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TRAPPED

It was as though his entrance had rung a bell for silence. The eyes focused on him were as steady as the guns. None of them for an instant wavered.

Then the tension lifted. Someone laughed a little, on a high false note of relief, at the same time dropping the barrel of his shotgun.

There were five men in the room, Tom saw, not counting the one who followed him inside and closed the door. The young man from the bull outfit had an odd feeling that the stage had been set for someone else. The wrong actor had answered the cue. They had been expecting somebody, and instead he had inopportunely blundered in. He could read surprise, even bewilderment, on their faces.

“Who in Mexico are you?” asked one.

He was a big man, broad of shoulders, heavily bearded. Long hair fell thick to the coat in black ringlets that began to show the frost of years. His cheek bones were high, his face harsh and imperious. At sight of him, Tom felt goose quills run down his spine. The fellow jolted in him some strange fugitive memory that would not take form. In some previous incarnation, perhaps, he had known and greatly feared this man.

“Found him crawlin’ outa the brakes,” explained his captor. “So I fotched him along.”

“Good for you, Dave.” Blackbeard turned his attention to the prisoner. “Did Slade send you here? How many come along with you?”

Tom could not tell what answer would best serve him. If he said he had friends near waiting for him, these men might fear to destroy him. On the other hand, if he told them he had come alone, he might perhaps persuade them that he had come by chance. He decided to tell the truth.

“I’m alone. No one with me.”

“How come you here?”

“Lookin’ for strayed stock,” he said. “We lost a bunch of horses we were takin’ to the next stage station.”

“We! Who d’you mean by we?” demanded the big man harshly.

“I’m with a Russell, Majors & Waddell bull outfit.”

“What made you ’low yore stock was here?” The black eyes of the man stabbed at Tom fiercely.

”I followed the trail a ways, then I lost it. Kinda stumbled up the gulch.”

Tom’s gaze met steadily that of his questioner. He knew that he was in danger, that the least slip might condemn him. If these men felt their own safety was at stake they would not hesitate to blot him out.

A thickset man of medium height wearing a deerskin hunting coat thrust a question at Tom. “When did you lose this stock? An’ how?”

“Last night. The cavvy got stampeded. The fellow on guard claimed he saw Injuns, but he was right scared. Our wagon boss figured the horses jest broke away.”

“An’ you plumb happened to drift right spang thisaway,” suggested a third man sourly. He had a pallid face, cold, washed-out eyes, and mustard-coloured hair.

“You might call that right funny, Holt,” agreed the big man with heavy irony. “The angels sorta wafted him here, I reckon.”

“I reckon they’ll waft him away again, Mose, after we’re through with him,” the cold-eyed man returned cruelly.

Tom knew now who these men were. The big fellow, the one who seemed to be the leader, was Mose Wilson. He was at the head of a gang of outlaws who plagued the Trail, stealing horses from the stage company and money and supplies from the emigrants. Occasionally they murdered; more often they left poor settlers without supplies or stock to carry them to the promised land. It was against this gang that Slade was trying to protect the country in his official capacity as superintendent of the division. Tom had heard the names of several of them. There was Jim Holt, and there was Musgrove, and one Dave Pope. He discovered a moment later that the man in the deerskin coat was Musgrove.

“Looky here,” that individual said, “we got other fish to fry. Dave better go back an’ keep a lookout. We can settle then amongst us what to do with this pilgrim.”

“Musgrove is right,” Wilson agreed. “An’ when the time comes, Dave, give us the signal.”

Pope growled assent, with no enthusiasm. “He ain’t a-comin’, or, if he does come, he’ll have a whole passle of gun toters with him. Slade ain’t anybody’s fool, not that I ever heerd tell of,” he said, moving to the door.

“If he brings a bunch of his killers with him, we got to be all the more careful, an’ that’s likely what he’ll do,” Wilson growled. “Me, I never did like this fool notion, anyhow.”

Musgrove, hard-eyed, looked his chief over coolly. “You would have liked it fine if it had a-been yore own idea, Mose.”

The big black man glared at him. “Fellow, are you runnin’ on me? Doncha do it. I been fed on raw meat.”

