Читать книгу Buffalo Bill Entrapped; or, A Close Call - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 4

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The man with the mask emitted a soft chuckle. “Appearances in this case are not deceitful, William,” he suavely replied. “I have the drop, and you are exactly where I want you.”

With the words he stepped into the room, but did not close the door. Placing a stool on one side of the opening, he coolly sat down, his revolver the while still pointed at the head of the king of scouts.

Buffalo Bill went on smoking, and, though his face was pale, there was no sign of fear upon it.

There was silence for a few moments, and then the scout said quietly: “If you are in no hurry to shoot, why not lower that gun of yours? It might go off accidentally and bring my partner here.”

The masked villain smiled evilly. “Your partner won’t come here to-day. He has gone where you are soon to go.”

Buffalo Bill could draw but one conclusion from the words. Bart Angell had been surprised and killed. And a knife, instead of a pistol, had been used.

Gazing steadily at the masked man, the intrepid border king thus voiced his opinion of the murderer: “I have met with all sorts of reptiles in my time, but never one who was so meanly detestable as yourself. You slimy, rotten, crawling apology for a human being, why don’t you blaze away? I’d rather slip up the flume than remain a minute longer in your company. The vilest degenerate that ever sucked air into his lungs is a saint alongside of you.”

Quick as a flash, the now thoroughly incensed villain raised the revolver, which had been slightly lowered while the king of scouts was speaking, and fired. The bullet cut a lock from the wounded scout’s temple, whereat he laughed.

“This is no laughing matter,” growled the assassin. “You escaped that time, but I’ll get you with the next bullet.”

“Maybe you will,” composedly responded the other, “but you’ll get through with your business with me before you really try to kill me. I’m on to you, Mister Man, and if I hadn’t guessed that you are not yet ready to extinguish my light, I would never have invited you to cut loose.”

The murderer lowered his pistol. His expression of hate gave way to one of admiration. “You are the limit, Cody,” he grudgingly remarked. “You are sharp, all right, but you’ll need all your wits, and a cartload besides, to get out of the fix you are now in.”

“Think so?” said Buffalo Bill calmly.

“I do. I have you where I want you. Your partner is dead, and we are hundreds of miles from a human habitation. When our little séance is over, one man will be the only living thing in these solitudes.”

“How about the girl? Isn’t she near by?”

The masked man scowled. “Yes, she is not far away,” he admitted, “and much good may the information do you.”

“You have left her up the ravine somewhere, I suppose?” insinuated the scout.

“No matter where I have left her. You’ll never see her. But a truce to this profitless chin music. I am going to ask you a few questions, and I have an idea that you will answer them promptly, for as long as you continue on that line I’ll hold back the bullet meant for your brain.”

“I am in the humor for frankness,” said Buffalo Bill easily. “Fire away.”

The masked murderer showed surprise, but he quickly repressed the emotion.

“You were a friend of Matt Holmes, were you not?” he asked.

“He had no better friend. I had known him for twenty years.”

“Did you know all his secrets?” The question was eagerly asked.

“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”

As he spoke, the king of scouts was feeling about his person for a match with which to relight his pipe.

“I’ll come down to cases. Did he tell you when you met him last night that he was looking for the coming of an enemy?”

“Yes.”

The masked man started slightly.

“What did he say about me?”

The questioner leaned forward, the eyes behind the mask winking rapidly.

The hands of the king of scouts were now out of sight under the blanket, which reached to his waist. So intent was the murderer upon the matter of the answer he expected his victim to make that, for one short moment, he lost caution. The lapse was fatal to his plan of ultimate murder.

There were two lightninglike movements on the part of Buffalo Bill. His hands came into view. In each of them was a revolver, and the masked murderer, starting back, found himself covered.

“Drop that gun of yours!” commanded the scout harshly, “and be mighty quick about it.”

The beaten villain allowed the weapon to fall to the floor of the cabin. There was an explosion, but the bullet did no other damage than to make a hole in the wall under the bunk.

The situation was reversed. The king of scouts now held the whip hand.

