CHAPTER XIII
Mr. Francis Charles Boland, propped up on one elbow, sprawled upon a rugspread upon the grass under a giant willow tree at Mitchell House, deepin the Chronicles of Sir John Froissart. Mr. Ferdinand Sedgwick tip-toedunheard across the velvet sward. He prodded Frances Charles with his toe.
"Ouch!" said Francis Charles.
"You'll catch your death of cold. Get up! Your company is desired."
"Go 'way!"
"Miss Dexter wants you."
"Don't, either. She was coiled in the hammock ten minutes ago. Wearing acriminal neglige. Picturesque, but not posing. She slept; I heard hersnore."
"She's awake now and wants you to make a fourth at bridge; you twoagainst Elsie and me."
"Botheration! Tell her you couldn't find me."
"I would hush the voice of conscience and do your bidding gladly,old thing, if it lay within the sphere of practical politics. But,unfortunately, she saw you."
"Tell her to go to the devil!"
Ferdie considered this proposition and rejected it with regret.
"She wouldn't do it. But you go on with your reading. I'll tell heryou're disgruntled. She'll understand. This will make the fourth day thatyou haven't taken your accustomed stroll by the schoolhouse. We're allinterested, Frankie."
"You banshee!" Francis withdrew the finger that had been keeping hisplace in the book. "I suppose I'll have to go back with you." He sat up,rather red as to his face.
"I bet she turned you down hard, old boy," murmured Mr. Sedgwicksympathetically. "My own life has been very sad. It has been blightedforever, several times. Is she pretty? I haven't seen her, myself, andthe reports of the men-folks and the young ladies don't tally. Funnything, but scientific observation shows that when a girl says anothergirl is fine-looking--Hully Gee! And _vice versa_. Eh? What say?"
"Didn't say anything. You probably overheard me thinking. If so, I begyour pardon."
"I saw a fine old Western gentleman drive by here with old man Seldenyesterday--looked like a Westerner, anyhow; big sombrero, leather face,and all that. I hope," said Ferdie anxiously, "that it was not thisvenerable gentleman who put you on the blink. He was a fine old relic;but he looked rather patriarchal for the role of Lochinvar. Unless, ofcourse, he has the money."
"Yes, he's a Western man, all right. I met them on the Vesper Bridge,"replied Boland absently, ignoring the banter. He got to his feet andspoke with dreamy animation. "Ferdie, that chap made me feel homesickwith just one look at him. Best time I ever had was with that sort.Younger men I was running with, of course. Fine chaps; splendidlyeducated and perfect gentlemen when sober--I quote from an uncreditedquotation from a copy of an imitation of a celebrated plagiarist. Wouldgo back there and stay and stay, only for the lady mother. She's used tothe city.... By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept."
"Hi!" said Ferdie. "Party yellin' at you from the road. Come out of yourtrance."
Francis Charles looked up. A farmer had stopped his team by the frontgate.
"Mr. Boland!" he trumpeted through his hands.
Boland answered the hail and started for the gate, Ferdie following; theagriculturist flourished a letter, dropped it in the R.F.D. box, anddrove on.
"Oh, la, la! The thick plottens!" observed Ferdie.
Francis Charles tore open the letter, read it hastily, and turned withsparkling eyes to his friend. His friend, for his part, sighedprofoundly.
"Oh Francis, Francis!" he chided.
"Here, you howling idiot; read it!" said Francis.
The idiot took the letter and read:
DEAR MR. BOLAND: I need your help. Mr. Johnson, a friend ofStanley's--his best friend--is up here from Arizona upon businessof the utmost importance, both to himself and Stanley.
I have only this moment had word that Mr. Johnson is in the most serioustrouble. To be plain, he is in Vesper Jail. There has been foul play,part and parcel of a conspiracy directed against Stanley. Please comeat once. I claim your promise.
Mary Selden
Ferdie handed it back.
"My friend's friend is my friend? And so on, _ad infinitum_, like fleaswith little fleas to bite 'em--that sort of thing--what? Does that let mein? I seem to qualify in a small-flealike way."
"You bet you do, old chap! That's the spirit! Do you rush up and presentmy profound apologies to the ladies--important business matter. I'll begetting out the buzz wagon. You shall see Mary Selden. You shall also seehow right well and featly our no-bel and intrepid young hero borehimself, just a-pitchin' and a-rarin', when inclination jibed withjooty!"
Two minutes later they took the curve by the big gate on two wheels. Asthey straightened into the river road, Mr. Sedgwick spread one hand overhis heart, rolled his eyes heavenward and observed with fine dramaticeffect:
"'I claim your pr-r-r-r-omise'!"
