CHAPTER XVI
THE RESCUE OF MISS SPENCER
While Hampton lingered between life and death, assiduously waited uponby both Naida and Mrs. Guffy, Brant nursed his burns, far more seriousthan he had at first supposed, within the sanctity of his tent, longingfor an order to take him elsewhere, and dreading the possibility ofagain having to encounter this girl, who remained to him so perplexingan enigma. Glencaid meanwhile recovered from its mania of lynch-law,and even began exhibiting some faint evidences of shame over what wasso plainly a mistake. And the populace were also beginning to exhibitno small degree of interest in the weighty matters which concerned thefast-culminating love affairs of Miss Spencer.
Almost from her earliest arrival the extensive cattle and mininginterests of the neighborhood became aggressively arrayed against eachother; and now, as the fierce personal rivalry between Messrs. Moffatand McNeil grew more intense, the breach perceptibly widened. Whilethe infatuation of the Reverend Mr. Wynkoop for this same fascinatingyoung lady was plainly to be seen, his chances in the race were notseriously regarded by the more active partisans upon either side. Asthe stage driver explained to an inquisitive party of tourists, "He 'sa mighty fine little feller, gents, but he ain't got the git up an' gitnecessary ter take the boundin' fancy of a high-strung heifer like her.It needs a plum good man ter' rope an' tie any female critter in thisTerritory, let me tell ye."
With this conception of the situation in mind, the citizens generallysettled themselves down to enjoy the truly Homeric struggle, freelywagering their gold-dust upon the outcome. The regular patrons of theMiners' Retreat were backing Mr. Moffat to a man, while those claimingheadquarters at the Occidental were equally ardent in their support ofthe prospects of Mr. McNeil. It must be confessed that Miss Spencerflirted outrageously, and enjoyed life as she never had done in theeffete East.
In simple truth, it was not in Miss Spencer's sympathetic dispositionto be cruel to any man, and in this puzzling situation she exhibitedall the impartiality possible. The Reverend Mr. Wynkoop always feltserenely confident of an uninterrupted welcome upon Sunday eveningsafter service, while the other nights of the week were evenlyapportioned between the two more ardent aspirants. The delvers aftermineral wealth amid the hills, and the herders on the surroundingranches, felt that this was a personal matter between them, and actedaccordingly. Three-finger Boone, who was caught red-handed timing theexact hour of Mr. Moffat's exit from his lady-love's presence, wasindignantly ducked in the watering-trough before the Miners' Retreat,and given ten minutes in which to mount his cayuse and get safelyacross the camp boundaries. He required only five. Bad-eye Connelly,who was suspected of having cut Mr. McNeil's lariat while thatgentleman tarried at the Occidental for some slight refreshments whileon his way home, was very promptly rendered a fit hospital subject byan inquisitive cowman who happened upon the scene.
On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings the Miners' Retreat was ascene of wild hilarity, for it was then that Mr. Moffat, gorgeouslyarrayed in all the bright hues of his imported Mexican outfit, his longsilky mustaches properly curled, his melancholy eyes vast wells ofmysterious sorrow, was known to be comfortably seated in the Herndonparlor, relating gruesome tales of wild mountain adventure which paledthe cheeks of his fair and entranced listener. Then on Tuesday,Thursday, and Saturday nights, when Mr. McNeil rode gallantly in on hisyellow bronco, bedecked in all the picturesque paraphernalia of theboundless plains, revolver swinging at thigh, his wide sombreroshadowing his dare-devil eyes, the front of the gay Occidental blazedwith lights, and became crowded to the doors with enthusiastic herdersdrinking deep to the success of their representative.
It is no more than simple justice to the fair Phoebe to state that shewas, as her aunt expressed it, "in a dreadful state of mind." Betweenthese two picturesque and typical knights of plain and mountain shevibrated, unable to make deliberate choice. That she was ardentlyloved by each she realized with recurring thrills of pleasure; that sheloved in return she felt no doubt--but alas! which? How perfectlydelightful it would be could she only fall into some desperate plight,from which the really daring knight might rescue her! That would cutthe Gordian knot. While laboring in this state of indecision she musthave voiced her ambition in some effective manner to the partiesconcerned, for late one Wednesday night Moffat tramped heavily into theMiners' Retreat and called Long Pete Lumley over into a deserted cornerof the bar-room.