Holding his pistols in a menacing way, he kicked off the blankets and sat on the edge of the bunk, with his feet resting on the floor.

“The party of the first part has had his innings,” he coolly remarked, “and now it is up to the other party in the controversy to do a little stunt in the way of examination. Need I state that a failure to answer questions will result in some effective pistol play, or are you wise to the dangerous position in which you stand?”

The masked murderer was trembling with fear and rage. He did not reply.

“Take off that mask,” was the stern command. “Take it off or I will shoot it off.”

The mask was removed with celerity, and the face of a young man was revealed. It was dark and smooth, and not unhandsome, but the thin lips, the glint of the light-blue eyes and a certain hardness of expression, betokened a selfish and cruel nature.

The king of scouts looked long and intently at the man. Suddenly his face lightened. He smiled.

“I remember you,” he said quietly. “Wild Bill reformed Dodge City a few years ago. Gave the tough ones twenty-four hours’ notice to leave town. The chief of the disreputable outfit, a man who tried highway robbery when the money did not flow in rapidly enough from card cheating, was one Rixton Clay. You are the hombre.”

The murderer showed his teeth. His face was as pale as death.

Buffalo Bill went on calmly: “Clay is not your real name. I’ll bet it’s Holmes, and that you are the cousin of Myra Wilton.”

The expression that came to the villain’s face showed that the king of scouts had made a correct guess. The latter proceeded with increased confidence: “You are in a scheme to capture a rich estate. That’s plain. Somebody, relative of Jared and Matt Holmes, Myra Wilton, and yourself, has died recently. With the Holmes brothers and the girl out of the way, you will become the sole heir to the fortune. I am right, eh?” No answer. “Of course I am right. Come, own up, for you are on the toboggan, and a close mouth won’t save you from the fate that awaits the murderer.”

“I have nothing to say,” replied Rixton Clay slowly.

“Oh, but you have,” said Buffalo Bill, as he brought his revolver nearer the head of his victim. “You have a whole lot to say. You are going to tell me all about your game. You are going deep into details. You are going to tell me how Jared Holmes was killed, by your orders, in Taos, and how you afterward killed the slayer when you had no further use for his services. You are going to do a whole lot of talk, and you are going to begin right now. One, two, three——”

“All right”—the words were jerked out—“I’ll talk. Curse, you! I wish I had killed you when I first caught sight of your face.”

Buffalo Bill shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “You were a fool, and no mistake. But as I am the winner by your bad break, I’ll not raise a kick. Now, what is your true name?”

“Rixton Holmes.”

“Myra Wilton is your cousin, is she not?”

“Yes.”

“What is this fortune you are scheming to get?”

“It’s a mine in Colorado.”

“Who owned it?”

“My uncle, Peter Holmes.”

“Brother of Jared and Matt, and the mother of Myra, eh?”

“Yes”—surlily.

“When did Peter die?”

“Last month.”

“How?”

“How? Why”—he hesitated, and then said with lowered head—“some one killed him while he was down in the mine inspecting a new lead.”

“Ah, I see. You began with Peter and finished with Matt.” There was disgust and repulsion on the scout’s honest face.

“I’ll never say I killed him,” returned Rixton Holmes defiantly. “The mystery of his death will never be cleared up.”

“There you’re wrong,” was the cool response. “The mystery has been cleared up. But it won’t be necessary to try you for the crime. When the court gets through with you for your other offenses, there won’t be anything left of you for further trial.”

Rixton Holmes shivered, then suddenly straightened up and looked resolutely at the king of scouts. “I am ready to die now,” he said, as he tried to steady his voice. “I have got through talking. Kill me. I don’t care.”

Buffalo Bill appeared to consider the matter. “Why not?” he said. “In these wilds I can be judge, jury, and executioner, and no one would blame me. It is the safe thing to do.” He tightened his grip on his pistols. The victim stiffened, expecting a report to come. But neither trigger was pressed.

