Chapter Twenty One.
Tells of a Cruel Deed, and Shows How Mysteriously Hunky Ben Behaved
When Jake escaped from the ranch of Roaring Bull he tried the mettle of Captain Wilmot’s charger to the uttermost, for well he knew that the pursuit would be instant and vigorous; that his late comrade Charlie Brooke could guide the troops to the cavern in Traitor’s Trap, and that if his companions, who would doubtless ride straight back, were to escape, they must be warned in time. He also knew that the captain’s charger was a splendid one. In order to accomplish his purpose, therefore, he would ride it to death.
The distance between the ranch and the outlaws’ cave was not so great but that any mustang in the plains could have traversed it in a day, but the cruel man had made up his mind that the captain’s charger should do it in a few hours. It is not so much distance as pace that kills. Had any consideration whatever been extended to the noble creature by the ignoble brute who rode it, the good horse would have galloped to the head of the Trap almost without turning a hair. At first he strode out over the rolling prairie with the untiring vigour of a well-made frame and a splendid constitution, leaping the little cracks and inequalities of the ground in the exuberance of his strength; though there was no need to bound, and coursing over the knolls as easily as he cantered down the hollows, while his flashing eye betokened at once a courageous and a gentle spirit. But when the lower slopes of the hills were reached, and steepish gradients were met with here and there, the horse began to put back first one ear and then the other, and sometimes both, as if in expectation of the familiar “well done,” or pat on the neck, or check of the rein with which the captain had been wont to sanction a slackening of the pace, but no such grace was allowed him. On the contrary, when the first symptom appeared of a desire to reduce speed Jake drove his cruel spurs into the charger’s glossy side. With a wild snort and bound the horse stretched out again and spurned the ground as if in indignant surprise.
Then the breath began to labour slightly; the sweat to darken his rich brown coat, and the white foam to fleck his broad chest. Still Jake pressed him on with relentless fury. It could not be expected that a man who cared not for his fellows would have much consideration for his beast. Murder of a deeper dye than that of a horse was seething in the outlaw’s brain. This to him useless expedition, which had so nearly cost him his life, would be the last that Buck Tom should command. After blowing out his brains he would warn the others of the impending danger and lead them away to other and more favourable fields of enterprise.
At this point the good horse stumbled and almost threw his rider, who, with horrible curses, plied the spurs and tugged at the bit until blood was mingled with the flying foam. Never, save once—when Captain Wilmot was caught alone in the plains by Cheyenne Indians and had to fly for his life—had the good charger been urged to anything like such an effort as he was now called on to make, and then there was no cruelty mingled with the urging. The very tone of his master’s voice, as he patted the neck and shook the rein and gently touched him with the spur, must have convinced the intelligent creature that it was a matter of life or death—that there was a stern need-be for such haste.
Turning at last into the gorge of the Trap, the charger gasped and sobbed with distress as he faced the steep ascent and tried, with the unabated courage of a willing heart, to pull himself together while the unmerciful monster still drove in the spurs and galled his tender mouth. But the brave effort was unavailing. Stumbling over a root that crossed the path, the horse plunged forward, and fell with a crash, sending his rider over his head. Jake, alighting on his face and right shoulder, lay stunned for a few seconds. Then he jumped up, displaying torn garments and a face covered with blood.
Running to the horse’s head he seized the rein and shook it savagely, kicking the animal’s face with his heavy boots in his anxiety to make it rise, but the poor charger was beyond his cruelty by that time, for its neck had been broken by the fall.
Oh! it was one of those sights which are fitted to make even thoughtless men recognise the need of a Saviour for the human race, and to reject with something like scorn the doctrine—founded on wholly insufficient evidence—that there is no future of compensation for the lower animals!
The outlaw did not waste time in vain regrets. Bestowing a meaningless curse on the dead charger, he turned and went up the narrow glen at a smart pace, but did not overstrain himself, for he knew well that none of the troop-horses could have kept up with him. He counted on having plenty of time to warn his comrades and get away without hurry. But he reckoned without his host—being quite ignorant of the powers of Black Polly, and but slightly acquainted with those of her master Hunky Ben.
Indeed so agile were the movements of Polly, and so thoroughly was the scout acquainted with the by-paths and short cuts of that region, that he actually passed the fugitive and reached the head of Traitor’s Trap before him. This he managed by forsaking the roads, keeping a straighter line for the outlaws’ cave, and passing on foot over the shoulder of a hill where a horseman could not go. Thus he came down on the cavern, about half-an-hour before Jake’s arrival. Clambering to the crevice in the cliff against which the cave abutted, and sliding down into a hollow on its earthen roof, he cautiously removed a small stone from its position, and disclosed a hole through which he could both hear and see most of what took place inside.