"Well, Jack," the latter began expectantly, "hev ye railly got thecinch on that cowboy at last, hey?"
"Dern it all, Pete, I 'm blamed if I know; leastwise, I ain't got nosure prove-up. I tell ye thet girl's just about the toughest piece o'rock I ever had any special call to assay. I think first I got hergood an' proper, an' then she drops out all of a sudden, an' I lose thelead. It's mighty aggravating let me tell ye. Ye see it's this way.She 's got some durn down East-notion that she's got ter be rescued,an' borne away in the arms of her hero (thet's 'bout the way she putsit), like they do in them pesky novels the Kid 's allers reading and soI reckon I 've got ter rescue her!"
"Rescue her from whut, Jack? Thar' ain't nuthin' 'round yere just nowas I know of, less it's rats."
The lover glanced about to make sure they were alone. "Well, ye see,Pete, maybe I 'm partly to blame. I 've sorter been entertainin' hernights with some stories regardin' road-agents an' things o' thet sort,while, so fur as I kin larn, thet blame chump of a McNeil hes beenfillin' her up scandalous with Injuns, until she 's plum got 'em on thebrain. Ye know a feller jist hes ter gas along 'bout somethin' likethet, fer it's no fool job ter entertain a female thet's es frisky es ayoung colt. And now, I reckon as how it's got ter be Injuns."
"Whut's got ter be Injuns?"
"Why thet outfit whut runs off with her, of course. I reckon youfellers will stand in all right ter help pull me out o' this hole?"
Long Pete nodded.
"Well, Pete, this is 'bout whut's got ter be done, es near es I kinfigger it out. You pick out maybe half a dozen good fellers, who kinkeep their mouths shet, an' make Injuns out of 'em. 'Tain't likely she'll ever twig any of the boys fixed up proper in thet sorteroutfit--anyhow, she'd be too durned skeered. Then you lay fer her, say'bout next Wednesday, out in them Carter woods, when she 's comin' homefrom school. I 'll kinder naturally happen 'long by accident 'bout thehead o' the gulch, an' jump in an' rescue her. _Sabe_?"
Lumley gazed at his companion with eyes expressive of admiration. "Bythunder, if you haven't got a cocoanut on ye, Jack! Lord, but thetought to get her a flyin'! Any shootin'?"
"Sure!" Moffat's face exhibited a faint smile at these words ofpraise. "It wouldn't be no great shucks of a rescue without, an' thishes got ter be the real thing. Only, I reckon, ye better shoot high,so thar' won't be no hurt done."
When the two gentlemen parted, a few moments later, the conspiracy wasfully hatched, all preliminaries perfected, and the gallant rescue ofMiss Spencer assured. Indeed, there is some reason now to believe thatthis desirable result was rendered doubly certain, for as Moffat movedslowly past the Occidental on his way home, a person attired in chapsand sombrero, and greatly resembling McNeil, was in the back room,breathing some final instructions to a few bosom friends.
"Now don't--eh--any o' you fellers--eh--go an' forget the place. Jumpin--eh--lively. Just afore she--eh--gits ter thet thickbunch--eh--underbrush, whar' the trail sorter--eh--drops down inter theravine. An' you chumps wanter--eh--git--yerselves up so she can't pipeany of ye off--eh--in this yere--eh--road-agent act. I tell ye, afterwhat thet--eh--Moffat's bin a-pumpin' inter her, she's just got terbe--eh--rescued, an' in blame good style, er--eh--it ain't no go."
"Oh, you rest easy 'bout all thet, Bill," chimed in Sandy Winn, hisblack eyes dancing in anticipation of coming fun. "We 'll git up theornariest outfit whut ever hit the pike."