“But,” the scout went on, “there is the poetic side of the case to consider. If I were to kill you now, your suffering wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans. You ought to suffer agonies; and, by the crawling catamount, you shall. I’ll take you to Taos, and there you shall stay in jail until the scaffold is ready for you to drop from. You shall hear the carpenters as they hammer the thing into shape. Every nail driven will be a nail in your coffin. Yes, to Taos you go.”

The speaker rose to his feet. “I am not in the best of condition,” he continued, “and, therefore, I must ask you to assist me a little. Here are some rawhides”—tossing them. “Please tie your wrists for me. I think I will be able to do the rest.”

Rixton Holmes regarded the king of scouts in contemptuous surprise. “Do you take me for a blanked idiot?” he said. “If you want me tied, you’ll have to do the tying yourself.”

A bullet scraped the villain’s ear. “You must take another look at your hand,” remarked the shooter sharply. “You spoke without taking stock of your situation.”

With an angry expletive, Holmes took the cords and began to follow the scout’s directions. He was thus occupied when a noise in the bushes outside made him cease operations and look queerly at Buffalo Bill.

The king of scouts walked quickly to the door and looked out with one eye. The other he kept glued to the face of Rixton Holmes. He had the forethought not to expose his body, but stood upon one side of the opening.

A peculiar, hissing sound from the bushes brought a similar sibilant exhibition from within the cabin.

Buffalo Bill, instantly alive to the new danger that menaced him, leaped across the room and dealt Holmes a crushing blow behind the ear.

As the villain collapsed in a heap on the floor, the king of scouts started for the door for the purpose of closing it, when a series of bloodcurdling yells broke upon his ears.

The yells were followed by the appearance of a score of painted savages. They were in full view from the door before Buffalo Bill could reach it. Instantly his revolvers cracked, and howls and screams announced the result of his shots. Having fired several times with the effect of driving the redskins back to the bushes, he closed the door and shot the bolt. This done, he turned his attention to the villain on the floor.

Before Holmes’ senses returned, he was bound hand and foot.

No gag was applied. The king of scouts desired a little further information from his victim.

It would probably be some time before the Indians made a new demonstration, and the scout had a faint hope that the lull might furnish something that would take the edge off the grave danger that confronted him.

“You know these savages,” he said harshly to Holmes. “Their coming was not unexpected. Do they play a part in this villainous scheme of yours?”

“It can do me no harm to answer that question,” replied the villain, with a malicious grin. “They are friends of mine, and I knew they were coming.”

“Why have they come? You did not need them to aid you in the murder of Matt Holmes, nor in the abduction of Myra Wilton.”

“No”—the grin broadening—“but I need them to assist me in taking care of the girl. She is to be the bride of Raven Feather, the chief.”

“Then I reckon she is with them now.”

“If she isn’t she ought to be. I left her with them when I made my sneak to prospect this cabin.”

“Did the Indians know that I was here?”

“No, neither did I know you were here when I started for the cabin. I knew some man, wounded, was here, but my notion was that the man was my Uncle Matt.”

A voice from without caused Buffalo Bill to look up quickly.

“Raven Feather would speak with the great white warrior, Buffalo Bill,” were the words, spoken in the Navaho tongue, that reached the scout’s ears.

“Speak, and see that your tongue is not forked, Raven Feather,” was the cold reply.

“The tongue of Raven Feather is not the tongue of a serpent. The words shall be straight. Raven Feather seeks the white man who is Buffalo Bill’s prisoner. Give Raven Feather the prisoner and Buffalo Bill may go free. Raven Feather has no quarrel with the great white warrior.”

“That’s a lie, chief,” was the quiet reply. “You want my scalp for the loss of the braves who fell before the door a few minutes ago. Well, if you get it you’ll have to suffer the loss of a few more braves. I am in a tight place—I would be a fool not to admit it—but I’m not going to peter out without taking a star part in a sanguinary circus. So drop your smooth talk, and let the fun begin.”

As he ceased speaking, a noise at the window on the side of the cabin nearest the bushes attracted his attention. Quick as a flash, he wheeled and fired, and a Navaho fell.