“Sure, Mose,” the other answered lightly. “You’re a curly wolf from Bitter Creek. You bumped off a fellow in St. Joe onct, an’ another on a river boat above New Orleans, an’ you filled a bird with lead plums at—at—lemme see, that was at St. Louis, wasn’t it?”

“No, sir. At Independence. An’ he was a sheriff.”

“Sure. How come I to forget that when I heard you tell it so often?” drawled Musgrove with obvious irony. He was watching the big man with a steady, unfaltering regard. The thumb of his right hand hung hitched in the pocket of his hunting coat, not six inches from the butt of a derringer.

“I’ll tell it again,” boasted Wilson. “He come at me with a whole damn posse, an’ I drapped him like he’d been a white-tail buck. Any remarks?”

“Why, no—no. I reckon not.”

“Then what’s all the talk about?” snorted Wilson.

“What’s the matter with you two fellows?” Holt asked sulkily. “Cain’t you-all lay off’n each other till we’re through with Slade an’ this kid? After that, you can wild up all you doggone please.”

“You’re talkin’, Jim,” another man spoke up, pouring himself a drink from a bottle. He was a fat little man on the roly-poly order, and to Tom he looked amiable and friendly. “Business first. Pleasure afterward, I say.”

“All right, Fat,” Musgrove agreed with a shrug. “Suits me. Shove that bottle north by west, will you?”

A long man with a big sandy moustache pushed the bottle toward Musgrove. He was a gross fellow, with red veins in his beefy cheeks. Tom had noticed that though he had been sampling the bottle sulkily and industriously his cold, protruding eyes had followed Musgrove and Wilson in their argument almost eagerly. There was something sinister and secret in his gaze, as though he were hoping for some explosive development between them. This was apparently a house divided against itself.

“Obliged, Orton,” said Musgrove, nodding at the long man as he poured a drink into a tin cup. “Suits me. Like Fat says, business first.”

The prisoner, his eyes on Orton, had a feeling that the man was disappointed. What did the fellow want? Had he some private interest that would be served if these two men fell out?

Tom’s senses were keyed to keen tension. He watched each man as he spoke. They were outlaws and bandits. Most of them, perhaps all of them, were killers. How far would they go in his own case? Would they think it necessary in order to play safe to put an end to him? Could he appeal to any one of them with any hope of success?

Even while his brain was busy, his eyes cast around the room and made a discovery. In one corner, flung together in a careless pile, were moccasins and breech clouts and Arapahoe head dresses. He knew now why Shep Hods had been deceived. The horse rustlers had dressed like Indians before setting out on their raid.

“Question is what to do with this here pilgrim,” Fat said, coming back to the order of the day. “He come bustin’ in without any by yore leave. He better stay here, don’t you reckon?”

“Permanent,” Wilson said harshly.

Tom felt as though someone were walking over his grave. A shiver ran down his spine.

“Maybe not,” Musgrove differed. “What we got against him? Come to that, what’s he got against us?”

The pallid-faced man Holt laughed, not pleasantly. “He jes’ came to pay us a neighbourly visit, Mus thinks.”

“He hasn’t got a thing on us, not a thing. Look at it reasonable. He comes lookin’ for a bunch of horses an’ draps in here. Well, he ain’t found any horses, has he?”

“No horses,” agreed Holt. “But he found us. I reckon you’re forgettin’ the other business, Mus. Do you figure on lettin’ him see it an’ then turnin’ him loose to tell God knows who?”

Musgrove shook his head in warning. “What other business? No, Jim, we’ll cache our young friend in the gulch an’ turn him loose after a while.”

“No sense to that,” said the fat man mildly. “We don’t know what he knows an’ what he don’t. Too bad, but we got to play safe. I got nothin’ against this kid, but you know the old motto about dead men not gossipin’.”

“You’re speakin’ right out in meeting, Fat. It’ll be that way too,” Wilson announced bluntly.

“You’re the big auger, are you, Mose?” drawled Musgrove.

“Fellow, I’ll burn powder quick,” blustered Wilson. “Don’t run on me if you aim to stay healthy.”

“I’ve had guys get on the prod with me before, but I’m still doing business, big man. No need to get rambunctious with me, Mose. I’m from Texas.”

