Charlie to the Rescue

“And you didn’t see the man that carried him off?”

“No, I didn’t see him.”

“You’d have shot him, of course, if you had seen him?”

“No, indeed, captain, I wouldn’t.”

“No! why not?” asked the captain with a peculiar smile.

“Well, because,” answered the scout, with a look of great solemnity, “I wouldn’t shoot such a man on any account—no matter what he was doin’!”

“Indeed!” returned the other with a broadening smile. “I had no idea you were superstitious, Ben. I thought you feared neither man nor devil.”

“What I fear an’ what I don’t fear,” returned the scout with quiet dignity, “is a matter which has never given me much consarn.”

“Well, don’t be hurt, Hunky Ben, I don’t for one moment question your courage, only I fancied that if you saw any one rescuing an outlaw you would have tried to put a bullet into him whether he happened to be a man or a ghost.”

“But I have told you,” broke in Buck Tom with something of his old fire, “that Leather is not an outlaw.”

“I have only your word for that, and you know what that is worth,” returned the captain. “I don’t want to be hard on one apparently so near his end, and to say truth, I’m inclined to believe you, but we know that this man Leather has been for a long time in your company—whether a member of your band or not must be settled before another tribunal. If caught, he stands a good chance of being hanged. And now,” added the captain, turning to a sergeant who had entered the cave with him, “tell the men to put up their horses as best they may. We camp here for the night. We can do nothing while it is dark, but with the first gleam of day we will make a thorough search of the neighbourhood.”

While the troopers and their commander were busy making themselves as comfortable as possible in and around the cave, the scout went quietly up to the clump of wood where Leather was in hiding, and related to that unfortunate all that had taken place since he left him.

“It is very good of you, Hunky, to take so much interest in me, and incur so much risk and trouble; but do you know,” said Leather, with a look of surprise, not unmingled with amusement, “you are a puzzle to me, for I can’t understand how you could tell Captain Wilmot such a heap o’ lies—you that has got the name of bein’ the truest-hearted scout on the frontier!”

“You puzzle me more than I puzzle you, Leather,” returned the scout with a simple look. “What lies have I told?”

“Why, all you said about what you saw and heard when you said you were eavesdroppin’ must have been nonsense, you know, for how could you hear and see what took place in the cave through tons of rock and earth?”

“How I saw and heard, my son Leather, is a private affair of my own, but it was no lie.”

Leather looked incredulous.

“Then you said,” he continued, “that you didn’t see the man that carried me away.”

“No more I did, boy. I never saw him!”

“What! not even in a looking-glass?”

“Not even in a lookin’-glass,” returned Hunky. “I’ve seed his reflection there many a time,—an’ a pretty good-lookin’ reflection it was—but I’ve never see’d himself—that I knows on! No, Leather, if Captain Wilmot had axed me if I saw you carried off, I might ha’ been putt in a fix, but he didn’t ax me that. He axed if I’d seen the man that carried you off an’ I told the truth when I said I had not. Moreover I wasn’t bound to show him that he wasn’t fit to be a lawyer—specially when he was arter an innocent man, an’ might p’r’aps hang him without a trial. It was my duty to guide the captain in pursuit of outlaws, an’ it is my duty to shield an innocent man. Between the two perplexin’ duties I tried to steer as straight a course as I could, but I confess I had to steer pretty close to the wind.”

“Well, Hunky, it is my duty to thank you instead of criticising you as I have done, but how do you come to be so sure that I’m innocent?”

“P’r’aps because ye putt such an innocent question,” replied Ben, with a little smile. “D’ye raily think, Leather, that an old scout like me is goin’ to let you see through all the outs and ins by which I comes at my larnin’! It’s enough for you to know, boy, that I know a good deal more about you than ye think—more p’r’aps than ye know about yerself. I don’t go for to say that you’re a born angel, wantin’ nothin’ but a pair o’ wings to carry ye off to the better land—by no means, but I do know that as regards jinin’ Buck Tom’s boys, or takin’ a willin’ part in their devilish work, ye are innocent an’ that’s enough for me.”