Lest any one should wonder at the facility with which the ground lent itself to this manoeuvre, we may as well explain that the bold scout possessed one of those far-reaching minds which are not satisfied without looking into everything,—seeing to the bottom of, and peering round to the rear of, all things, as far as possible. He always acted on the principle of making himself acquainted with every road and track and by-path, every stream, pond, river, and spring in the land. Hence he was well aware of this haunt of outlaws, and, happening to be near it one day when its owners were absent, he had turned aside to make the little arrangement of a peep-hole, in the belief that it might possibly turn out to be of advantage in course of time!
The clump of shrubs and grass on the rugged bank, which formed the top of the cave, effectually concealed the natural hollow which he had deepened, and the overhanging mass of the rugged cliff protected it from rain and dew.
What Hunky Ben saw on looking through his peep-hole filled him with surprise and pity, and compelled him to modify his plans.
Almost below him on a brush couch, lay the tall form of Buck Tom, with the unmistakable hue of approaching death upon his countenance. Beside him, holding his head, kneeled the much-wasted figure of Leather—the reputed outlaw. Seated or standing around in solemn silence were six of the outlaws, most of whom bore tokens of the recent fight, in the form of bandage on head or limb.
“I brought you to this, Leather; God forgive me,” said the dying man faintly.
“No, you didn’t, Ralph,” replied the other, calling him by his old familiar name, “I brought myself to it. Don’t blame yourself, Ralph; you weren’t half so bad as me. You’d never have been here but for me. Come, Ralph, try to cheer up a bit; you’re not dying. It’s only faint you are, from loss of blood and the long gallop. When you’ve had a sleep and some food, you’ll feel stronger. We’ll fetch a doctor soon, an’ he’ll get hold o’ the bullet. Dear Ralph, don’t shake your head like that an’ look so solemn. Cheer up, old boy!”
Leather spoke with a sort of desperate fervour, but Ralph could not cheer up.
“No,” he said sadly, “there is no cheer for me. I’ve thrown my life away. There’s no hope—no mercy for me. I’ve been trying to recall the past, an’ what mother used to teach me, but it won’t come. There’s only one text in all the Bible that comes to me now. It’s this—‘Be sure your sin will find you out!’ That’s true, boys,” he said, turning a look on his comrades. “Whatever else may be false, that’s true, for I know it.”
“That’s so, dear Ralph,” said Leather earnestly, “but it’s no less true that—”
Just then a noise was heard in the outer passage; then hurrying footsteps. Instinctively every man drew his revolver and faced the door. Next moment Jake entered.
“Here, one of you; a drink—I’m fit to—ha!”
His eyes fell on the figure of Buck and he shrank back for a moment in silent surprise.
“Yes, Jake,” said the dying man, with a glance of pity not unmingled with scorn, “it has come sooner than you or I expected, and it will save you some trouble—maybe some regret. I’ve seen through your little game, Jake, and am glad I’ve been spared the necessity of thwarting you.”
He stopped owing to weakness, and Jake, recovering himself, hastily explained the reason of his sudden appearance.
“Fetch me a rag an’ some water, boys,” he continued. “It looks worse than it is—only skin deep. And we’ve not a moment to lose. Those who have a mind may follow me. Them that wants to swing may stop.”
“But how about Buck Tom?” asked one who was not quite so depraved as the others.
“What’s the use o’ askin’?” said Jake. “It’s all up with him, don’t you see? Besides, he’s safe enough. They’d never have the heart to hang a dying man.”
“An’ Leather!” cried another. “We mustn’t quit Leather. He’s game for many a fight yet. Come, Leather; we’ll help you along, for they’re sure to string you up on the nearest tree.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about me,” said Leather, looking round, for he still kneeled beside his old friend, “I don’t intend to escape. Look to yourselves, boys, an’ leave us alone.”
“Unless you’re all tired o’ life you’ll quit here an’ skip for the woods,” said Jake, as, turning round, he hurriedly left the place.
The others did not hesitate, but followed him at once, leaving Buck Tom, and his friend to shift for themselves.
During all this scene Hunky Ben had been intently gazing and listening—chiefly the latter. When the outlaws filed past him he found it extremely difficult to avoid putting a bullet into the Flint, but he restrained himself because of what yet remained to be done.
