CHAPTER XXI.
WOLVES BECOMING DANGEROUS.
On the last slope of the mountain, where the sand of the desert creptup to the ridge of rock which might, at some distant day, become sand,too, Big Bob and his band of cut-throats came upon a deserted hut whichhad undoubtedly been used at some time by men who were searching therefor gold.
The storm-clouds were shutting out the light of day when they pausedbefore the one-hinged door of the two-room habitation. Seeing theapproaching tempest, the renegade ordered his men to gather fuel andbuild a fire on the hearth, preparatory to passing the night there.This order was obeyed with reluctance, for the men were worn out withtheir exertions and ready to roll up in their blankets and seek restwithout the comfort of a fire. Besides, fuel was not plentiful there,and it was a long time before enough to satisfy the renegade could begathered.
Fremont was placed in a room to the west, a room only roughlypartitioned off from the other. There was one window opening to thisroom, and that faced the west and the mountain range.
The storm was soon dashing in fury against the roof of the hut. Thefrail structure trembled beneath the blows of the wind, and the clamorof the beating rains made all interior sounds inaudible. The prisonerknew that the outlaws were sitting before the fire in the outer room,probably jesting and smoking, but they might have been far away for allevidences of their presence he heard.
With individual noises thus shut away by the noise of the downpour, theboy felt himself isolated and alone. For the first time since hiscapture, his courage was wavering, not so much because of the peril ofthe moment, but because of the general hopelessness of the situation.
Only a few days before he had been a trusted and respected member ofthe Cameron family, one of the wealthiest and most exclusive in NewYork. Now, discredited and in danger from the threatened exercise of alaw he had not violated, he was presumably a prisoner on his way backto the Tombs. And yet, was he really on his way there? That was aquestion fully as puzzling as any other feature of the case.
It seemed a short time since he, with other members of the Black BearPatrol, had visited in their luxurious club-house, planning a trip toMexico. He had reached Mexico, all right, he thought, bitterly, butunder what adverse circumstances. Instead of the companionship of hisfriends, instead of the jolly camps on the hills and long, pleasantdays on the river, he was here a prisoner.
And he was the prisoner of a man who was desperate enough to take hislife at any moment. Indeed, the renegade might not be taking him tothe border at all. Fremont suspected another purpose. With thisthought came the memory of the signals he had heard on the mountain,and he arose and went to the window opening, barren of sash and glass,and looked out, hoping to again hear, above the rain, the calls of theBlack Bears. But no such sounds greeted his ears. There was only therush of the rain.
Fremont knew that the renegade would not be paid the reward until afterconviction, and he did not believe that any jury would convict him. Itwas not the fear of a penalty that had caused him to consent to flight,but the dread of the waiting in prison. He had an idea that Big Bobknew that he could not secure the reward at all unless he succeeded insecuring a confession, and that he had given this up.
Under these circumstances the renegade might not go to the trouble oftaking him to the border. Still, he seemed to be making for Texas withall secrecy and speed. Was there some other motive for landing him onTexas soil? The renegade had shown a strange familiarity withconditions in the Cameron building, and might be in some way interestedin some other affair there. There seemed to be no answer to thepuzzling questions the boy asked himself.
Looking into the immediate future, the boy could see but one ray ofhope, and that centered about Nestor, Jimmie, and the Boy Scouts. Heknew, from the call of the Black Bear Patrol signal, on the mountain,that his friends, loyal to the core, were not far away, but he did notknow how many there were in the party, or what chances of success theyhad.
"Good old Black Bears!" the boy whispered. "They are in the hillssomewhere, and will make themselves known when the right time comes."
After a couple of hours of such unpleasant thoughts as no boy of hisyears ought to be obliged to entertain, Fremont arose and again went tothe window looking out on the mountain. The rain came a little lessswiftly now, and the thunder heads were rolling away in heavy masses,leaving lighter spaces in the sky. He knew that a guard was at theangle of the building, placed there to prevent his escape, for he couldhear the angry mutterings of the fellow as he moved about.
While he stood before the small window, he heard the call of a wolf notfar away on the mountain. He bent nearer to the window and listenedintently. Yes; that was the whine of a wolf, but such a whine as hehad heard Jimmie give in showing the call of the Wolf Patrol.
His friends--the loyal Boy Scouts--were not far away! He wondered fora moment why the call of the Wolf Patrol had been given instead of thecall of the Black Bears, and then remembered that there were reallywolves in the mountains, while there were no black bears.
