,” cried the fellow. “You have come looking for trouble; and now you’ve got it, and damn you you’re goin’ to get it good and plenty,” and with that he raised his weapon and leveled it at Dimmie.
Ivan cast the table aside, and he and Alexander and Nicholas sprang forward to throw themselves in front of their friend, to shield his body with their own from the bullet of the assassin; but trig little Bakla was quicker than any of them. Without a cry she leaped at the man as his finger closed downward upon the trigger. Her lithe figure dodged beneath his upraised arm, which she clutched with both her little hands. There was the sharp report of a shot; but the bullet buried itself in the ceiling instead of finding lodgment in the body of Dimmie for whom it had been intended.
Bakla, still clinging to the man’s arm, threw herself in front of him and facing the menacing roughs, raised her voice in protest and in censure.
“Are you crazy,” she cried,”that you would fit halters to your necks by threatening the life of the king’s son?”
“The what?” exclaimed the man whose arm she still held raised aloft.
“The Crown Prince, you fool,” snapped Bakla.
The man gazed stupidly at the three guardsmen and their friend, only the last of which was not in uniform.
“Which is the Crown Prince?” he asked.
“He,” and she pointed at Dimmie. “He is
Prince Boris.”
The roughs looked uneasily around at one another. One of them laughed scornfully. “That the crown prince?” he asked with a sneer.
“Yes,” spoke up he of the low brow and surly expression who had kept carefully out of the fracas from the moment that he had recognized Dimmie; “he’s Prince Boris. I ought to know him — I worked in the palace for five years.”
An uneasy silence fell upon the company. Those who had menaced the prince shuffled their feet about on the sanded floor and cast furtive glances in the direction of their future king, who stood, unsmiling now and rather ill at case since his identity had been revealed.
“I think we’d better go now,” suggested Alexander. “The thing has gone too far already; and the longer we stay the worse it may become — you’ll have a bad enough time explaining it to his majesty as it is, Dimmie.”
“Without our dinner?” asked Boris, ruefully. “No, I came for one of Tillie’s good dinners; and I’ll never leave until I’ve had it. Here, Peter, you old rogue, see what the gentlemen will drink,” and he waved his hand to include the whole company, “and Bakla, lay another plate at our table for my guest, if The Rider will honor us with his company?” and he turned with a bow toward the bandit.
“And then go back to Sovgrad and the halter?” demanded The Rider.
Boris drew the man’s two revolvers from his shirt and extended them toward him, butts first.
“Here are your weapons,” he said, pleasantly. “Take them as proof of my good faith. After we have dined each of us shall go his way unmolested, carrying only memories of a pleasant evening among friends. What do you say?”
“Done!” said The Rider.
The king’s son linked arms with the bandit and crossed the room past the bar where Peter was already busy serving drinks to the relieved brawlers, toward the little alcove in which Bakla was laying the fifth plate at the round table.
“You must have had many thrilling adventures,” said Boris to his guest, after the dinner and the wine had warmed the latter’s heart and loosed his naturally taciturn tongue. “Tell us of them.”
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 722
