Читать книгу: «Frank Merriwell's Triumph: or, The Disappearance of Felicia», страница 11

CHAPTER XVI.
CROWFOOT MAKES MEDICINE

Although taken by surprise, the man looked at his benumbed and bleeding hand a moment, then pulled from his neck a handkerchief tied there and wrapped it around the mutilated member. By this time Hodge had his own pistol out, and Bland was covered.

“You’re lucky to get off with your life, you treacherous cur!” he cried. “Now make tracks, and hurry about it, too.”

“All right,” said the leader of the ruffians, still with amazing coolness. “But you pays dear for this hand – you and the gent inside who fires the shot.”

With that he turned his back and hastily strode away, the handkerchief already dripping with blood and leaving a red trail behind him.

Hodge watched until the hurrying man disappeared down the valley. Reentering the cabin, he found old Joe standing near the table on which still lay Bart’s Winchester. The Indian had refilled his pipe and was smoking again in his most imperturbable manner.

“Crowfoot,” said Hodge, with sincere gratitude, “I owe you my life. It’s lucky for me you fired just when you did. An instant more and Bland would have shot me down. How did you happen to be so quick with the shot?”

“Look um rifle over,” grunted the old man. “Pick um rifle up. When Black Eyes him go out, Joe think mebbe white man act crooked. Joe watch him white man. When white man tries to shoot, Joe him shoot.”

“You’re a jewel, Crowfoot!” declared Bart; “but this thing will bring trouble to the cabin in a hurry. As soon as Bland can have his hand cared for, he will lead those ruffians over here to wipe us out. Now is your chance to get away.”

“Oh, no great hurry,” returned Crowfoot. “Plenty time, plenty time.”

“On the contrary, there may be very little time. If you’re going, you had better go at once.”

“Plenty time,” persisted the old man placidly. “Joe too old to hurry. They no come right away. Mebbe Joe him look around a little.”

As the old fellow was leaving the cabin, Bart called:

“Here’s your own rifle, Joe, standing in the corner. Don’t you want to take it?”

“Leave him there now,” returned the redskin. “Take him bimeby.”

Outside the door, leaning against the wall, were a pick and spade. To Bart’s surprise, the old man picked these implements up and shouldered them; after which he found Bland’s revolver where it had fallen on being knocked from the man’s hand by the bullet, and took that along. Crowfoot turned northward toward a tangled wild thicket, into which Bart saw him disappear.

“Well, of all peculiar things for him to do!” muttered Hodge, completely puzzled. “What the dickens is he up to?”

This question bothered Bart not a little, and, after a time, having made sure none of the ruffians were yet approaching from the south, Bart caught up his rifle and ran swiftly toward the thicket. On entering the tangled underbrush, he soon came in sight of Crowfoot, who, although he must have heard the other approaching, paid no attention whatever. The defender of the mines paused in amazement as he noted the Indian’s occupation, for old Joe was busily at work, engaged with pick and shovel, digging in the ground.

“What in the name of all mysteries are you doing, Crowfoot?” asked Hodge, as he approached and stood nearer.

“Dig a little,” returned the old man, with something like a joking twinkle in his keen black eyes. “Mebbe get some exercise. Strong Heart him great on exercise. Crowfoot hear Strong Heart tell exercise much big thing.”

Now, Hodge knew well enough that the aged redskin was not expending so much energy and labor in mere exercise, and he lingered to watch a while longer. Pretty soon old Joe unearthed a long root that ran beneath the ground, which he immediately seized and dragged forth with considerable grunting. Hodge noted then that he had one or two similar roots lying near.

“Mebbe him be ’nuf,” observed Crowfoot, as he severed the last root unearthed and placed it with the others. “Think him be. Joe he get plenty exercise for to-day.”

Then, abandoning the pick and shovel where he had dropped them, the old man gathered up the roots and started to retrace his steps to the cabin. Still wondering at Crowfoot’s strange actions, Hodge followed.