Mr. Johnson sat in a cell of Vesper Jail, charged with assault andbattery in the _n_th degree; drunk and disorderly understood, butthat charge unpreferred as yet. It is no part of legal method to bringone accused of intoxication before the magistrate at once, so that thejudicial mind may see for itself. By this capital arrangement, the justlyintoxicated may be acquitted for lack of convincing evidence, after theyhave had time to sober up; while the unjustly accused, who should go freeon sight, are at the mercy of such evidence as the unjust accuser seesfit to bring or send.
The Messrs. Poole had executed their commission upon Vesper Bridge,pouncing upon Mr. Johnson as he passed between them, all unsuspecting.They might well have failed in their errand, however, had it not beenthat Mr. Johnson was, in a manner of speaking, in dishabille, having lefthis gun at the hotel. Even so, he improvised several new lines and someeffective stage business before he was overpowered by numbers and weight.
The brothers Poole were regarded with much disfavor by UndersheriffBarton, who made the arrest; but their appearance bore out their story.It was plain that some one had battered them.
Mr. Johnson quite won the undersheriff's esteem by his seemly bearingafter the arrest. He accepted the situation with extreme composure,exhibiting small rancor toward his accusers, refraining fromcounter-comment to their heated descriptive analysis of himself; hetroubled himself to make no denials.
"I'll tell my yarn to the judge," he said, and walked to jail with hiscaptors in friendliest fashion.
These circumstances, coupled with the deputy's experienced dislike forthe complaining witnesses and a well-grounded unofficial joy at theirbattered state, won favor for the prisoner. The second floor of the jailwas crowded with a noisy and noisome crew. Johnson was taken to the thirdfloor, untenanted save for himself, and ushered into a quiet and pleasantcorner cell, whence he might solace himself by a view of the street andthe courthouse park. Further, the deputy ministered to Mr. Johnson'shurts with water and court-plaster, and a beefsteak applied to a bruisedand swollen eye. He volunteered his good offices as a witness in the mootmatter of intoxication and in all ways gave him treatment befitting anhonored guest.
"Now, what else?" he said. "You can't get a hearing until to-morrow; thejustice of the peace is out of town. Do you know anybody here? Can yougive bail?"
"Ya-as, I reckon so. But I won't worry about that till to-morrow. Nightin jail don't hurt any one."
"If I can do anything for you, don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you kindly, I'll take you up on that. Just let me think up alittle."
The upshot of his considerations was that the jailer carried to atailor's shop Johnson's coat and vest, sadly mishandled during the briefaffray on the bridge; the deputy dispatched a messenger to the SeldenFarm with a note for Miss Mary Selden, and also made diligent inquiry asto Mr. Oscar Mitchell, reporting that Mr. Mitchell had taken thewestbound flyer at four o'clock, together with Mr. Pelman, his clerk;both taking tickets to El Paso.
Later, a complaisant jailer brought to Pete a goodly supper from theAlgonquin, clean bedding, cigars, magazines, and a lamp--the last itemcontrary to rule. He chatted with his prisoner duri
ng supper, clearedaway the dishes, locked the cell door, with a cheerful wish for goodnight, and left Pete with his reflections.
Pete had hardly got to sleep when he was wakened by a queer, clinkingnoise. He sat up in the bed and listened.
The sound continued. It seemed to come from the window, from which thesash had been removed because of July heat. Pete went to investigate. Hefound, black and startling against the starlight beyond, a small rubberballoon, such as children love, bobbing up and down across the window;tied to it was a delicate silk fishline, which furnished the motivepower. As this was pulled in or paid out the balloon scraped by thewindow, and a pocket-size cigar clipper, tied beneath at the end of asix-inch string, tinkled and scratched on the iron bars. Pete lit hislamp; the little balloon at once became stationary.
"This," said Pete, grinning hugely, "is the doings of that Selden kid.She is certainly one fine small person!"
Pete turned the lamp low and placed it on the floor at his feet, so thatit should not unduly shape him against the window; he pulled gently onthe line. It gave; a guarded whistle came softly from the dark shadow ofthe jail. Pete detached the captive balloon, with a blessing, and pulledin the fishline. Knotted to it was a stout cord, and in the knot was asmall piece of paper, rolled cigarette fashion. Pete untied the knot; hedropped his coil of fishline out of the window, first securing thestronger cord by a turn round his hand lest he should inadvertently dropthat as well; he held the paper to the light, and read the message:
Waiting for you, with car, two blocks north. Destroy MS.
Pete pulled up the cord, hand over hand, and was presently rewarded by asmall hacksaw, eminently suited for cutting bars; he drew in the slackagain and this time came to the end of the cord, to which was fastened astrong rope. He drew this up noiselessly and laid the coils on the floor.Then he penciled a note, in turn:
Clear out. Will join you later.
He tied this missive on his cord, together with the cigar clipper, andlowered them from the window. There was a signaling tug at the cord; Petedropped it.