“Well, Texas man, draw in yore horns. We’re four to one here.” Wilson snarled this out arrogantly.

“Hold yore horses, both of you,” cut in Holt. “What’s bitin’ you two? All friends here, ain’t we?”

“Maybe we are an’ maybe we ain’t,” Musgrove said gently, stressing every syllable. “Mose seems to have notions.”

“You’re gettin’ mighty tender-hearted all of a sudden, Mus,” jeered Holt. “This bird comes here bellyachin’ about the broomtails he claims to have lost an’——”

Musgrove shot a question straight at Tom. “Don’t claim we’ve got ’em, do you?”

“No, sir. They strayed off.” Tom’s gaze met his steadily.

“Lost the trail quite a ways from here, eh?”

“Back three-four miles.”

“Never saw us before, did you? Wouldn’t know us again if you ever did happen to meet up with us?”

Tom shook his head. “I’m not lookin’ for trouble.”

“Well, I’ll say you done found plenty,” Fat said amiably. “We gotta stop him from talkin’, boys, looks like.”

The prisoner was standing in front of a window made of the smooth skin of an animal instead of glass. If he could plunge through it! But there was no chance. These men were dead shots, and they would plug him full of lead instantly. His hope of life depended upon Musgrove. The Texan was a hardy ruffian, and there seemed to be a streak of obstinacy in him. He might stick to his point against them all.

“Talkin’ about what, Fat?” Musgrove asked. “How he found us here huntin’ antelope?”

“We don’t know a thing about this fellow, where he comes from or who sent him,” the plump man expostulated.

“All we know is where he’s going,” Wilson added brutally.

“We got nothin’ but his own say-so. Now, ain’t that a frozen fact, Mus?” The placid voice of the round little man did not for an instant lose its friendliness. He might have been discussing the weather. “Way I look at it, why it’s us or him. I don’t aim to throw down on myself. Why take chances we don’t have to?”

“Chances! I been takin’ them all my life. So have you. All of you.” The Texan’s hard eyes swept over his associates scornfully. “If you wanted things so soft an’ safe, why didn’t you stay back in the States an’ raise corn? I reckon you was afraid a mule would kick you while you was ploughin’.”

The plump man flushed. The cold gray eye of the Texan chilled him. He did not want any trouble with Musgrove. There was about him the ominous quiet of the fighting breed. Fat was no coward, but there would be small profit in taking up this challenge.

As each man spoke, Tom looked at him. Excitement drummed in his veins. It was his life for which they fought. Presently, if the decision went against him, he would be horribly afraid, but just now he had no time for fear.

At that moment, while the issue was still in doubt, a voice from outside came to them, a voice hearty with the lustiness of robust life.

“‘Lo, Jinny girl,” it called.

The effect of that joyous shout was amazing.

“Slade,” snarled Wilson, and instantly forgot that Tom was alive. It was so with the others. They seemed to gather themselves together, wolflike, weapons ready to strike, all eyes focussed on the door about to be opened by the doomed man.

Tom saw his chance, the only one both for him and for that man outside walking lightly to his death. For, if they killed Slade, they must slay him too in order to close his lips. He whirled, dived head first for the window, his body as straight as that of one ready to split the water. The tight skin covering the window ripped like paper. A derringer barked.

As he struck the ground, before he rose lithely on all fours, Tom shouted a warning. He scuttled through the sage into the aspens, and as he ran he heard the roar of guns. Once in the thicket, he turned, looking back over his shoulder as he worked his way through the slim young saplings.

He saw a man, a blazing revolver in each hand, backing away from the cabin as he fired. The outlaws were in the open, close to the door, flame darting from their guns. One of them, Fat, dropped his shotgun and leaned back against the cabin wall. On his face was an odd baffled look. His body sagged along the logs and slid to the ground.

Tom crashed through the aspens. He was unarmed and could not fight. His aim was to reach his horse. Too late, he tried to stop.

A man knelt on one knee, taking deliberate aim at Slade. The man was Dave Pope. He heard Tom at the same instant that Tom saw him. Pope half rose, facing Tom, but the young man’s body hurled him to the ground. The outlaw rolled over, dropping his weapon. It fell scarcely a foot from the spot where the young man’s hand struck the leafy loam. Tom snatched up the rifle and was off long before Pope could gather himself together.