“I’m glad you know it and believe it, Ben,” said Leather, earnestly, “for it is true. I followed Buck, because he’s an old, old chum, and I did it at the risk of my life, an’ then, as perhaps you are aware, we were chased and I got injured. So far I am innocent of acting with these men, but, O Ben, I don’t admit my innocence in anything else! My whole life—well, well—it’s of no use talkin’. Tell me, d’ye think there’s any chance o’ Buck getting over this?”

“He may. Nobody can tell. I’ll do my best for him. I never lose hope of a man, after what I’ve see’d in my experience, till the breath is fairly out of him.”

“Thank God for these words, Ben.”

“Yes,” continued the scout, “and your friend Brooke is at this moment sunk in the blue dumps because you have been carried off by a great mysterious monster!”

“Then he doesn’t know it was you?” exclaimed Leather.

“In course not. An’ he doesn’t know you are within five hundred yards of him. An’ what’s more, you mustn’t let him know it was me, for that must be kept a dead secret, else it’ll ruin my character on the frontiers. We must surround it wi’ mystery, my boy, till all is safe. But I didn’t come up here to enjoy an evenin’s conversation. You’re not safe where you are, Leather. They’ll be scourin’ all round for you long before sun-up, so I must putt you where you’ll be able to look on an’ grin at them.”

“Where will that be?” asked Leather, with some curiosity.

“You know the cliff about five hundred feet high that rises just over on the other side o’ the valley—where the water-shoot comes down?”

“Ay, it’s likely I do, for I’ve seen it every mornin’ for months past.”

“An’ you remember the hole near the top o’ the cliff?”

“Yes—that looks about the size of a crow?”

“Whatever it looks like it’s three times the size of a man, an’ it’s the mouth of a cave,” returned the scout. “Now, I’ll lead you to the track that’ll let you up to that cave. It’s a splendid place, full of all sorts o’ holes an’ places where a man couldn’t find you even if he know’d you was there. Once up, you may sit down, smoke your pipe in the mouth o’ the cave, an’ enjoy yourself lookin’ on at the hunt arter yourself. Here’s a bit o’ chuck I’ve brought to keep you from wearyin’, for they may keep it up all day. When all danger is past I’ll come up for ye. You needn’t show more o’ yourself, however, than the top o’ your head. A man can never be over-cautious when he’s bein’ hunted down. An’ mind, don’t leave the place till I come for you.”

Handing a cold roast fowl and a loaf to his companion, the scout got up and led him away to the spot which he had just described. It was by that time quite dark, but as Hunky Ben knew every inch of the ground he glided along almost as quickly as if it had been broad day, followed, with some difficulty, by poor Leather, who was still in a state of great prostration, partly because of his injury and partly in consequence of his previous dissipation. As the place, however, was not much more than half-a-mile distant his powers of endurance were not much tried. The scout led him across the narrow valley just above the outlaws’ cave, and then, entering a steep rocky defile, he began to ascend a place that was more suitable for goats than men. After half-an-hour of upward toil they reached a plateau where the track—if it may be so styled—seemed to run in a zig-zag manner until it reached a small hole in the solid rock. Through this they entered and found themselves within a cavern and in total darkness.

“We may rest a bit now,” said the scout. “There’s a ledge hereabouts. There you are. Sit down. I’ll have to take your hand here lest you fall off the bridge into the holes on each side o’ the track.”

“Are the holes dangerous?” asked Leather.

“They’re dangerous enough to be worth takin’ care of, anyhow, for if ye was to tumble into one you’d never come out again. There, now, let’s go on, for if I don’t git back soon, they’ll be wonderin’ if the monster hasn’t run away wi’ me too, as well as you!”

After advancing a short distance in total darkness—Ben feeling his way carefully step by step—they came suddenly to the hole in the front of the cave to which reference has been already made. The place had evidently been used before as a place of refuge and temporary abode, for, near this front-mouth of the cave was found a litter of pine branches which had plainly been used as a bed.

“Sit ye down there, Leather,” said the scout, “see, or, rather, hear—for the eyes aren’t of much use just now—I’ve set down the grub an’ a flask o’ water beside ye. Don’t strike a light unless you want to have your neck stretched. Daylight won’t be long o’ lettin’ ye see what’s goin’ on. You won’t weary, for it’ll be as good as a play, yourself bein’ chief actor an’ audience all at the same time!”

Saying this the scout melted, as it were, into the darkness of the cavern, and, with noiseless moccasined feet, retraced his steps to the rear entrance.