The sunshine lay warm on the valley, which seemed deserted save for themselves.

“Man git hand hurt, him no hurry back much,” observed Crowfoot.

“Not yet,” said Hodge. “But he will come and bring his dogs with him soon enough.”

When the cabin was reached Crowfoot stood some moments looking at a little pile of wood lying in a corner near the open fireplace.

“You build a fire, Black Eyes,” he said. “Joe him cold – him cold.”

“Well, your blood must be getting thin,” declared Hodge. “You can bake out in the sun to-day if you want to.”

“No like sun bake,” was the retort. “Too slow; not right kind. Want fire bake.”

“Oh, all right,” said Bart, ready to humor the old man. “I will have a fire directly.”

To his surprise, while he was starting the fire, old Joe brought in more wood that had been gathered in a little pile outside and threw it down in the corner. Several times he came with an armful of wood, but finally, seemed satisfied.

“There’s a good hot fire for you, Joe,” said Hodge. “Now toast yourself, if you want to.”

“Ugh!” grunted the Indian. “You keep watch. Keep eye open wide. Mebbe bad palefaces come soon.”

Bart knew this was a good suggestion, and he proceeded to watch for the possible approach of the enemy. At the same time, he occasionally turned from the open doorway to observe what Crowfoot was about. The old Indian did not seem very anxious to warm himself at the fire. Instead of that, he took the roots he had dug and held them toward the fireplace, turning them over and over and warming them thoroughly, after which he beat off the particles of dirt that clung to them. While he was beating one of the roots by holding it toward the fire, he had the others arranged on the flat stones of the hearth quite near the blaze, where they also would receive warmth from the flames.

At last, his curiosity reaching a point where he could repress it no longer, Hodge again asked old Joe what he was doing.

For some minutes the Indian did not reply. Once or twice he grunted to himself, but finally said:

“Joe him make medicine. Sometime him big medicine maker.”

“Oh, so that’s it,” said Hodge. “You are making medicine for your rheumatism?”

“Ugh!” was the answer to this.

Bart was surprised and almost annoyed as the day dragged on and the ruffians failed to appear. It seemed remarkable that they should delay the attack so long; still, he was confident that it must come sooner or later. All through the day after securing his roots old Joe worked over them patiently by the fire. He dried them and turned them over and over. And, while he was handling one of them and turning it before the heat like a thing he was toasting, the others remained in a long mound of hot ashes. The patience of the Indian over such a trifling task was something to wonder at.

As night came on Crowfoot paused to say:

“Now, Black Eyes, keep sharp watch. Bad white men come to-night. Mebbe they try to ketch um sleeping.”

The first half of the night, however, passed without alarm. During these hours the old redskin continued to putter with his roots, which he carefully scraped with a keen knife. At midnight he buried them in the ashes, on which hot coals were heaped, and then directed Bart to lie down and sleep.

“Joe him watch now,” said the old fellow.

Trusting everything to the redskin, Hodge rolled himself in a blanket and slept soundly for two hours. He was awakened by Joe, who stirred him with a moccasin foot.

“Get up, Black Eyes,” said the old fellow, in a whisper. “Pretty soon we fight.”

“Those ruffians?” questioned Bart, as he leaped to his feet.

“They coming,” declared Crowfoot.

He was right. Bland and his desperadoes were creeping on the cabin, hoping to take its defenders by surprise. Crowfoot pointed them out, and when they were near enough, Hodge called from the window for them to halt. Realizing they were discovered, they sprang up and charged.

Instantly Bart and the redskin opened fire on them, Hodge working his repeater swiftly and accurately, while the clear spang of Crowfoot’s rifle was heard at irregular intervals. The ruffians were unprepared for such a defense, and, as they saw several of their number fall and others were wounded, they halted, wavered, then turned and fled. Looking from the window, the starlight showed the defenders a few wounded men dragging themselves away.

