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Charlie to the Rescue

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<h3>Chapter Sixteen.</h3> <h4>Friends and Foes—Plots and Counterplots—The Ranch in Danger.</h4> In a few minutes the sound of heavy feet and gruff voices was heard in the outside passage, and next moment ten men filed into the room and saluted their chief heartily. Charlie felt an almost irresistible tendency to open his eyes, but knew that the risk was too great, and contented himself with his ears. These told him pretty eloquently what was going on, for suddenly, the noise of voices and clattering of footsteps ceased, a dead silence ensued, and Charlie knew that the whole band were gazing at him with wide open eyes and, probably, open mouths. Their attention had been directed to the stranger by the chief. The silence was only momentary, however. “Now, don’t begin to whisper, pards,” said Buck Tom, in a slightly sarcastic tone. “When will ye learn that there is nothing so likely to waken a sleeper as whisperin’? Be natural—be natural, and tell me, as softly as ye can in your natural tones, what has brought you back so soon. Come, Jake, you have got the quietest voice. The poor man is pretty well knocked up and needs rest. I brought him here.” “Has he got much?” the sentence was completed by Jake significantly slapping his pocket. “A goodish lot. But come, sit down and out wi’ the news. Something must be wrong.” “Wall, I guess that somethin’ is wrong. Everything’s wrong, as far as I can see. The Redskins are up, an’ the troops are out, an’ so it seemed o’ no use our goin’ to bust up the ranch of Roarin’ Bull, seein’ that the red devils are likely to be there before us. So we came back here, an’ I’m glad you’ve got suthin’ in the pot, for we’re about as empty as kettledrums.” “Humph!” ejaculated Buck, “didn’t I tell you not to trouble Roarin’ Bull—that he and his boys could lick you if you had been twenty instead of ten. But how came ye to hear o’ this cock-and-bull story about the Redskins?” “We got it from Hunky Ben, an’ he’s not the boy to go spreadin’ false reports.” Charlie Brooke ventured at this point to open his eye-lids the smallest possible bit, so that any one looking at him would have failed to observe any motion in them. The little slit however, admitted the whole scene to the retina, and he perceived that ten of the most cut-throat-looking men conceivable were seated in a semicircle in the act of receiving portions from the big pot into tin plates. Most of them were clothed in hunters’ leathern costume, wore long boots with spurs, and were more or less bronzed and bearded. Buck Tom, alias Ralph Ritson, although as tall and strong as any of them, seemed a being of quite angelic gentleness beside them. Yet Buck was their acknowledged chief. No doubt it was due to the superiority of mind over matter, for those out-laws were grossly material and matter-of-fact! “There must be some truth in the report if Hunky Ben carried it,” said Buck, looking up quickly, “but I left Ben sitting quietly in David’s store not many hours ago.” “No doubt that’s true, Captain,” said Jake, as he ladled the soup into his capacious mouth; “nevertheless we met Hunky Ben on the pine-river prairie scourin’ over the turf like all possessed on Black Polly. We stopped him of course an’ asked the news.” “‘News!’ cried he, ‘why, the Redskins have dug up the hatchet an’ riz like one man. They’ve clar’d out Yellow Bluff, an’ are pourin’ like Niagara down upon Rasper’s Creek. It’s said that they’ll visit Roarin’ Bull’s ranch to-morrow. No time for more talk, boys. Oratin’ ain’t in my line. I’m off to Quester Creek to rouse up the troops.’ Wi’ that Hunky wheeled round an’ went off like a runaway streak o’ lightnin’. I sent a couple o’ shots after him, for I’d took a fancy to Black Polly—but them bullets didn’t seem to hit somehow.” “Boys,” cried Buck Tom, jumping up when he heard this, “if Hunky Ben said all that, you may depend on’t it’s true, an’ we won’t have to waste time this night if we’re to save the ranch of Roarin’ Bull.” “But we don’t want to save the ranch of Roarin’ Bull, as far as I’m consarned,” said Jake rather sulkily. Buck wheeled round on the man with a fierce glare, but, as if suddenly changing his mind, he said in a tone of well-feigned surprise— “What! you, Jake, of all men—such a noted lady-killer—indifferent about the fate of the ranch of Roaring Bull, and pretty Miss Mary Jackson in it at the mercy of the Redskins!” “Well, if it comes to that, Captain, I’ll ride as far and as fast as any man to rescue a girl, pretty or plain, from the Redskins,” said Jake, recovering his good-humour. “Well, then, cram as much grub as you can into you in five minutes, for we must be off by that time. Rise, sir,” said Buck, shaking Charlie with some violence. “We ride on a matter of life an’ death—to save women. Will you join us?” “Of course I will!” cried Charlie, starting up with a degree of alacrity and vigour that favourably impressed the outlaws, and shaking off his simulated sleep with wonderful facility. “Follow me, then,” cried Buck, hastening out of the cave. “But