Left to himself the poor wanderer found both time and food for reflection, for he did not dare in the darkness to move from the spot where he had seated himself. At first an eerie feeling of indefinable fear oppressed him, but this passed away as the busy thoughts went rambling back to home and the days of comparative innocence gone by. Forgetting the dark surroundings and the threatening dangers, he was playing again on the river banks, drinking liquorice-water, swimming, and rescuing kittens with Charlie Brooke. Anon, he was wandering on the sea-beach with his sister, brown-eyed Mary, or watching the manly form of his old friend and chum buffeting the waves towards the wreck on the Sealford Rocks. Memory may not be always faithful, but she is often surprisingly prompt. In the twinkling of an eye Shank Leather had crossed the Atlantic again and was once more in the drinking and gambling saloons—the “Hells” of New York—with his profoundly admired “friend” and tempter Ralph Ritson. It was a wild whirl and plunge from bad to worse through which Memory led him now—scenes at which he shuddered and on which he would fain have closed his eyes if possible, but Memory knows not the meaning of mercy. She tore open his eyes and, becoming unusually strict at this point, bade him look particularly at all the minute details of his reckless life—especially at the wrecks of other lives that had been caused by the wreck of his own. Then the deepest deep of all seemed to be reached when he rose—or rather fell—from the condition of tempted to that of tempter, and, somehow, managed for a time to lead even the far stronger-minded Ralph Ritson on the road to ruin. But he did not lead him long. The stronger nature soon re-asserted itself; seized the reins; led the yielding Leather to the cities of the far west; from gambling took to robbing, till at last the gay and handsome Ritson became transformed into the notorious Buck Tom, and left his weaker chum to care for himself.

It was at this point—so Memory recalled to him—that he, Leather, was stopped, in mid and mad, career, by a man of God with the love of Jesus in his heart and on his lips. And at this point Memory seemed to change her action and proved herself, although unmerciful, pre-eminently faithful. She reminded him of the deep contrition that God wrought in his heart; of the horror that overwhelmed him when he thought of what he was, and what he had done; of the sudden resolve he had formed to follow Ritson, and try to stop him in the fearful career on which he had entered. Then came the memory of failure; of desperate anxieties; of futile entreaties; of unaccountably resolute perseverance; of joining the outlaw band to be near his friend; of being laughed to scorn by them all of being chased by US troops at the very commencement of his enterprise; of being severely wounded, rescued, and carried off during the flight by Buck Tom, and then—a long blank, mingled with awful dreams and scenes, and ribald songs, and curses—some of all which was real, and some the working of a fevered brain.

So terribly vivid were these pictures of memory, that one of the shouts of dreamland absolutely awoke him to the fact that he had extended his wearied limbs on his couch of pine brush and fallen asleep. He also awake to the perception that it was broad daylight, and that a real shout had mingled with that of dreamland, for after he had sat up and listened intently for a few moments, the shout was repeated as if at no great distance.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Troops Outwitted by the Scout and his Friends

Creeping quickly to the mouth of the cave Leather peeped cautiously out, and the scene that met his startled gaze was not calculated to restore that equanimity which his recent dreams had disturbed.

The narrow and rugged valley which lay spread out below him was alive with horsemen, trotting hither and thither as if searching for some one, and several parties on foot were scaling gorges and slopes, up which a horseman could not scramble.

The shout which had awakened the fugitive was uttered by a dismounted trooper who had climbed higher on the face of the cliff than his fellows, and wished to attract the attention of those below.

“Hi! hallo!” he cried, “send Hunky Ben up here. I’ve found a track that seems to lead to somewhere, but it’ll need the scout’s nose to ferret it out.”

Leather’s heart beat wildly, for, from the position of the man, he could not doubt that he had discovered the track leading up to the cave. Before he could think how he should act, a response came to the call from Hunky Ben.

“Ay, ay,” he shouted, in a voice so bold and resonant, that Leather felt it was meant to warn him of his danger, “Ay, ay. Hold on! Don’t be in a hurry. The tracks branch out further on, an’ some o’ them are dangerous. Wait till I come up. There’s a cave up there, I’ll lead ye to it.”