“Pretty good,” said Joe. “No more bother to-night.”

With which he turned from the window, uncovered his roots, and replanted them in a fresh pile of hot ashes.

CHAPTER XVII.
HOW THE MEDICINE WORKED

Having left their horses picketed in a secluded spot, four men came stealing down the steep and narrow fissure that was the one entrance into the Enchanted Valley. Three days had passed since Dash Colvin stole out of that valley in his desperate attempt to carry the message to Frank. The third night had fallen.

Frank had arrived, and with him were Pete Curry, of Cottonwood, an officer who knew him well and liked him, and two deputies whom Curry had called into service. Frank had picked these men up at Cottonwood after his flight from Prescott. The promise of a liberal reward under any circumstances, and possibly of a big capture, had led them to accompany him. Before seeking to descend into the valley they had seen from the heights above, far away to the southern end, the glow of two or three bright fires, and had heard at intervals something like singing.

Frank feared the entrance to the valley might be in the hands of the enemy and guarded. He was relieved on discovering that this was not so, and his satisfaction was great when, with his companions, he found himself in the valley with no one to block the way.

“What next, Mr. Merriwell?” asked Curry, in a low tone.

“I am for finding out what is going on down there to the south,” said Frank.

“All right, sir. Lead on. We’re with you.”

In time they approached near enough to look down upon that portion of the valley where the unfinished cabins were, and saw two or three fires burning there. Men were lying around on the ground in the light of these fires. Others were staggering about in a peculiar manner. Now and then one of them would utter a wild yell and dance about like a crazy man, sometimes keeping it up until, apparently exhausted, he ended by flinging himself on the ground and seemed immediately to fall asleep.

As Frank and his companions watched these singular movements they saw three men join hands and execute a singular dance in the firelight.

“Cæsar’s ghost!” muttered Merry, “am I dreaming?”

“What’s the matter, pard?” asked Curry.

“Look at those three men – look at them closely. One of them is an Indian.”

“Sure thing,” said Curry.

“And I know him!” palpitated Merry. “If my eyes don’t fail me, it is old Joe Crowfoot.”

“Who is old Joe Crowfoot?”

“A redskin I have believed to be my friend.”

“Waugh!” ejaculated Curry, in disgust. “There never was a red whelp as could be trusted.”

“But you don’t know Crowfoot.”

“I know ’em all. Here is this yere Crowfoot a-whooping her up with your enemies, Mr. Merriwell. What do you think of that?”

“It’s mighty singular,” confessed Merry. “Look! look! they are drinking!”

It was true. The dance had stopped and one of the three had flung himself on the ground. Crowfoot bent over this fellow and offered him a bottle, which he eagerly seized. The Indian snatched it from the man’s lips, refusing to let him drink all he seemed to desire. It was then given to the other men, and afterward the old redskin passed from one to another of the reclining men, rousing those he could and offering them the bottle. Some drank, but others seemed too nerveless to hold the bottle in their hands.

“Well, this yere is lucky for us,” declared Curry. “The whole bunch is paralyzed drunk. We oughter be able to scoop ’em in without any great trouble.”

“I wonder where Hodge is,” speculated Merry. “I wonder if they have killed him.”

This possibility so aroused Frank that he was determined to seek Bart without delay. Curry was opposed to this; but Frank had his way, and they stole off leaving Crowfoot and his newly chosen companions to continue their carousal. As they approached Bart’s cabin, there came from the window a sharp command for them to halt. Merry recognized the voice and uttered a cry of satisfaction.

“Hodge!” he called. “It is I – Frank.”

From within the cabin there was another cry of joy, and a moment later the door flew open and Hodge came running toward them.

“Merry, thank Heaven you’re here!” he exclaimed,

“Thank Heaven you’re still alive!” returned Frank. “I was afraid I might arrive too late. Tell me what has happened. How have you managed to stand those ruffians off?”

“They attacked the cabin twice,” said Hodge; “but we were ready for them both times.”