what of Shank?” asked Charlie, in some anxiety, when they got outside. “He cannot accompany us; may we safely leave him behind?” “Quite safely. This place is not known to the savages who are on the warpath, and there is nothing to tempt them this way even if it were. Besides, Shank is well enough to get up and gather firewood, kindle his fire, and boil the kettle for himself. He is used to being left alone. See, here is our stable under the cliff, and yonder stands your horse. Saddle him. The boys will be at our heels in a moment. Some of them are only too glad to have a brush wi’ the Redskins, for they killed two of our band lately.” This last remark raised an uncomfortable feeling in the mind of Charlie, for was he not virtually allying himself with a band of outlaws, with intent to attack a band of Indians of whom he knew little or nothing, and with whom he had no quarrel? There was no time, however, to weigh the case critically. The fact that savages were about to attack the ranch in which his comrade Dick Darvall was staying, and that there were females in the place, was enough to settle the question. In a minute or two he had saddled his horse, which he led out and fastened to a tree, and, while the outlaws were busy making preparations for a start, he ran back to the cave. “Shank,” said he, sitting down beside his friend and taking his hand, “you have heard the news. My comrade Darvall is in great danger. I must away to his rescue. But be sure, old fellow, that I will return to you soon.” “Yes, yes—I know,” returned Shank, with a look of great anxiety; “but, Charlie, you don’t know half the danger you run. Don’t fight with Buck Tom—do you hear?” “Of course I won’t,” said Charlie, in some surprise. “No, no, that’s not what I mean,” said Shank, with increasing anxiety. “Don’t fight in company with him.” At that moment the voice of the outlaw was heard at the entrance shouting, “Come along, Brooke, we’re all ready.” “Don’t be anxious about me, Shank; I’ll take good care,” said Charlie, as he hastily pressed the hand of the invalid and hurried away. The ten men with Buck at their head were already mounted when he ran out. “Pardon me,” he said, vaulting into the saddle, “I was having a word with the sick man.” “Keep next to me, and close up,” said Buck, as he wheeled to the right and trotted away. Down the Traitor’s Trap they went at what was to Charlie a break-neck but satisfactory pace, for now that he was fairly on the road a desperate anxiety lest they should be too late took possession of him. Across an open space they went at the bottom of which ran a brawling rivulet. There was no bridge, but over or through it went the whole band without the slightest check, and onward at full gallop, for the country became more level and open just beyond. The moon was still shining although sinking towards the horizon, and now for the first time Charlie began to note with what a stern and reckless band of men he was riding, and a feeling of something like exultation arose within him as he thought on the one hand of the irresistible sweep of an onslaught from such men, and, on the other, of the cruelties that savages were known to practise. In short, rushing to the rescue was naturally congenial to our hero. About the same time that the outlaws were thus hastening for once on an honourable mission—though some of them went from anything but honourable motives—two other bands of men were converging to the same point as fast as they could go. These were a company of United States troops, guided by Hunky Ben, and a large band of Indians under their warlike chief Bigfoot. Jackson, alias Roaring Bull, had once inadvertently given offence to Bigfoot, and as that chief was both by nature and profession an unforgiving man he had vowed to have his revenge. Jackson treated the threat lightly, but his pretty daughter Mary was not quite as indifferent about it as her father. The stories of Indian raids and frontier wars and barbarous cruelties had made a deep impression on her sensitive mind, and when her mother died, leaving her the only woman at her father’s ranch—with the exception of one or two half-breed women, who could not be much to her as companions—her life had been very lonely, and her spirit had been subjected to frequent, though hitherto groundless, alarms. But pretty Moll, as she was generally called, was well protected, for her father, besides having been a noted pugilist in his youth, was a big, powerful man, and an expert with rifle and revolver. Moreover, there was not a cow-boy within a hundred miles of her who would not (at least thought he would not) have attacked single-handed the whole race of Redskins if Moll had ordered him to do so as a proof of affection. Now, when strapping, good-looking Dick Darvall came to the ranch in the course of his travels and beheld Mary Jackson, and received the first broadside from her bright blue eyes, he hauled down his colours and surrendered with a celerity which would have mightily amused the many comrades to whom he had said in days of yore that his heart was as hard as rock, and he had never yet seen the woman as could soften it! But Dick, more