This was more than enough for Leather. He turned hastily to survey his place of refuge. It was a huge dismal cavern with branching tunnels around that disappeared in thick obscurity, and heights above that lost themselves in gloom; holes in the sides and floor that were of invisible depth, and curious irregular ledges, that formed a sort of arabesque fringe to the general confusion.

One of these ornamental ledges, stretching along the roof with many others, lost itself in the gloom and seemed to be a hopeful living-place—all the more hopeful that it was in the full blaze of light that gushed in through the front opening of the cave. This opening, it will be remembered, was on the face of the cliff and inaccessible. But Leather found that he could not reach the ledge. Hastening to the dark side of the cave, however, he saw that by means of some projections and crevices in the rocky wall he could reach the end of the ledge. Creeping along it he soon found himself close to the opening, surrounded by strong light, but effectually concealed from view by the ledge. It was as if he were on a natural rafter, peeping down on the floor below! As there was a multitude of such ledges around, which it would take several men many hours to examine, he began to breathe more freely, for, would the searchers not naturally think that a fugitive would fly to the darkest recesses of his place of refuge, rather than to the brightest and most accessible spot?

He gave vent to a sigh of relief, and was congratulating himself upon his wisdom, when his eyes chanced to fall on the flask of water and cold roast fowl and loaf lying conspicuous in the full glare of light that flooded the front part of the cave!

If the fowl had been thrust whole into his throat it could scarcely have added to the gush of alarm that choked him. He slipped incontinently from his arabesque ledge and dropped upon the floor. Securing the tell-tale viands with eager haste he dashed back into the obscurity and clambered with them back to his perch. And not much too soon, for he had barely settled down when the voice of the scout was heard talking pretty loudly.

“Come along, Captain Wilmot,” he said, “give me your hand, sir. It’s not safe to walk alone here, even wi’ a light.”

“Here, where are you? Oh! All right. Haven’t you got a match?” asked the captain.

“Nothin’ that would burn more’n a few seconds. We’re better without a light, for a gust o’ wind might blow it out an’ leave us worse than we was. Mind this step. There.”

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t bring any of my men in here,” said the Captain, as he kicked one of his heavy boots violently against a projection of rock.

“Ay—’tis as well you didn’t,” returned the scout, in a tone suggestive of the idea that he was smiling. “For there’s holes on both sides, an’ if one o’ your men went down, ye might read the funeral sarvice over him at once, an’ be done with it. There’s a glimmer o’ daylight at last. We’ll soon be at the other end now.”

“A horrible place, truly,” said the Captain, “and one that it would be hard to find a fellow in even if we knew he was here.”

“Didn’t I say so, Captain? but ye wouldn’t be convinced,” said Hunky Ben, leading his companion into the full light of the opening and coming to a halt close to the ledge above which the fugitive lay. “Besides, Leather could never have found his way here alone.”

“You forget,” returned Wilmot, with a peculiar smile, “the monster might have shown him the way or even have carried him hither.”

“Ah, true,” answered the scout, with solemn gravity. “There’s somethin’ in that.”

Wilmot laughed.

“What a splendid view,” he said, going forward to the opening—“and see, here is a bed of pine brush. No doubt the cave must have been used as a place of refuge by the Redskins in days gone by.”

“Ay, an’ by the pale-faces too,” said the scout. “Why, I’ve had occasion to use it myself more than once. And, as you truly obsarve, sir, there’s small chance of findin’ a man once he’s in here. As well run after a rabbit in his hole.”

“Or search for a needle in a haystack,” observed the Captain, as he gazed with curious interest around and above him. “Well, Ben, I give in. You were right when you said there was no probability of my finding any of the outlaws here.”

“I’m ginerally right when I speak about what I understand,” returned the scout calmly. “So now, Captain, if you’re satisfied, we may as well go an’ have a look at the other places I spoke of.”

Assenting to this the two men left the place, but Leather continued to lie perfectly still for a considerable time after their footsteps had died away. Then, gliding from his perch, he dropped on the floor and ran to the opening where he saw the troopers still riding about, but gradually going farther and farther away from him. The scene was not perhaps, as the scout had prophesied, quite “as good as a play,” but it certainly did become more and more entertaining as the searchers receded and distance lent enchantment to the view.

When at last the troops had disappeared, Shank bethought him of the food which Hunky Ben had so thoughtfully provided, and, sitting down on the brush couch, devoted himself to breakfast with a hearty appetite and a thankful spirit.

