Читать книгу Westy Martin on the Old Indian Trail - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 8

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The police requisitioned Mr. Hollister’s car to take the captured men into the next town. They were to await extradition there, the officers told them. So the scouts waited patiently for Mr. Hollister’s return.

They were glad to see him come back, so tired and exhausted were they. The nerve-racking ordeal had told upon them and they climbed into the car, thankful that the dark road would soon be but a memory.

Only Westy was interested and wakeful enough to hear the final details of the captured bandits’ ride in Mr. Hollister’s car. “Gee whiz,” Westy said, “I bet they’re good and sore at their pals deserting them like that. Huh?”

“Mad?” Mr. Hollister repeated. “Mad is a weak word to express their contempt for their former comrades. They were so mad about it, that they told everything they knew to the police. Right in my presence, too. They told who engineered the hold-up and who shot that poor, unfortunate messenger and all about it. Of course, I suppose a lot of what they said was untrue. Naturally they’ll want to lay all the blame on those who’ve escaped. But the main thing is, they’ve given such a good description of the two pals who betrayed them that every town in Massachusetts, right now, would recognize them. They won’t get out of the state in their own car. Not unless I’m mistaken.”

“I hope they don’t,” Westy said.

Benny had nothing to say. He had long since lost track of all mortal care and concern, so peacefully was he slumbering. His resolve to stay awake all night was of no purpose now. Warde, too, maintained a silence that hinted of lethargy.

Every here and there they were intercepted by police. The car was closely scrutinized as well as its occupants and then passed on. Long after daylight, as they drove into North Adams, four more policemen stopped and searched the car.

“No sign of them, yet?” Mr. Hollister asked one of them.

The officer shook his head. “I guess they got past here before we had word,” he said. “Don’t worry, though, they’ll have to go some to dodge us all. They can’t spend a dollar of the money. The numbers are all known.”

They rode on and through the main street of North Adams. As Mr. Hollister stopped the car, Westy had a thought. “I just happened to think,” he said, “those bandits couldn’t get this car started that time. Didn’t the tall one say something about you stalling it?”

Mr. Hollister laughed. “Yes,” he said, “I was stalling for time—for the officers to come. But I didn’t stall the car—I locked it quickly when they ordered me out. Then I threw the key under the cushion on the front seat.”

Westy woke Benny and they all went into a near-by restaurant for some breakfast. “Who wants to sleep now?” Mr. Hollister asked.

“Not me,” Westy said. “I guess the other two will hold out after their nap.”

“What I want first,” Warde said, “is a nice spot to camp in.”

“All right,” Mr. Hollister agreed, “we’ll drive up the Trail directly after we eat.”

They agreed upon that. Even Benny.

“We’ll go on until someone says stop,” he continued. “The tourists don’t strike the highway until six or seven. I’ll see you settled and still have time to get back before business opens up here.”

The plan sounded good. But the pancakes and coffee and sliced bananas, with cream, momentarily put other thoughts out of Benny’s mind. “Now it’s like last night I was dreaming,” he ventured, his mouth full of banana. “No more will I get frightened with ghosts. We sleep in the mountains—maybe this afternoon even. I don’t care! Indians—oi—they’re dead! But bandits....” The memory of them was too fresh for Benny to give an impartial opinion on the subject.

“Gee,” Warde said, “I bet it’s quiet up there, though. Like a tomb. That’s the kind of a place to sleep in. No noise—nothing. We won’t see anyone, I bet, until my father comes for us. A week from today. All the excitement we’ll have is following up the old trail and chasing turtles.”

“To me,” Benny said, “it sounds so nice I can’t believe it should be such a place. I’ll sleep quiet for a week after so much excitement.”

“You will not,” Westy spoke up with mock severity, “you’ll be allowed to sleep eight hours each night and no more. The rest of the time you’ll be learning how to become a second-class scout.”

“Westy,” he pleaded, his smiling face belying his voice, “for two days let me rest once. Then after, whatever I should do for you—by me it’s all right.”

“You’re hopeless, Ben,” Westy said, shaking his head. “But I don’t intend giving in so easily.”

Mr. Hollister finished eating and strolled over to the door where the restaurant’s manager was standing. They talked for a few minutes and then Mr. Hollister called back to Westy. “Our old friend, the evil eye,” he said, “was abandoned up on the Trail, right out of here. Sometime before daylight. They had run out of gas.”

“Where do you think they’ve gone?” Westy said.

“Oh, they’re out of the state by now,” the manager interposed. “They’ve had a car waiting to meet them there and drained the gas tank just to fool the police. You can bank on it. Those fellers do things pretty thoroughly. They’re not taking chances.”

“Well,” Mr. Hollister said, “it’s the end of them. As far as we’re concerned, anyway.”

Benny looked up, worried. “I hope so,” he said, a bit dismally, “but it’s always new worries yet, just when I think it’s peaceful.”

“Quit fuming, Ben,” Westy said, trying hard to be severe. “They’re a couple of hundred miles away by now. Your own common sense should tell you that. They’re not going to hang around a state where everyone is looking for them. Try and forget it.”

“By you, Westy,” Ben said, “I’ll do anything. But without handcuffs, I shouldn’t trust no bandits a hundred miles away.”