“We? But aren’t you alone?”

“I am now; but old Joe Crowfoot – ”

“Crowfoot – what of him?”

“He was with me. I don’t know what has become of the old man now. He left to-night as soon as darkness fell, saying he was going to take a look at the ruffians down yonder. The old man is pretty well used up; he is nearly dead with rheumatism. He spent the greater part of the time after coming here in digging roots and making them into medicine by drying them at the fire, scraping them, then grinding them into powder between stones, finally preparing a decoction with water and the powder of the roots.”

Frank then told Bart what he had lately seen, and Hodge was greatly astonished.

“Old Joe down there with those men?” he muttered. “Why, I don’t see – ”

“Ugh!” grunted a voice near at hand, and out of the shadows slipped another shadow that unhesitatingly approached. It was Crowfoot himself, as they immediately perceived.

“How, how, Strong Heart!” said the old man, extending his hand to Frank. “Heap glad to see um.”

“Why, you old wretch!” cried Merry. “We saw you a short time ago down there with that bunch of claim jumpers drinking and whooping things up. What do you mean by such conduct?”

“Old Joe him got very bad rheumatism,” returned the redskin. “Him make medicine. Him think mebbe um white men down there got bad rheumatism, too. He give um white men some medicine. He find um white man drinking a heap. Joe he mix um medicine with drink. They like medicine pretty good. One white man, who lead um, him get shot up a great lot. Him in no shape to lead um some more. So white men they wait for more men to come. Now they very much tired. They sleep a lot. Come down see um sleep. You like it.”

Of a sudden the truth dawned on Frank.

“Why, you clever old rascal!” he laughed. “Hanged if I don’t believe you’ve drugged them some way!”

“Joe he give um medicine, that all,” protested the redskin. “Sometimes medicine make um sleep. Come see.”

“Come on,” said Frank, “we will follow this slick old rascal and find out how hard they are sleeping.”

As they approached the cabins at the lower end of the valley they saw the fires were dying down, while from that locality no longer came shouts and singing, and, in truth, all the ruffians seemed fast asleep on the ground, where they had fallen or flung themselves.

Unhesitatingly Crowfoot led them amid the mass of drugged men, and the sinking firelight revealed on his leathery face a ghost of a shriveled smile.

“Medicine heap good sometimes,” he observed. “Strong Heart find him enemies sleeping. Mebbe he takes hatchet and chop um up? Joe he get many scalps.”

“You’re a dandy, Crowfoot!” laughed Frank. “Here they are, Curry, the whole bunch. You can gather them and escort them to Cottonwood, or anywhere you please.”

“And a great haul it is, pard,” nodded Curry. “I sees three gents now what has rewards offered for them. It’s my opinion that they hangs. Get to work, boys, and we will tie up the whole bunch so they can’t wiggle when they awake.”

Old Joe looked on in apparent dissatisfaction and dismay.

“You no chop um up some?” he questioned. “You no kill um a heap. Then what Joe him get? He no have a scalp.”

“What do you get, Joe?” exclaimed Merry. “You have saved my mines for me. You get anything you want – anything but scalps.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
A BUNCH OF PRISONERS

Pete Curry and his two deputies set off the next morning with their prisoners – thirteen in all. They were taking the ruffians direct to the nearest point where they could be confined and afterward delivered for trial into the hands of certain officers, who would take several of them to different parts of Arizona where they had committed crimes. At noon the second day they reached a point in a barren valley where the sun beat fiercely. Scorched mountains rose to the east and west. They came to a halt.

In the party of sixteen there were only three horses, ridden by the officers. The prisoners had been compelled to tramp over the desert, the mountains, and valleys. The wrists of each captive were bound behind his back.

A tough-looking, desperate lot they were, taken all together. There were Mexicans and men with Indian blood in their veins among them. They had weather-beaten, leathery, bearded faces. Many of them had a hangdog expression. Their eyes were shiftless and full of treachery.

