Читать книгу Downey of the Mounted - James B. Hendryx - Страница 8

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IN the Downey household, the maxim, “Early to bed and early to rise,” was strictly adhered to, and at half past nine, encouraged by the unmistakable sounds of slumber that issued from his parents’ room, Cammie eased himself out of bed, slipped noiselessly into his clothing, and carrying his shoes, stole down the stairs. With the moonlit window-sill for a desk, he scrawled a note to his mother:

Dear Ma:

Dad said I could go today, so I’m going. I know the way. Don’t worry. See you in two weeks.

Cameron Downey.

Slipping out the back door, the boy ignored the road, and followed the bank of the river. A strange sense of elation took possession of him. He breathed deeply of the cool night air, and gazed about him entranced. The world looked different in the moonlight. Different—and infinitely more interesting. Sergeant Costello was right—just to be alive out there in the moonlight was something worthwhile in itself.

The abandoned buildings of the Johnson ranch looked mysterious and pleasantly forbidding as he rounded a bend and approached knee-deep through the uncut wild hay. A faint breeze rustled the aspen leaves. Innumerable bats winged about him, and a great owl flapped silently from a post of the old horse corral to a higher perch on the sagging ridgepole of the barn. Far out on the muskeg a night bird squawked. A delightful prickling started at the roots of his hair, but with a self-reassuring laugh the boy proceeded to the ford where the river widened and purled knee-deep over a gravelly bar.

Seating himself upon a discarded wagon box, he proceeded to take off his shoes and stockings when suddenly a sound came to his ears that was not of the mysterious night-noises. It was the thud of horses’ hoofs on sod. Shoe in hand, the boy listened. Who could be crossing at the abandoned ford at this time of night? Unless—Sergeant Costello had changed his mind and decided to ride out into the hills. But, no—the sounds came from upriver, and there was more than one horse. Cammie cast about him for a place of concealment. He would wait until they had passed before crossing and resuming his journey. The wild hay grew thickly about the overturned wagon box upon which he was sitting. The end-gate was missing, and, lying flat on his belly, the boy wriggled his way to the forward end where a broad crack in the rotting side board gave full view of the overgrown trail from the ford to the horse corral only a few feet away.

Ear to the ground, he listened. The muffled thud of hoofs on the spongy ground was followed by the metallic click of iron shoes on gravel, and then a splashing, and the long sucking sounds of horses drinking their fill. A man spoke in an undertone, and another replied. Then, more sounds of splashing, and three riders appeared suddenly into view. The leader drew up and swung from his horse: “Here we are,” he announced, tersely, and, as the bright moonlight fell upon his face the boy instantly recognized him as a cowpuncher who had hung about town for a day or two, a couple of weeks previous, hunting strayed horses for one of the ranches to the southward. The other two dismounted, and the boy noted that each deposited a canvas sack between his feet as he stood holding the bridle reins of his horse.

“Jest like I told you,” said the leader. “We’ll leave the cayuses here an’ slip in along the river afoot. I be’n over the ground careful, an’ it’s good hard sod all the way—won’t leave no trail with them moccasins we got off’n the Injuns. You, Johnnie, you plant the stuff where we can pick it up quick, an’ be sure you fetch along them empty sacks. This here bank’s got a wad of mazuma into it—an’ a damn sight easier to git it than Yorkton.”

Cammie Downey’s heart leaped into his throat. The Yorkton Bank robbers! The man called Johnnie hesitated: “Say Brek, who’s goin’ to stay with the horses? You hadn’t ort to shot Bill, ’cause that only leaves three of us, an’——”

“The hell I hadn’t ort to!” The cowpuncher turned on the man fiercely. “Who the hell do you think you’re talkin’ to? I’m runnin’ this outfit—if you don’t believe it, ask Bill—he’s in hell by now, an’ you’ll be right along with him onless you do like I say! They can’t but one man run this gang—an’ that’s me! Where’d we be’n if we’d listened to Bill an’ hit south with every damned redcoat in Saskatchewan watchin’ the line? We’d all be’n where Bill is now—that’s where! We’ll blow this can an’ double our pile, then we’ll lay low in the hills fer a month er so, an’ then it’ll be safe enough to separate an’ trickle acrost, one to a time.”

“But—you figgered on leavin’ one man with the horses an’ the—stuff—same as Yorkton.”

“What if I did? An’ I would of if I hadn’t had to bump Bill off. This here corral’s in good shape, an’ we can turn the cayuses in, saddled an’ bridled.” He spoke sharply to the third man: “You, Hominy, you turn them horses into the corral while I git out of these chaps an’ spurs. Then we’ll slip on them moccasins. This here’s a lot easier than Yorkton—there ain’t no police here.”