Pete dressed himself; he placed a chair under the window; then heextinguished the lamp, took the saw, and prepared to saw out the bars.But it was destined to be otherwise. Even as he raised the saw, hestiffened in his tracks, listening; his blood tingled to his finger tips.He heard a footstep on the stair, faint, guarded, but unmistakable. Itcame on, slowly, stealthily.
Pete thrust saw and rope under his mattress and flung himself upon it,all dressed as he was, face to the wall, with one careless arm under hishead, just as if he had dropped asleep unawares.
A few seconds later came a little click, startling to tense nerves, atthe cell door; a slender shaft of light lanced the darkness, spreading toa mellow cone of radiance. It searched and probed; it rested upon thesilent figure on the bed.
"Sh-h-h!" said a sibilant whisper.
Peter muttered, rolled over uneasily, opened his eyes and leaped up,springing aside from that golden circle of light in well-simulatedalarm.
"Hush-h!" said the whisper. "I'm going to let you out. Be quiet!"
Keys jingled softly in the dark; the lock turned gently and the dooropened. In that brief flash of time Pete Johnson noted that there hadbeen no hesitation about which key to use. His thought flew to the kindlyundersheriff. His hand swept swiftly over the table; a match crackled.
"Smoke?" said Pete, extending the box with graceful courtesy.
"Fool!" snarled the visitor, and struck out the match.
But Pete had seen. The undersheriff was a man of medium stature; thislarge masked person was about the size of the larger of his lately madeacquaintances, the brothers Poole.
"Come on!" whispered the rescuer huskily. "Mitchell sent me. He'll takeyou away in his car."
"Wait a minute! We'd just as well take these cigars," answered Pete inthe same slinking tone. "Here; take a handful. How'd you get in?"
"Held the jailer up with a gun. Got him tied and gagged. Shut up, willyou? You can talk when you get safe out of this." He tip-toed away, Petefollowing. The quivering searchlight crept along the hall; it picked outthe stairs. Halfway down, Pete touched his guide on the shoulder.
"Wait!" Standing on the higher stair, he whispered in the larger man'sear: "You got all the keys?"
"Yes."
"Give 'em to me. I'll let all the prisoners go. If there's an alarm,it'll make our chances for a get-away just so much better."
The Samaritan hesitated.
"Aw, I'd like to, all right! But I guess we'd better not."
He started on; the stair creaked horribly. In the hall below Peteovertook him and halted him again.
"Aw, come on--be a sport!" he urged. "Just open this one cell, here, andgive that lad the keys. He can do the rest while we beat it. If you wasin there, wouldn't you want to get out?"
This appeal had its effect on the Samaritan. He unlocked the cell door,after a cautious trying of half a dozen keys. Apparently his scruplesreturned again; he stood irresolute in the cell doorway, turning thesearchlight on its yet unawakened occupant.
Peter swooped down from behind. His hands gripped the rescuer's ankles;he heaved swiftly, at the same time lunging forward with head andshoulders, with all the force of his small, seasoned body behind theeffort. The Samaritan toppled over, sprawling on his face within thecell. With a heartfelt shriek the legal occupant leaped from his bunk andlanded on the intruder's shoulder blades. Peter slammed shut the door;the spring lock clicked.
The searchlight rolled, luminous, along the floor; its glowworm lightshowed Poole's unmasked and twisted face. Pete snatched the bunch of keysand raced up the stairs, bending low to avoid a possible bullet; followedby disapproving words.
At the stairhead, beyond the range of a bullet's flight, Peter paused.Pandemonium reigned below. The roused prisoners shouted rage, alarm, orjoy, and whistled shrilly through their fingers, wild with excitement;and from the violated cell arose a prodigious crash of thudding fists,the smashing of a splintered chair, the sickening impact of locked bodiesfalling against the stone walls or upon the complaining bunk, accompaniedby verbiage, and also by rattling of iron doors, hoots, cheers andcatcalls from the other cells. Authority made no sign.
Peter crouched in the darkness above, smiling happily. From the durationof the conflict the combatants seemed to be equally matched. But the roarof battle grew presently feebler; curiosity stilled the audience, atleast in part; it became evident, by language and the sound of torturedand whistling breath, that Poole was choking his opponent into submissionand offering profuse apologies for his disturbance of privacy. Mingledwith this explanation were derogatory opinions of some one, deliveredwith extraordinary bitterness. From the context it would seem that thoseremarks were meant to apply to Peter Johnson. Listening intently, Peterseemed to hear from the first floor a feeble drumming, as of one beatingthe floor with bound feet. Then the tumult broke out afresh.
Peter went back to his cell and lit his lamp. Leaving the door wide open,he coiled the rope neatly and placed it upon his table, laid the hacksawbeside it, undressed himself, blew out the light; and so lay down topleasant dreams.
Copper Streak Trail Page 13