As soon as the outlaws were well out of sight Ben arose and prepared for action. First of all he tightened his belt. Then he pulled the hood of his coat well over his head, so that it effectually concealed his face, and, still further to accomplish the end in view, he fastened the hood in front with a wooden pin. Proceeding to the stable he found, as he had hoped and expected, that the outlaws had left one or two horse-cloths behind in their flight. In one of these he enveloped his person in such a way as to render it unrecognisable. Then he walked straight into the cave, and, without a word of warning, threw his strong arms a round Shank Leather and lifted him off the ground.
Of course Leather shouted and struggled at first, but as well might a kitten have struggled in the grip of a grizzly bear. In his worn condition he felt himself to be utterly powerless. Buck Tom made a feeble effort to rise and help him, but the mere effort caused him to fall back with a groan of helpless despair.
Swiftly his captor bore Leather up the side of the hill till he got behind a clump of trees, into the heart of which he plunged, and then set his burden down on his feet. At the same time, throwing back his hood and flinging away the horse-cloth, he stood up and smiled.
“Hunky Ben, or his ghost!” exclaimed Shank, forgetting his indignation in his amazement.
“You’re right, young man, though you’ve only see’d me once that I know of. But most men that see me once are apt to remember me.”
“Well, Hunky,” said Leather, while the indignation began to return, “you may think this very amusing, but it’s mean of a big strong man like you to take advantage of a fellow that’s as weak as a child from wounds an’ fever. Lend me one o’ your six-shooters, now, so as we may stand on somewhat more equal terms and—but a truce to boasting! I’m sure that you wouldn’t keep smiling at me like a Cheshire cat if there wasn’t something behind this.”
“You’re right, Mr Leather,” said Ben, becoming at once grave and earnest. “There is somethin’ behind it—ay, an’ somethin’ before it too. So much, that I have barely time to tell ’ee. So, listen wi’ both ears. There’s a bunch o’ men an’ troops close to the Trap even now, on their way to visit your cave. If they find you—you know what that means?”
“Death,” said Leather quietly.
“Ay, death; though ye don’t desarve it,” said Ben.
“But I do deserve it,” returned Shank in the same quiet voice.
“Well, may-hap you do,” rejoined the scout coolly, “but not, so far as I know, in connection wi’ your present company. Now, there’s Buck Tom—”
“Ay, what of him?” asked Shank, anxiously.
“Well, in the nat’ral course o’ timings, death is comin’ to him too, an’ that’ll save him from bein’ strung up—for they’re apt to do that sort o’ thing hereaway in a loose free-an-easy style that’s awkward sometime. I was within an inch of it myself once, all through a mistake—I’ll tell ’ee about that when I’ve got more time, maybe. Well, now, I’m keen to save you an’ Buck Tom if I can, and what I want you to understand is, that if you expect me to help you at a time when you stand considerable in need o’ help, you’ll have to do what I tell ’ee.”
“And what would you have me do?” asked Shank, with a troubled look.
“Remain here till I come for ’ee, and when you meet me in company say nothin’ about havin’ met me before.”
“Can I trust you, Hunky Ben?” said Shank, looking at him earnestly.
“If you can’t trust me, what d’ye propose to do?” asked the scout with a grin.
“You’re right, Ben. I must trust you, and, to say truth, from the little I know of you, I believe I’ve nothing to fear. But my anxiety is for Ralph—Buck Tom, I mean. You’re sure, I suppose, that Mr Brooke will do his best to shield him?”
“Ay, sartin sure, an’, by the way, don’t mention your Christian name just now—whatever it is—nor for some time yet. Good-day, an’ keep quiet till I come. We’ve wasted overmuch time a’ready.”
So saying, the scout left the coppice, and, flinging open his coat, re-entered the cave a very different-looking man from what he was when he left it.
“Hunky Ben!” exclaimed Buck, who had recovered by that time. “I wish you had turned up half-an-hour since, boy. You might have saved my poor friend Leather from a monster who came here and carried him away bodily.”
“Ay? That’s strange, now. Hows’ever, worse luck might have befel him, for the troops are at my heels, an’ ye know what would be in store for him if he was here.”
“Yes, indeed, I know it, Ben, and what is in store for me too; but Death will have his laugh at them if they don’t look sharp.”
“No, surely,” said the scout, in a tone of real commiseration, “you’re not so bad as that, are you?”
“Truly am I,” answered Buck, with a pitiful look, “shot in the chest. But I saw you in the fight, Ben; did you guide them here?”
“That’s what I did—at least I told ’em which way to go, an’ came on in advance to warn you in time, so’s you might escape. To tell you the plain truth, Ralph Ritson, I’ve bin told all about you by your old friend Mr Brooke, an’ about Leather too, who, you say, has bin carried off by a monster?”