The guard at the corner growled something under his breath as thesecond signal came, and finally called out sharply:
"In the hut there!"
There was a short silence, silence except for the falling rain and thelashing wind, and then the voice of the renegade was heard.
"What do you want?" was asked.
"How much longer am I to remain here?" demanded the guard.
"Until there is no longer need of guarding the window," was the reply."You are the only man here I can trust. You must remain on guard."
"He has as yet made no move to escape," the guard said, in fair English.
"I know that very well," came in Big Bob's voice, "for I have heard noshooting."
So that was why he had been left alone there so long! He was to bepermitted to leave the hut by way of the window, and was to be murderedas soon as he touched the ground. The renegade figured that therecould be no penalty for shooting at an escaping man who was chargedwith a serious crime.
"Perhaps it is just as well," Big Bob said, directly, "for I have nottalked with him yet."
"Then you'd better do so at once," grunted the guard. "This is nopicnic out here in the rain!"
"Have patience!" replied the renegade, and the voices ceased.
In a few moments Fremont heard the renegade at his door, speaking in awhisper to the guard there. Then the door was opened and the bigfellow came bulkily into the room.
Fremont glanced up at the brutal face, only half revealed by theflaring candle he carried on a level with his enormous ears, but didnot speak. From the outer room came a clatter of Spanish words.
"I have been wondering," the fellow said, in a voice which showed adegree of education and culture not proclaimed by the coarse face, "whyyou attacked Cameron?"
"I didn't!" replied Fremont, hotly.
"The proof is against you!"
Fremont did not answer. He was listening for the call of a wolf on themountain.
"The proof is against you, boy," repeated the renegade.
After hearing the brief talk at the angle of the hut, Fremont hadlittle desire for a conversation with the fellow. The inference to bedrawn from that conversation was unmistakable. He was to be murderedby his captors. However, the boy could let this repetition of thecharge go unchallenged.
"Remember," he said, "that you have heard only one side of the case. Ido not know where you receive the information you claim to possess, butit goes without saying that it came from an enemy--probably from a manimplicated in the crime with which you charge me. In fact, you havealready opened up negotiations with me in the interest of the criminal."
"How so, boy?" demanded the other.
"You offered me my freedom if I would make a false confession. Whyshould you want a confession unless in the interest of one connectedwith the crime?"
"I told you why I wanted the confession," replied Big Bob, trying toforce a little friendliness into his v
oice and manner. "It would giveyou a lighter sentence, and it would make it easier for me to get thereward."
Fremont made no reply to this. The manner of the fellow was soinsincere that he could find no satisfaction in talking with him. BigBob, however, did not go away. Instead, he sat down on a packing boxwhich stood in the corner of the room and stuck the candle he carriedup on the floor, under the window ledge so the wind would notextinguish it, in a pool of its own grease.
"If Cameron gets well," he said, "he'll be likely to forgive you if youdo the right thing now."
No reply from the prisoner, sitting not far from the window, listeningfor another wolf call from the mountain.
"Cameron has always been your friend," the other went on.
"Indeed he has!" exclaimed the boy, almost involuntarily testifying tothe kindness of the man who had taken him from the streets and givenhim a chance in life.
"He took you from the gutter?"
Fremont looked out into the rain, only faintly seen in the glimmer ofthe flaring candle, and made no reply.
"He took you into his family?"
Fremont arose and went nearer to the opening where the sash had been,and stood for an instant with the rain beating on his face.
"How did he come to do it?"
Fremont began to see a purpose in this strange form of questioning.Nestor had asked questions similar to these, and had suggested thatMother Scanlon, the woman who had cared for him in a rough way at onetime, be looked up on their return to New York. Why this suggestion?
"Where did you first see Cameron?"
The voice of the renegade was threatening. Fremont heard only thesweep of the rain outside for a moment, and then the voice of the guardcame through the sashless window opening.
"I'm going in to warm up a bit," he said.
"All right," the renegade replied. "I'll let you know when to go onguard again. Boy," he added, facing Fremont with lowering brows, "Ican make it to your advantage to tell me all about your connection withCameron."
Fremont heard the words dimly, for as the door of the hut slammedbehind the drenched guard and his voice was heard in the outer room,the howl of a wolf came from the darkness just outside the window.
"Confound the wolves!" the renegade snarled. "They are becomingdangerous!"
"What you say may be true, so far as you are concerned!" Fremontreplied, grimly.
Boy Scouts in Mexico; Or, On Guard with Uncle Sam Page 21