Hominy moved toward the corral, with the horses, and Johnnie picked up the two canvas bags and glanced uncertainly about.

“Cache ’em inunder that old wagon box. We’ll be back after ’em in three, four hours,” suggested the leader, and, as he tossed his chaps and spurs to the other, “stick these along with ’em.” As the man approached, it seemed to the boy as though he must certainly hear the pounding of his heart. Suppose the men should discover him. He knew that the unscrupulous Brek would not hesitate one moment in putting out of the way anyone who had overheard his conversation. Drawing his legs close up, Cammie waited, hardly daring to breathe. There was a fumbling at the aperture of the missing end-gate, then the patch of light dimmed as the man stuffed the bags and the chaps into the opening. The fumbling ceased. The man reappeared, and, seating himself beside the leader, began to exchange his boots for a pair of moccasins.

“It’s like this,” explained Brek, when Hominy had joined them. “There’s a train comes through at one-ten. The moon will be pretty well down by that time. Me an’ Hominy will hide inunder the depot platform till the train’s gone an’ then we’ll slip acrost to the bank an’ jimmy the back door. While him an’ me works on the inside, Johnny, you’ll be layin’ acrost the street inunder the sidewalk that’s raised up about two foot. A man layin’ in there with a shotgun full of buck could sweep the hull street. But, chances is it’ll all come off without no rookus—like Yorkton. They ain’t many of ’em can work the soup like me. Even if the town does wake up, they ain’t goin’ to put up no hell of a fight. A few rounds of buck an’ the roar of a forty-five will send ’em huntin’ their holes. Then, before they know we’re gone we’ll be back here an’ off fer the hills. They’ll be wastin’ time on the roads an’ the railroad. Gitaways in this here country ain’t made afoot—that’s what makes it the safest.”

“I wisht we’d lay off’n this job,” said Johnnie. “We got enough a’ready to last us the rest of our life.”

“You git cold feet, now, an’ I’ll fix ’em so they’ll stay cold!” growled Brek, savagely. “They might be enough in them sacks to last you—but they ain’t enough fer me—not the way I’ll roll ’em when we git back to Montana.”

“It’s ten after ’leven,” announced Hominy, returning his watch to his pocket, “Le’s git goin’. Might’s well wait there as here.”

“Come on. Leave Bill’s shotgun here. We won’t need it, an’ it’s only that much more to pack. Stick it an’ the boots in with the rest of the stuff. You take the other gun, Johnnie, an’ when we git to the edge of town you circle around an’ come in from back of the livery barn, an’ me an’ Hominy’ll hit straight fer the depot.”

Again there was a fumbling at the wagon box, as the man added the gun and the boots to the cache, and a moment later the boy watched all three disappear around the corner of the barn.

The Yorkton bank robbers—on their way to rob Mr. Warring’s bank! And their horses right here in the old Johnson corral! And those two canvas bags! The loot from the Yorkton bank! And most of the men of the police watching the line, miles to the southward! Under the wagon box, the boy wriggled in a fever of excitement. What should he do? What could one small boy do against three armed robbers? If Sergeant Costello were only here! But the Sergeant was snoring away in the little room over the store—perhaps dreaming about these very robbers! He must do something. He couldn’t lie there and let the robbers get away, and rob Mr. Warring’s bank besides.

Cautiously, he began to wriggle toward the aperture. His feet came in contact with the obstruction. There was a clinking sound—the gold from the Yorkton bank—or, maybe, only the discarded spurs of the leader. He pushed with his legs and a few moments later was sitting upright in the moonlight. He reached out and touched one of the canvas bags. It clinked and he raised it from the ground. It was heavy—perhaps a third full of loose coins, and on top of the coins the bag was filled to the mouth with squarish bundles—bundles of bills such as he had seen in the grilled cashier’s cage of Mr. Warring’s bank. Dropping the bag, the boy glanced about him in terror. What if the robbers should change their plans and come back to the corral?

In a panic of fear, he stampeded into the thick shadows of the aspen grove. Then, he halted. Running away! He, Cameron Downey was running away because he was afraid! Running away, when he might be the means of helping to capture the Yorkton robbers, and save Mr. Warring’s bank at the same time. What would Sergeant Costello say? Costello, who had told him only today that he was tough-minded! He would run as fast as he could and wake up the Sergeant! He would know just what to do. But—what if the robbers should return and mount their horses and make for the hills? The man called Johnnie might persuade the others to give up the project. No—he must do something first—must make it impossible for the robbers to get away. He must hide the canvas bags and turn the horses loose. Returning to the wagon box, he drew out the shotgun, made sure it was loaded, cocked it, and laid it across the upturned bottom of the box ready for instant use.