It had been the design of the treacherous Raven Feather to distract the attention of the king of scouts until the brave could reach the window and take a shot at the man who had overcome Rixton Holmes.

Buffalo Bill changed his position so that the window was no longer a point of danger.

The Navaho chief did not again open his mouth to speak, and for some minutes silence reigned in the vicinity of the cabin.

Rixton Holmes lay on the floor, a placid expression on his dark countenance.

The king of scouts regarded the villain with a frown. “Don’t you imagine that your rescue is near at hand,” he said, in a tone that made Holmes shiver, “for you’ll die before a savage enters that door. I may be booked for the last journey, but you can make up your mind that your ticket for the infernal regions will be punched before the redskins settle my case.”

The villain shut his eyes and did some tall thinking. He knew that Buffalo Bill would do as he threatened.

Soon he said: “I am willing to make a deal with you. Raven Feather is in my employ. He will obey my commands. Turn me loose, and you shall not be harmed.”

The king of scouts smiled. “What do you take me for, a babe in arms? What, let me go free after I know your game and am in a position to spoil it? Oh, no, Mr. Rixton Holmes, no deal of that kind with you. But I will tell what I am willing to do. Give orders to those Navahos to withdraw, to light out across the flat to the open country—I will want to see them as they go off, you understand—and when they are a mile away, I will go out and leave you here.”

“Where will you go?”

“Out of the danger zone, of course,” answered the scout promptly, but with his face turned away from the prisoner.

Holmes considered the matter seriously. He sighed. It went against the grain to accept Buffalo Bill’s proposition, but he must do it, or his life would be lost. Soon his face cleared a little. Buffalo Bill was wounded, and therefore could not travel fast. The Navahos, who were magnificent trailers, and knew every foot of the country, would probably be able to run the scout down.

“I will accept,” he announced, and the king of scouts, who had divined what had been passing in the villain’s mind, repressed a smile, and responded coldly: “Very well. You are a sensible man, sometimes. Now elevate your voice and talk business to your cutthroat allies outside.”

Holmes shouted, and soon Raven Feather came out of the bushes and approached the door.

The command requested by Buffalo Bill was given, and immediately the Indians withdrew, going across the flat and into the stretch of open country.

Buffalo Bill counted eight. Four, then, must have been slain. He waited a few moments, and then cautiously opened the door. Three Navahos lay dead in front of the cabin. He went around the building, and there was the body of the fourth Indian. It lay under the window.

Returning to the room, he satisfied himself that Holmes was weaponless, then cut the bonds and told the prisoner to get up. The savages were now half a mile away.

“In a few minutes I will leave you,” said the scout. “It gravels me to let you slip out of my fingers, but I am sure that we are destined to meet again.”

Five minutes later Buffalo Bill, armed with his own and Holmes’ weapons, walked out of the cabin and entered the bushes. He appeared to be taking a direction that would bring him to the trail that led over the hills to Taos.

Rixton Holmes smiled in satisfaction. He had noticed that the scout moved slowly, and he believed that the wound in the side troubled him, and would prevent quick movement away from the flat.

The enemy was out of sight when Holmes signaled to the Navahos. Instantly the band wheeled and started on a run for the cabin.

On arriving at the structure, Holmes briefly explained to Raven Feather what had happened, and pointed to the east. “He has gone up that way,” he said. “Send out three or four of your swiftest braves, and they’ll overhaul him.”

At that moment the king of scouts was on the western side of the cabin. His weakness had been assumed. The wound was not troubling him much, and he felt able to do his usual work. Entering the bushes, he had hurried to the ravine, made a detour, circled Matt Holmes’ cabin, and, under cover of the brush on the western side of the flat, had crept to a spot not twenty yards from the cabin door, about which Raven Feather and his Navahos were standing.

After four of the Indians had departed to trail the fugitive, he heard Rixton Holmes ask Raven Feather: “Where is the girl?” And he heard the chief answer: “She is in the cave with my brother Crow-killer.”