It was a most important capture for Curry, as there were among those men desperate characters for whose apprehension rewards had been offered. In short, it was a round-up of criminals that would make Curry’s name known as that of a wonderfully successful officer of the law. He was proud of his accomplishment, although he regretfully admitted to himself that he deserved very little credit for it. He and his two companions had already been well paid by Frank Merriwell.

Now, with his weapons ready, Curry was watching the prisoners, while his two companions sought for water in the bed of the creek.

“How are you hitting her, Bill?” he called.

“She’s moist, Pete,” answered one of the diggers. “There’s water here.”

“It takes a right good while for her to gather in the hole,” said the other digger. “If we makes a hole big enough, we will have some in an hour or so.”

Curry took a look at the sky, the mountains, and the westering sun.

“Well, I opines we stops here a while,” he said. “We may as well.”

A big, burly fellow among the captives carelessly stalked toward Curry, who watched him with a keen eye.

“I say, Pete,” said the prisoner familiarly, “mebbe you tells me just how this yere thing happens. I am a whole lot bothered over it.”

“Why, Bland, I has you – I has you foul,” retorted Curry, with a grim smile.

“That I certain admits,” nodded the other; “but how it was did is what puzzles me a-plenty.”

“You has some bad habits, Bland,” returned the captor. “You monkeys with firewater, and, for a man like you, with a price on him, it’s a keerless thing to do.”

“No firewater ever lays me out,” proudly retorted he of the drooping black mustache. “I knows my capacity when it come to the real stuff. But what I gits against this yere time is different a whole lot.”

The deputy sheriff smiled again.

“Mebbe you’re right, Bland,” he admitted. “You thinks yourself a heap clever, but this time you is fooled right slick.”

Texas Bland frowned.

“I confess, Pete, that it cuts me deep to realize it, but it certain is a fact that I gits tripped up. However, how it happened is what I wants ter know. There sure was dope in that booze.”

“Likely you’re correct,” nodded Curry.

“How does it git there?”

“Have you noticed a certain old Injun in this bunch sence we started out?” asked the officer.

“No,” said Bland, shaking his head. “I looks fer him some, but he is not yere. Does yer mean to insinuate that the old varmint loaded this bunch with dope?”

“Well, how does it look to you?”

“Why, ding his old pelt!” exclaimed the captive indignantly. “Some of the boys knowed him. Some o’ them had seen him afore. One or two had seen him to their sorrer. They say to me that he plays poker somewhat slick. When he comes ambling into our camp, seeming a whole lot jagged hisself, I was a bit suspicious; but the boys what knowed him says he is all right, and so I takes a drink with him. Arter that I gits a heap sleepy and snoozes. Next I knows you is there, Pete, and you has us nailed solid.”

“That’s about the way of it,” nodded Curry.

“And the old whelp dopes us, does he!” growled Texas Bland. “Whatever does he do that fer?”

“Why, Bland, that yere old redskin is a friend of Mr. Merriwell. He gives you the dope to help Merriwell. When we comes down into the valley there and finds you all sleeping sweetly, the old Injun proposes to scalp you up some. To be course, we objects, and then he seems mighty disappointed-like. He seems to think he is cheated. He seems to reckon that, having done the job so slick, your scalps belong to him.”

Bland listened with a strange look on his face and a vengeful glare in his deepset eyes.

“So that’s however it is!” he growled. “Well, I am some glad I finds it out.”

“Mebbe it relieves your mind some of worry,” returned the captor; “but it does you little good.”

“Don’t you think it!” returned Bland harshly. “I settles with that old Injun, you bet your boots!”

“First you settles with the law, Bland. You roams free a long time with a good price on your head. I am sorry fer you, but I reckons you are due to stretch hemp.”

Texas Bland actually laughed.

“Pete,” he said, “the rope ain’t made yet what hangs me.”