The long shadows of the late afternoon were already falling across thegloomy Carter woods, while the red sun sank lower behind old BullMountain. The Reverend
Howard Wynkoop, who for more than an hour pasthad been vainly dangling a fishing-line above the dancing waters ofClear Creek, now reclined dreamily on the soft turf of the high bank,his eyes fixed upon the distant sky-line. His thoughts were on theflossy hair and animated face of the fair Miss Spencer, who hemomentarily expected would round the edge of the hill, and so deeplydid he become sank in blissful reflection as to be totally oblivious toeverything but her approach.
Just above his secret resting-place, where the great woods deepen, andthe gloomy shadows lie darkly all through the long afternoons, a smallparty of hideously painted savages skulked silently in ambush.Suddenly to their strained ears was borne the sound of horses' hoofs;and then, all at once, a woman's voice rang out in a single shrill,startled cry.
"Whut is up?" questioned the leading savage, hoarsely. "Is he a-doin'this little job all by hisself?"
"Dunno," answered the fellow next him, flipping his quirt uneasily;"but I reckon as how it's her as squealed, an' we 'd better be gittingin ter hev our share o' the fun."
The "chief," with an oath of disgust, dashed forward, and his bandsurged after. Just below them, and scarcely fifty feet away, ahalf-score of roughly clad, heavily bearded men were clustered in thecentre of the trail, two of their number lifting the unconscious formof a fainting woman upon a horse.
"Cervera's gang, by gosh!" panted the leading savage. "How did theygit yere?"
"You bet! She's up agin the real thing," ejaculated a voice besidehim. "Let's ride 'em off the earth! Whoop!"
With wild yells to awaken fresh courage, the whole band plungedheadlong down the sharp decline, striking the surprised "road-agents"with a force and suddenness which sent half of them sprawling.Revolvers flashed, oaths and shouts rang out fiercely, men clinchedeach other, striking savage blows. Lumley grasped the leader of theother party by the hair, and endeavored to beat him over the head withhis revolver butt. Even as he uplifted his hand to strike, the man'sbeard fell off, and the two fierce combatants paused as thoughthunderstruck.
"Hold on yere, boy!" yelled Lumley. "This yere is some blame joke.These fellers is Bill McNeil's gang."
"By thunder! if it ain't Pete Lumley," ejaculated the other. "Whut didye hit me fer, ye long-legged minin' jackass?"
The explanation was never uttered. Out from the surrounding gloom ofunderbrush a hatless, dishevelled individual on foot suddenly dashedinto the centre of that hesitating ring of horsemen. With skilfultwist of his foot he sent a dismounted road-agent spinning overbackward, and managed to wrench a revolver from his hand. There was ablaze of red flame, a cloud of smoke, six sharp reports, and a wildstampede of frantic horsemen.
Then the Reverend Howard Wynkoop flung the empty gun disdainfully downinto the dirt, stepped directly across the motionless outstretchedbody, and knelt humbly beside a slender, white-robed figure lying closeagainst the fringe of bushes. Tenderly he lifted the fair head to histhrobbing bosom, and gazed directly down into the white, unconsciousface. Even as he looked her eyes unclosed, her body trembling withinhis arms.
"Have no fear," he implored, reading terror in the expression of herface. "Miss Spencer--Phoebe--it is only I, Mr. Wynkoop."
"You! Have those awful creatures gone?"
"Yes, yes; be calm, I beg you. There is no longer the slightestdanger. I am here to protect you with my life if need be."
"Oh, Howard--Mr. Wynkoop--it is all so strange, so bewildering; mynerves are so shattered! But it has taught me a great, great lesson.How could I have ever been so blind? I thought Mr. Moffat and Mr.McNeil were such heroes, and yet now in this hour of desperate peril itwas you who flew gallantly to my rescue! It is you who are the trueWestern knight!"
And Mr. Wynkoop gazed down into those grateful eyes, and modestlyconfessed it true.
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