“Kid, you ain't hurt much?” queried Buell, with concern.
I would have snapped out a reply, but I caught sight of Dick's pale face and anxious eyes.
“Ken,” he called, with both gladness and doubt in his voice, “you look pretty good—but that blood.... Tell me, quick!”
“It's nothing, Dick, only a little cut. The bullet just ticked my arm.”
Whatever Dick's reply was it got drowned in Herky-Jerky's long explosion of strange language. Herky was plainly glad I had not been badly hurt. I had already heard mirth, anger, disgust, and fear in his outbreaks, and now relief was added. He stripped off my coat, cut off the bloody sleeve of my shirt, and washed the wound. It was painful and bled freely, but it was not much worse than cuts from spikes when playing ball. Herky bound it tightly with a strip of my shirt-sleeve, and over that my handkerchief.
“Thar, kid, thet'll stiffen up an' be sore fer a day or two, but it ain't nothin'. You'll soon be bouncin' clubs offen our heads.”
It was plain that Herky—and the others, for that matter, except Buell—thought more of me because I had wielded a club so vigorously.
“Look at thet lump, kid,” said Bud, bending his head. “Now, ain't thet a nice way to treat a feller? It made me plumb mad, it did.”
“I'm likely to hurt somebody yet,” I declared.
They looked at me curiously. Buell raised his face with a queer smile. Bud broke into a laugh.
“Oh, you're goin' to? Mebbe you think you need an axe,” said he.
They made no offer to tie me up then. Bud went to the door and sat in it, and I heard him half whisper to Buell: “What 'd I tell you? Thet's a game kid. If he ever wakes up right we'll have a wildcat on our hands. He'll do fer one of us yet.” These men all took pleasure in saying things like this to Buell. This time Buell had no answer ready, and sat nursing his head. “Wal, I hev a little headache myself, an' the crack I got wasn't nothin' to yourn,” concluded Bud. Then Bill began packing the supplies indoors, and Herky started a fire. Bud kept a sharp eye on me; still, he made no objection when I walked over and lay down upon the blankets near Dick.
“Dick, I shot a bear and helped to tie up a cub,” I said. And then I told him all that had happened from the time I scrambled out of the spring-hole till I was discovered up in the loft. Dick shook his head, as if he did not know what to make of me, and all he said was that he would give a year's pay to have me safe back in Pennsylvania.
Herky-Jerky announced supper in his usual manner—a challenge to find as good a cook as he was, and a cheerful call to “grub.” I did not know what to think of his kindness to me. Remembering how he had nearly drowned me in the spring, I resented his sudden change. He could not do enough for me. I asked the reason for my sudden popularity.
Herky scratched his head and grinned. “Yep, kid, you sure hev riz in my estimashun.”
“Hey, you rummy cow-puncher,” broke in Bud, scornfully. “Mebbe you'd like the kid more'n you do if you'd got one of them wollops.”
“Bud, I ain't sayin',” replied Herky, with his mouth full of meat. “Considerin' all points, howsoever, I'm thinkin' them wallops was distributed very proper.”
They bandied such talk between them, and occasionally Bill chimed in with a joke. Greaser ate in morose silence. There must have been something on his mind. Buell took very little dinner, and appeared to be in pain. It was dark when the meal ended. Bud bound me up for the night, and he made a good job of it. My arm burned and throbbed, but not badly enough to prevent sleep. Twice I had nearly dropped off when loud laughs or voices roused me. My eyes closed with a picture of those rough, dark men sitting before the fire.
A noise like muffled thunder burst into my slumber. I awakened with my body cramped and stiff. It was daylight, and something had happened. Buell ran in and out of the cabin yelling at his men. All of them except Herky were wildly excited. Buell was abusing Bud for something, and Bud was blaming Buell.
“Thet's no way to talk to me!” said Bud, angrily. “He didn't break loose in my watch!'
“You an' Greaser had the job. Both of you—went to sleep—take thet from me!”
“Wal, he's gone, an' he took the kid's gun with him,” said Bill, coolly. “Now we'll be dodgin' bullets.”
Dick Leslie had escaped! I could hardly keep down a cry of triumph. I did ask if it was true, but none of them paid any attention to me. Buell then ordered Herky-Jerky to trail Dick and see where he had gone. Herky refused point-blank. “Nope. Not fer me,” he said. “Leslie has a rifle. So has Bent, an' we haven't one among us. An', Buell, if Leslie falls in with Bent, it's goin' to git hot fer us round here.”
This silenced Buell, but did not stop his restless pacings. His face was like a thunder-cloud, and he was plainly worried and harassed. Once Bud deliberately asked what he intended to do with me, and Buell snarled a reply which no one understood. His gloom extended to the others, except Herky, who whistled and sang as he busied himself about the campfire. Greaser appeared to be particularly cast down.
“Buell, what are you going to do with me?” I demanded. But he made no answer.
“Well, anyway,” I went on, “somebody cut these ropes. I'm mighty sore and uncomfortable.”
Herky-Jerky did not wait for permission; he untied me, and helped me to my feet. I was rather unsteady on my legs at first, and my injured arm felt like a board. It seemed dead; but after I had moved it a little the pain came back, and it had apparently come to stay. We ate breakfast, and then settled down to do nothing, or to wait for something to turn up. Buell sat in the doorway, moodily watching the trail. Once he spoke, ordering the Mexican to drive in the horses. I fancied from this that Buell might have decided to break camp, but there was no move to pack.
The morning quiet was suddenly split by the stinging crack of a rifle and a yell of agony.
Buell leaped to his feet, his ruddy face white.
“Greaser!” he exclaimed.
“Thet was about where Greaser cashed,” relied Bill, coolly knocking the ashes from his pipe.
“No, Bill, you're wrong. Here comes Greaser, runnin' like an Indian.”
“Look at the blood! He's been plugged, all right!” exclaimed Herky-Jerky.
The sound of running feet drew nearer, and suddenly the group at the door broke to admit the Mexican. One side of his terrified face was covered with blood. His eyes were staring, his hands raised, he staggered as if about to fall.
“Senyor William! Senyor William!” he cried, and then called on Saint Somebody.
“Jim Williams! I said so,” muttered Bud.
Bill caught hold of the excited Mexican, and pulled him nearer the light.
“Thet ain't a bad hurt. Jest cut his ear off!” aid Bill. “Hyar, stand still, you wild man! you're not goin' to die. Git some water, Herky. Fellers, Greaser has been oneasy ever since he knew Jim Williams was lookin' fer him. He thinks Jim did this. But Jim Williams don't use a rifle, an', what's more, when he shoots he don't miss. You all heerd the rifle-shot.”
“Then it was old Bent or Leslie?” questioned Buell.
“Leslie it were. Bent uses a 45-90 caliber. Thet shot we heerd was from the little 38—the kid's gun.”
“Wal, it was a narrer escape fer Greaser,” said Bud. “Leslie's sore, an' he'll shoot fer keeps. Buell, you've started somethin'.”
When Bill had washed the blood off the Mexican it was found that the ball had carried away the lower part of the ear, and with it, of course, the gold earring. The wound must have been extremely painful; it certainly took all the starch out of Greaser. He kept mumbling in his own language, and rolling his wicked black eyes and twisting his thin, yellow hands.
“What's to be done?” asked Buell, sharply.
“Thet's fer you to say,” replied Bill, with his exasperating calmness.
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading
(Left Keyword <-) Previous:
XIV. A PRISONER
Back
Next:
XVI. THE FOREST'S GREATEST FOE
(Right Keyword:->)