“Your nerve is good, but I opine you’re wrong this yere time. I has you, Bland, and I keeps you. I deliver you to them what wants you bad.”

“That’s all right, Pete,” was the cool retort. “No hard feelings on my account, you understand. I takes my medicine when I has to, and so I swallows this all pleasant and smiling. Just the same, you mark what I tells you, the rope ain’t made what hangs Texas Bland. I goes back a-looking for that red skunk later, and I pots him. When I gits a chance, I starts a lead mine in his carcass. The idea of being fooled by a redskin galls me up a heap. But you don’t tell me any how it happens you drops down thar and gathers us in just then.”

“I am some acquainted with Frank Merriwell. I has done business for him before. When he comes sailing into Cottonwood and locates me, he says: ‘Curry, I am up against it some, and I needs assistance.’ ‘I am yours to order,’ says I. ‘Whatever is a-doing?’

“Then he up and tells me that a gent with a whole lot of coin, what calls himself a money king, is trying to get possession of some new mines he has located. This gent, he says, has faked up a false charge against him and gives him a heap o’ trouble. This gent’s partner once tried mighty hard to get his paws on another mine belonging to Merriwell, and in the end he runs up against a bullet and lays down peaceful and calm. This gent’s name were Sukes. The one what is a-bothering Merriwell now is Macklyn Morgan.”

“You interest me a-plenty,” nodded Bland. “Now, there were some gent behind this yere deal what says it pays us well if we seizes those mines. Just who it were that puts up the coin fer the job I didn’t know for sure. All I knows is that it comes straight through a gent what I depends on, and the coin is in sight the minute we delivers the mines over. I reckons, Pete, the gent you speak of is the one what lays the job out fer us.”

Curry nodded.

“Likely that’s all correct, Bland. But he makes a big mistake if he thinks this yere Merriwell is easy. Merriwell is a fighter from ’Way Back.”

“He is a whole lot young.”

“In experience he is a whole lot old. Mebbe he don’t grow whiskers much, but he gets there just the same. Whiskers don’t always make the man, Bland. With all his money, this yere Sukes don’t get ahead of Merriwell any. When Morgan he tackles the job he finds it just as hard or harder. It does him no good to fake a charge that Merriwell shoots up Sukes.”

“Where did this yere shooting happen, Pete?”

“Over yon in Snowflake.”

Bland shook his head.

“Then it’s ten to one he gits disturbed none fer it. If he proves conclusive this yere Sukes bothers him, why, supposing he did do the shooting, it convicts him of nothing but self-defense down in this yere country!”

“Sukes was a whole lot wealthy, you understand.”

“All the same, I reckons it is pretty hard to put murder on a gent yereabouts in case he is defending his rights.”

“That’s so,” nodded Curry, at the same time lifting his eyes and watching with interest several horsemen who now appeared far up the valley, riding toward them through the heat haze.

Bland noticed Curry’s look and turned in the same direction.

“Who does you allow is coming?” he questioned, with repressed eagerness.

Instead of answering, Curry called to the men who were laboring in the bed of the creek.

“Oh, Bill! Oh, Abe! Come up yere right away.”

The inflection of his voice indicated that something was wrong, and the two men hastened to join him.

Curry motioned toward the approaching horsemen.

“Mebbe we is troubled some,” he observed. “We needs to be ready.”

The horsemen came on rapidly. There were seven of them in all. Like Curry and his two companions, the captives watched the approaching men with no small amount of anxiety. As the horsemen drew near, having told Bill and Abe to watch the prisoners closely, Curry rode forward.

“Howdy, gents!” he called.

“Howdy!” returned one of the men. “Is that you, Curry?”

“Surest thing you know,” said the deputy sheriff. “Somehow I don’t seem to recall you any.”

“That’s none strange,” said the spokesman of the party. “I am Gad Hackett. No particular reason why you should know me.”

“Whatever are you doing yere?” inquired the officer suspiciously.