“Yes—at least by a monstrous big man.”
“You’re quite sure o’ that?”
“Quite sure.”
“An’ You would know the monster if you saw him again?”
“I think I would know his figure, but not his face, for I did not see it.”
“Strange!” remarked the scout, with a simple look; “an’ you’re sartin sure you don’t know where Leather is now?”
“Not got the most distant idea.”
“That’s well now; stick to that an’ there’s no fear o’ Leather. As to yourself—they’ll never think o’ hangin’ you till ye can walk to the gallows—so cheer up, Buck Tom. It may be that ye desarve hangin’, for all I know; but not just at present. I’m a bit of a surgeon, too—bein’ a sort o’ Jack-of-all-trades, and know how to extract bullets. What between Mr Brooke an’ me an’ time, wonders may be worked, if you’re wise enough to keep a tight rein on your tongue.”
While the scout was speaking, the tramp of cavalry was heard outside, and a few minutes later Captain Wilmot entered the cave, closely followed by Charlie Brooke.
Chapter Twenty Two
The Cave of the Outlaws Invaded by Ghosts and US Troops.
We need scarcely say that Buck Tom was wise enough to put a bridle on his tongue after the warning hint he had received from the scout. He found this all the easier that he had nothing to conceal save the Christian name of his friend Leather, and, as it turned out, this was never asked for by the commander of the troops. All that the dying outlaw could reveal was that Jake the Flint had suddenly made his appearance in the cave only a short time previously, had warned his comrades, and, knowing that he (Buck) was mortally wounded, and that Leather was helplessly weak from a wound which had nearly killed him, had left them both to their fate. That, just after they had gone, an unusually broad powerful man, with his face concealed, had suddenly entered the cave and carried Leather off, in spite of his struggles, and that, about half-an-hour later, Hunky Ben had arrived to find the cave deserted by all but himself. Where the other outlaws had gone to he could not tell—of course they would not reveal that to a comrade who was sure to fall into the hands of their enemies.
“And you have no idea,” continued the captain, “who the man is that carried your friend Leather so hurriedly away?”
“Not the slightest,” returned Buck. “Had my revolver been handy and an ounce of strength left in me, you wouldn’t have had to ask the question.”
“Passing strange!” murmured Captain Wilmot, glancing at the scout, who was at the moment seated on a keg before the fire lighting his pipe, and with a look of simple benignant stolidity on his grave countenance. “Have you no idea, Ben, where these outlaws have taken themselves off to?”
“No more’n a lop-eared rabbit, Captain Wilmot,” answered the scout. “You see there’s a good many paths by which men who knows the place could git out o’ the Trap, an’ once out o’ it there’s the whole o’ the Rockie range where to pick an’ choose.”
“But how comes it, Ben, that you missed Jake? Surely the road is not so broad that you could pass him unseen! Yet you arrived here before him?”
“That’s true, sir, but sly coons like the Flint can retire into the brush when they don’t want to be overhauled. That wasn’t the way of it, however. With such a splendid animal as your poor horse, Captain, an’ ridden to death as it was—an’ as I ’spected it would be—I knowed I had no chance o’ comin’ up wi’ the Flint, so I took advantage o’ my knowledge o’ the lay o’ the land, an’ pushed ahead by a straighter line—finishin’ the last bit on futt over the ridge of a hill. That sent me well ahead o’ the Flint, an’ so I got here before him. Havin’ ways of eavesdroppin’ that other people don’t know on, I peeped into the cave here, and saw and heard how matters stood. Then I thought o’ harkin’ back on my tracks an’ stoppin’ the Flint wi’ a bullet but I reflected ‘what good’ll that do? The shot would wake up the outlaws an’ putt them on the scent all the same.’ Then I tried to listen what their talk was about, so as I might be up to their dodges; but I hadn’t bin listenin’ long when in tramps the Flint an’ sounds the alarm. Of course I might have sent him an p’r’aps one o’ the others to their long home from where I stood; but I’ve always had an objection to shoot a man behind his back. It has such a sneakin’ sort o’ feel about it! An’ then, the others—I couldn’t see how many there was—would have swarmed out on me, an’ I’d have had to make tracks for the scrub, an’ larn nothin’ more. So I fixed to keep quiet an’ hear and see all that I could—p’r’aps find out where they fixed to pull out to. But I heard nothin’ more worth tellin’. They only made some hurried, an’ by no means kindly, observations about poor Buck an’ Leather an’ went off over the hills. I went into the woods a bit myself after that, just to be well out o’ the way, so to speak, an’ when I got back here Leather was gone!”
“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.