Cammie had a shotgun of his own, and possession of the weapon loaded with buckshot gave him a vast confidence. He would hate to shoot a man—but—these men were outlaws, and had not the leader shot one of his own men? He raised the bags one at a time. They were too heavy to carry very far. His foot came into contact with a tangle of bailing wire and as he stooped to release it he heard a sound from the direction of the barn. It was a strange, blurred sort of a sound, followed instantly by a string of curses in a high, shrill voice. Flat on his belly in the tall grass behind the wagon box went the boy and at the same instant he reached for the shotgun. At the corner of the barn a man was scrambling to his feet. It was Johnnie, who limped toward him, muttering. The boy took in at a glance the reason for the sound and the curses that followed. The man had been running, and had tripped over the tongue of an old mowing machine concealed by the tall grass. He was alone—and evidently half-paralysed with terror. What had happened? The man paused for a moment at the gate of the horse corral and shook his fist toward the town: “Damn ’em I won’t do it!” he whimpered. “We’ll git caught—mebbe! Brek’ll kill me if he ketches me—but he won’t. I’ll turn their horses loose an’ go south with the swag—to hell with ’em.”

The man had discarded his shotgun. He was empty handed as he hurried toward the wagon box. Now or never, thought the boy as his finger gripped the trigger. He rose to his feet and levelled the gun at the man’s middle. “Stop!” The word cut sharply on the night air, and not twenty feet away Johnnie halted in his tracks, stared for a split second, and reached both hands high above his head.

“Don’t shoot!” he yammered. “I’ll turn witness! I’ll squeal! I’ll tell everythin’ I know! Don’t shoot—Brek made me do it!” The boy eyed the man in disgust: “Unbuckle your belt,” he commanded, taking courage from the fact that of the two, the man was by far the more frightened. “Don’t make a move for your gun—I’ll blow you in two if you do. Let it drop, belt an’ all, then walk three steps back.”

The man complied, keeping his right hand elevated. The belt with its cartridges and heavy revolver thudded to the ground, and he stepped backward. Cammie’s brain was in a whirl. What should he do, now? He hadn’t the slightest notion—but do something, he must. “Keep on walkin’ back till I tell you to stop,” he commanded. As the man retreated, the boy advanced till he reached the gun. “Stop.” Johnnie stopped, and again the boy’s foot touched the tangle of the bailing wire. “Lay down on your belly and keep your hands stretched out,” he ordered, and loosening a piece of wire, approached. Laying the shotgun aside, he picked up the revolver and cocked it, and with a caution against a single move, proceeded to wire the man’s hands together.

“Ow! Yer cuttin’ clean through my hide!” he whimpered, as the wire was drawn tight. “Quit! Yer hurtin’!”

“Can’t help it,” answered the boy as he continued to wind the wire round and round the man’s wrists, pulling each wrap tight as he could. At length, he twisted the ends, and securing another length of wire bound the man’s feet. After which he rolled him over against the corral fence and wired him, hands and feet, to the lower pole.

“You got my blood cut off—I’ll die!” whined the man. “An’ when Brek comes back, he’ll kill me! He killed Bill—an’ he don’t like me as good!”

“Brek ain’t comin’ back,” answered the boy, struggling to keep the nervous excitement from his voice, and wiring the two bags together, he dragged them to the corral. Opening the gate, he entered the enclosure where the three horses stood, bridle reins hanging. Selecting one, he succeeded in swinging the bags across the saddle so that one hung upon either side. Catching up the other two horses, he mounted one, and, tying the reins of the others, slipped his arm through them, and gripping the outlaw’s revolver in his right hand, moved slowly down the old Johnson lane toward the main road.

A quarter of a mile from town, he halted. Shod hoofs make a noise, and the street was gravelled in spots. What if Brek and Hominy in their hiding place under the depot platform should hear him coming. He glanced about him. He had stopped almost exactly opposite the gate of Old Man Popum’s pasture. Slipping to the ground, he led the horses to the gate, opened it, and closed it behind him. Then, swiftly, he proceeded to strip off the saddles and bridles. Finding themselves free, the horses trotted off a short distance and fell to cropping grass.

The boy dragging the saddles and bridles and bags into a patch of brush, and still gripping the revolver, ran toward the town as fast as his legs would carry him.