Young Collins reached the brakes. “I’m with you,” he called to Slade, who was already drawing close to him. Hurriedly he fired at Wilson, just as the big man retreated into the house.

Slade’s guns still roared. He backed into the brakes and flashed one look at Tom, a look of keen and searching scrutiny. The man’s eyes flamed with the lust of hot battle.

“Quien es?” he demanded.

“A friend. With a bull train of the company. They stampeded our horses an’ I come lookin’ for them.”

The battle had died down. The bandits were drawing back into the cabin. The two men who had escaped moved into the cañon. Here Slade found his horse where he had left it.

“Did they get your mount?” he asked.

“I don’t reckon so. I left it off the trail farther down.”

“First off, we’ll get it,” Slade said with crisp decision.

The superintendent of the division was a lean-loined, dark-eyed man. He carried his weight with the light ease of an athlete, a hint of arrogance in his bearing. In age, he was probably in his late twenties. His lips were like a steel trap, his gray eyes cold and steely. Vigour and force showed in his clean-cut face. Whatever his faults, he went the way of the strong. Tom would have known that even if the man’s name had not been flung far and wide over the frontier.

Tom recovered his horse, which was nibbling brush on the edge of the dry wash where he had dismounted.

“Young fellow, what’s your name?” asked the older man.

“Tom Collins. I’m extra man with Rivers’ outfit.”

“Did these fellows steal your stock?”

“Yes, sir. Eight horses for the stage. We were takin’ them to Cottonwood.”

“Sure it was this bunch that took ’em?”

“They were dressed as Injuns. I saw the moccasins and headdresses in the cabin. While I was comin’ up the gulch, I heard a horse nicker.”

The stranger stroked for a moment his moustache, evidently in reflection. Presently he spoke.

“My name is Slade—Joseph A. Slade, superintendent of the division. You’ve heard of me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Who in this Western country had not heard of Slade? He was a despot in his division, a terror to the bad men who infested this region. Even Indians on the warpath gave his locality a wide berth. Far and wide his reputation had been flung. Already the fictions that have made a legend of his name were beginning to accumulate. When Mark Twain met him a little later, on the humourist’s way to Nevada, the superintendent was credited with having killed twenty-eight men. Slade was held to be faithful to his trust, rigidly honest, and fearless, the very type of man to hold in check thieving Indians and lawless desperadoes. To a cheerful temperament were added wit, generosity, and a personal magnetism that tied his friends to him with ropes of steel. The evil qualities that later ruined his life and made him a menace to society were not yet dominant in him, or at least were generally held in check. Only when in liquor did he let these override his judgment. He was a killer, cold-blooded and remorseless, but he fought on the side of society in his earlier years. Tom had once heard an old-timer say that Slade had never killed anyone who did not need killing.

“I aim to get those horses,” the superintendent said. “How about you, young fellow? Will you go through?” He looked at his slim companion, lank as a shad, out of cold gray eyes used to appraising men. “If you are scared to tackle this, say so now. I don’t want anyone who will quit on the job.”

Tom grinned. “I’m some scared, but I’ll go through.”

Slade smiled, the warm and genial smile that made him friends in spite of the evil in the man. His hand fell approvingly on the shoulder of young Collins. “Fine, boy. I’m sure you will.”

“I reckon the horses are over thataway,” Tom said, pointing to the left. “Back of the head of the gulch.”

“If they are here at all, I know where they are,” Slade said. “I ought to know. That cabin was built by me. My wife and I used to live there. We keep it furnished, and once in a while we go there. These scalawags sent me a message saying she was here now waiting for me. I’ve been expecting her, so I came.” He flashed an apprehensive look at Tom. “She isn’t there? They haven’t got her prisoner?”

“Not in the cabin,” Tom replied.

“Just a trick to trap me,” Slade said. “I thought it funny she didn’t come on to Cottonwood if she had travelled this far. They would have got me too if it hadn’t been for your yell and the first shot at you. Soon as I heard ’em, I had my six-shooters out and was backing from the cabin. Good for you, boy.”

“I was savin’ my own bacon too,” Tom answered, a little embarrassed.

Already Slade’s mind had passed to the business on foot.