Читать книгу Westy Martin on the Old Indian Trail - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

Table of Contents

The gunman nearest Westy turned and faced the rock, centering his immediate attention upon the top. Evidently, he expected something from that quarter very soon, and nothing else than trouble, at that.

Were the officers just the other side of the rock? Why was everything so terribly quiet? Which way would the officers come upon them and who would be shot down first?

All these questions seared Westy’s brain like darts of flame. But nothing answered except the chorus of some gaily chirping bullfrogs from a near-by pond. The seconds dragged wearily by in the darkness.

There was a sudden, peculiar sound. Something throaty, spasmodic. It came again. Peering over at the light-bathed Benny, Westy had a hunch it came from him.

What was it he did, Westy wondered. He looked more intently. Again it came, louder. Then he saw Benny’s head bob violently as the sound spent itself.

Benny’s captor moved a trifle into the light. Bending over the tenderfoot scout, he whispered something. The sound came again, even as the gunman whispered to him.

Benny looked back over his shoulder into the dark, appealingly. Westy sensed it was meant for him—that appeal. Even though Benny couldn’t see him from where he was standing, he had flashed a silent message to his brother scout and friend.

Westy pondered the meaning of the appeal and message. As he tried to solve it, Warde touched his sleeve, ever so lightly. He too, then, had caught Benny’s look.

The gunman was still standing over Benny. The stillness of the night air was broken suddenly by the thin, falsetto voice. “Can I help it that I hiccough? Ever since I’m a baby already I hiccough—should you tell me to stop when I can’t?”

If Benny had been standing before a microphone, his voice couldn’t have sounded any more distinct or startling. It simply rang out and up to the wide heavens in an echo.

Westy could see in that flashing second that the gunman was startled by Benny’s unexpected outburst. He was completely off his guard for the moment. And Westy took advantage of that moment.

He did not stop to consider his motive. He just knew by blind instinct that the one chance had presented itself, and he took it.

Leaping with one bound, he kicked the gun out of the man’s hand and it fell. There was a soft thud as it landed in the soft grass. A shot rang out, clear—deadly.

Westy flung himself prone upon the ground. Covering the revolver with his own slim body, he waited. The gunman lost no time. He was upon Westy, struggling to wrest his one means of protection from the wary scout.

Westy groaned audibly under the weight of the man. He felt crushed and his breath came only in short gasps. Hadn’t the officers heard? He hoped, ah, he hoped....

“You’re covered,” a deep voice broke in upon the struggle. Its commanding, yet calm, accents came upon Westy’s ears like a soothing breeze in the wake of a storm.

The gunman quickly removed his weight from the suffering scout. Westy scrambled to his feet, his two hands firmly grasping the gun. He didn’t need it, he soon discovered. For the gunmen were very much covered and captured by the state police.

They stood at each side of the rock, their guns in position. Mr. Hollister and Warde and Benny had sidled up to the officers. The gunmen, already handcuffed, were being marched out to the road.

“That was quick work, young fellow,” said one of the officers to Westy. He smiled pleasantly and turned to Mr. Hollister, who interposed with a question.

Westy would have liked to protest that compliment. He wanted to share it with Benny, who was standing mute and trying to gather together his distracted wits. Westy knew intuitively that Benny, in some ingenious way, had made it possible to disarm that gunman. The appeal—that silent message—had something to do with it.

At that juncture one of the officers spoke to Mr. Hollister. “Those two fellers,” he was saying, “belong to Frankie Wolfe’s gang. They did a big job at the City Bank in New York yesterday. Got twenty-five thousand in currency. Killed the messenger but they didn’t have a chance to exchange the money. Cops were right on their trail and chased them through Jersey. They must have hid somewhere in New York State all last night. Probably right over the line, because we got the tip soon after dark that they were in the state and heading for Connecticut.”

“Do you suppose their comrades meant to desert them?” Mr. Hollister asked.

“Sure,” the officer replied. “Frankie’s noted for that. He’s thought up the scheme of holding up your car and putting the two green ones onto the job. It was a good way of getting rid of them and having more dough for himself and his favorite pal. Frankie knows it’s pretty hard to make a good getaway with any excess baggage on board and the coppers on their heels.”

The searchlight was still shining from up on the rock. There Benny stood in its light, as if loath to leave the friendly rays gleaming upon him. He gazed up, an incredulous expression dominating his small features. “That searchlight, Westy,” he said, “should nobody be holding it there yet?”

The officer talking to Mr. Hollister laughed and turned to Benny. “Nobody’s holding it there, son,” he said. “I climbed up and put it there myself just to fool your captors—make them think we were there. We had to have light, too, on our little act, and we needed the full use of our hands. You see, we didn’t know how many we had to fight.”

“Anyhow,” Benny said, sympathetically, “for you I’m glad it’s all over and for me, too, and Westy and everyone! I’ll go by the rock up and get for you your light.”

The officer made an attempt to protest this little service on Benny’s part, but to no avail. The tenderfoot was already in possession of the flashlight and on his way down the rock. They watched him, admiringly.

“If I’m not mistaken, Westy,” Mr. Hollister said, quietly, “I think you have a find in Benny Stein.”

“I know it,” Westy said, proudly. “He’s the scariest and yet the nerviest, bravest kid I’ve ever known.”

“I don’t know but what they’re the best kind to have around,” the officer said. “Especially at a time like this. They think quickly and act.”

Benny, unaware that he was the topic of conversation, handed the light to the officer. They walked back to the roadway, Mr. Hollister and the officer first and the scouts in the rear.

“Say, Ben,” Westy said, before they reached the roadway, “how come you got rid of those hiccoughs so quick? I just happened to think of that, now. Gee whiz, they sure did come on all of a sudden, didn’t they?”

Ben giggled. He stopped walking and looked at Westy. “Say,” he said, “did they sound good? Like real ones?”

“What do you mean?” Westy asked, wonderingly. Warde, too, was puzzled.

Ben threw back his head and laughed. “Westy,” he said, between hearty spasms, “oi, I laugh—you should believe it. And all the time I thought by myself I sounded so foolish doing it!”

“Foolish, doing what?” Westy wanted to know.

“In my whole life,” Benny answered, more composed, “never did I have those hiccoughs once even. I just was what you call making a noise like it so the bandit should forget he had a gun, because he would get mad at me. That look I gave you? It was telling you to jump on him when I should speak already. But anyhow why should I tell you this, you understood, so what’s the use of talking now!”

There wasn’t any use of talking. Westy knew there was nothing fitting enough to say to Benny. He wasn’t on a par with praise of any kind—he was above that. He was aces high and higher, and Westy’s heart was full of admiration for his friend.

But how can a scout tell that to another scout without feeling like a sap? That’s the question Westy would have liked to have answered.