than most of his calling, was a modest, almost a bashful, man. He behaved to Mary with the politeness that was natural to him, and with which he would have approached any woman. He did not make the slightest attempt to show his admiration of her, though it is quite within the bounds of possibility that his “speaking” brown eyes may have said something without his permission! Mary Jackson, being also modest in a degree, of course did not reveal the state of her feelings, and made no visible attempt to ascertain his, but her bluff sagacious old father was not obtuse—neither was he reticent. He was a man of the world—at least of the back-woods world—and his knowledge of life, as there exhibited, was founded on somewhat acute experience. He knew that his daughter was young and remarkably pretty. He saw that Dick Darvall was also young—a dashing and unusually handsome sailor—something like what Tom Bowling may have been. Putting these things together, he came to the very natural conclusion that a wedding would be desirable; believing, as he did, that human nature in the Rockies is very much the same as to its foundation elements as it is elsewhere. Moreover, Roaring Bull was very much in want of a stout son-in-law at that time, so he fanned the flame which he fondly hoped was beginning to arise. This he did in a somewhat blundering and obvious manner, but Dick was too much engrossed with Mary to notice it and Mary was too ignorant of the civilised world’s ways to care much for the proprieties of life. Of course this state of things created an awful commotion in the breasts of the cow-boys who were in the employment of Mary’s father and herded his cattle. Their mutual jealousies were sunk in the supreme danger that threatened them all, and they were only restrained from picking a quarrel with Dick and shooting him by the calmly resolute look in his brown eyes, coupled with his great physical power and his irresistible good-nature. Urbanity seemed to have been the mould in which the spirit of this man-of-the-sea had been cast and gentleness was one of his chief characteristics. Moreover, he could tell a good story, and sing a good song in a fine bass voice. Still further, although these gallant cow-boys felt intensely jealous of this newcomer, they could not but admit that they had nothing tangible to go upon, for the sailor did not apparently pay any pointed attention to Mary, and she certainly gave no special encouragement to him. There was one cow-boy, however, of Irish descent, who could not or would not make up his mind to take things quietly, but resolved, as far as he was concerned, to bring matters to a head. His name was Pat Reilly. He entered the kitchen on the day after Dick’s arrival and found Mary alone and busily engaged with the dinner. “Miss Jackson,” said Pat, “there’s a question I’ve bin wantin’ to ax ye for a long time past, an’ with your lave I’ll putt it now.” “What is it Mr Reilly?” asked the girl somewhat stiffly, for she had a suspicion of what was coming. A little negro girl in the back kitchen named Buttercup also had a suspicion of what was coming, and stationed herself with intense delight behind the door, through a crack in which she could both hear and see. “Mary, my dear,” said Pat insinuatingly, “how would you like to jump into double harness with me an’ jog along the path o’ life together?” Poor Mary, being agitated by the proposal, and much amused by the manner of it, bent over a pot of something and tried to hide her blushes and amusement in the steam. Buttercup glared, grinned, hugged herself, and waited for more. Pat, erroneously supposing that silence meant consent, slipped an arm round Mary’s waist. No man had ever yet dared to do such a thing to her. The indignant girl suddenly wheeled round and brought her pretty little palm down on the cow-boy’s cheek with all her might—and that was considerable! “Who’s a-firin’ off pistles in de kitchen?” demanded Buttercup in a serious tone, as she popped her woolly head through the doorway. “Nobody, me black darlin’,” said Pat; “it’s only Miss Mary expressin’ her failin’s in a cheeky manner. That’s all!” So saying the rejected cow-boy left the scene of his discomfiture, mounted his mustang, took his departure from the ranch of Roarin’ Bull without saying farewell, and when next heard of had crossed the lonely Guadaloupe mountains into Lincoln County, New Mexico. But to return. While the troops and the outlaws were hastening thus to the rescue of the dwellers in Bull’s ranch, and the blood-thirsty Redskins were making for the same point, bent on the destruction of all its inhabitants, Roaring Bull himself, his pretty daughter, and Dick Darvall, were seated in the ranch enjoying their supper, all ignorant alike of the movements of friend and foe, with Buttercup waiting on them. One messenger, however, was speeding on his way to warn them of danger. This was the cowboy Crux, who had been despatched on Bluefire by Hunky Ben just before that sturdy scout had started to call out the cavalry at Quester Creek. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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