“Just making a short cut, leaving all trails, from Fulton to Oxboro.”

“Say you so? Seems ter me you’re hitting in the wrong direction.”

“I reckon I know my course,” returned Hackett. “I have traveled this section a-plenty. There seems to be a good bunch of you gents. Whatever are you a-doing?”

“We’re holding up for water now,” answered Curry evasively. “Mebbe you hurries right along? Mebbe you has no great time to waste?”

“We look some for water ourselves,” returned the other man.

“Well, you has to look mighty sharp yereabouts. We digs our own water hole, and unfortunately we can’t share it any. If you goes down the valley a mile or two, mebbe you finds a locality where water is easier to reach.”

“Seems ter me you’re some anxious to hurry us on,” laughed Hackett. “We’re slightly tired, and I reckons we holds up for rest, water or no water.”

“That being the case,” said Curry, “let me give you some advice. Yander I has a few gents what are wanted for various little doings in different parts, and I am takin’ pains careful-like to deliver them over. They’re lawbreakers to the last galoot of the bunch. Mebbe you bothers them none. I does my duty.”

“Oh – ho!” retorted Hackett, “so that’s how the wind blows! Why, certain, Curry, we interferes none whatever with your business. Instead o’ that, we helps you any we can in running in your bunch of bad men.”

“Thanks,” returned the deputy sheriff coolly. “So long as I am not bothered with, I needs no help.”

Hackett laughed again.

“I see, pard,” he said, “you counts on gathering in the reward money yourself, and proposes to divide it none. All right; you’re welcome.”

Then, with his companions, he again rode forward. Curry looked them over critically. In his eyes, with one or two exceptions, they appeared little different from the collection of ruffians who were his prisoners. With them he recognized one man, at least, who had an unenviable reputation – a tall, pockmarked individual – no less a person than Spotted Dan.

There was in the party a man who seemed strangely out of place there. His every appearance was that of a tenderfoot, while his face, with his shaven lips and iron-gray beard, looked like that of a stern old church deacon. Somehow this person interested Curry more than all the others. He wondered not a little at the appearance of such a man in such a party.

“Who is the parsonish gentleman?” asked the deputy sheriff, as Hackett came up with him. He spoke in a low tone and jerked his hand slightly toward the tenderfoot.

“That?” said Hackett loudly. “Why, that is Mr. Felton Cleveland, a gentleman what is looking around some for mining property, and it is him we escorts to Oxboro. He engages us to see that he gets there all safe-like, and he is in a hurry.”

The man indicated did not betray that these words had reached his ears, although he had not missed the statement.

“He looks more like a missionary than a mining man,” declared Curry.

As the new arrivals reached the captives and their guards, Felton Cleveland was soon looking the captives over with an expression of interest, not to say of sympathy. He turned to the deputy sheriff and observed:

“It seems hardly possible, sir, that so many men could be lawbreakers; still, their faces indicate that they are desperate characters.”

“I reckon you’re some unfamiliar with this part of the country,” returned the officer. “We tries to keep our towns clean, but down along the Mexican border there are a few bad men. Sometimes they go in bunches.”

“But it is remarkable that you should capture so many of them at one time. Do you mind telling how it happened?”

“I am not feeling a whole lot like talking just now,” returned the deputy sheriff. “I opines you takes my word for it that they are just what I says.”

“Oh, certainly, sir – certainly,” nodded Cleveland. “I don’t dispute you in the least. I assure you it is not mere idle curiosity on my part, for I have interests in this part of the country, and I wish to be well informed about it and its inhabitants. However, if you don’t care to tell me what these men have been doing, we will let it drop.”

“Well, I don’t mind saying that they was caught redhanded trying to jump a claim. Mebbe that is the charge made agin’ a few o’ them, but I reckons the most of the bunch is to face things a heap more serious.”

“Trying to jump a claim?” said Cleveland. “Where was this, if you don’t mind giving that much information?”