Meanwhile Captain Wilmot, having satisfied himself that the outlaws had fairly escaped him, and that Buck Tom was too ill to be moved, retired to a cool glade in the forest and held a council of war with the scout and Charlie Brooke.

“Now, Ben,” he said, dismounting and seating himself on a mossy bank, while a trooper took charge of the horses and retired with them to a neighbouring knoll, “it is quite certain that in the present unsettled state of the district I must not remain here idle. It is equally certain that it would be sudden death to Buck Tom to move him in his present condition, therefore some men must be left behind to take care of him. Now, though I can ill afford to spare any of mine, I feel that out of mere humanity some sacrifice must be made, for we cannot leave the poor fellow to starve.”

“I can relieve you on that point,” said the scout, “for if you choose I am quite ready to remain.”

“And of course,” interposed Charlie, “I feel it my duty to remain with my old friend to the end.”

“Well, I expected you to say something of this sort. Now,” said the captain, “how many men will you require?”

“None at all, Captain,” answered Ben decisively.

“But what if these scoundrels should return to their old haunt?” said Wilmot.

“Let them come,” returned the scout. “Wi’ Mr Brooke, an’ Dick Darvall, an’ three Winchesters, an’ half-a-dozen six-shooters, I’d engage to hold the cave against a score o’ such varmin. If Mr Brooke an’ Dick are willin’ to—”

“I am quite willing, Ben, and I can answer for my friend Dick, so don’t let that trouble you.”

“Well, then, that is settled. I’ll go off at once,” said the captain, rising and signing to the trooper to bring up the horses. “But bear in remembrance, Hunky Ben, that I hold you responsible for Buck Tom. If he recovers you must produce him.”

The scout accepted the responsibility; the arrangements were soon made; “boots and saddles” was sounded, and the troopers rode away, leaving Charlie Brooke, Dick Darvall, Buck Tom, and the scout in possession of the outlaws’ cave.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Meeting of Old Friends in Curious Circumstances

When the soldiers were safely away Hunky Ben returned to the cave and brought Leather down.

Charlie Brooke’s love for his old school-fellow and playmate seemed to become a new passion, now that the wreck of life and limb presented by Shank had awakened within him the sensation of profound pity. And Shank’s admiration for and devotion to Charlie increased tenfold now that the terrible barrier of self had been so greatly eliminated from his own nature, and a new spirit put within him.

By slow degrees, and bit by bit, each came to know and understand the other under the influence of new lights and feelings. But their thoughts about themselves, and their joy at meeting in such peculiar circumstances, had to be repressed to some extent in the presence of their common friend Ralph Ritson—alias Buck Tom—for Charlie knew him only as an old school-fellow, though to Leather he had been a friend and chum ever since they had landed in the New World.

The scout, during the first interval of leisure on the previous day, had extracted the ball without much difficulty from Buck’s chest, through which it had passed, and was found lying close under the skin at his back. The relief thus afforded, and rest obtained under the influence of some medicine administered by Captain Wilmot, had brightened the poor fellow up to some extent; and Leather, seeing him look so much better on his return, began to entertain some hopes of his recovery.

Buck himself had no such hope; but, being a man of strong will, he refused to let it be seen in his demeanour that he thought his case to be hopeless. Yet he did not act from bravado, or the slightest tincture of that spirit which resolves to “die game.” The approach of death had indeed torn away the veil and permitted him to see himself in his true colours, but he did not at that time see Jesus to be the Saviour of even “the chief of sinners.” Therefore his hopelessness took the form of silent submission to the inevitable.

Of course Charlie Brooke spoke to him more than once of the love of God in Christ, and of the dying thief who had looked to Jesus on the cross and was saved, but Buck only shook his head. One afternoon in particular Charlie tried hard to remove the poor man’s perplexities.

“It’s all very well, Brooke,” said Buck Tom, “and very kind of you to interest yourself in me, but the love of God and the salvation of Christ are not for me. You don’t know what a sinner I have been, a rebel all my life—all my life, mark you. I would count it mean to come whining for pardon now that the game is up. I deserve hell—or whatever sort o’ punishment is due—an’ I’m willing to take it.”

“Ralph Ritson,” said Brooke impressively, “you are a far greater sinner than you think or admit.”