CHAPTER XI.
FYFFE SOUNDS HIS NOTE.
"Hark!"
It was Poynter who made the exclamation, abruptly checking the outlaw's words. The three men slightly bowed their heads, as if listening intently, while their eyes sought each other's faces. The sound came again.
It was the loud exclamation of a man—such as one would make in driving a refractory yoke of oxen. And yet it could scarcely be that, for the ground surrounding, whence the alarm proceeded, was rough and broken, difficult even for a man to traverse upon foot.
"What is it?" whispered Crees.
"'S-sh! Listen."
"Dod-rot y'ur ongainly copperossyty, kain't you walk chalk? Gee, that—gee, you 'tarnal critter! Dod burn ef I don't rouse you up wi' a saplin'. G'long, now, you creepin' snake!"
A tirade of such adjurations, followed by what sounded like the crack of a whip, and then a strange sort of muffled howl. Such were the noises that aroused the curiosity of the trio, in the little glade.
"Scratch dirt, now, you'd better. 'Tain't much furder, or durned ef I b'lieve we'd git thar to-day, the way you does creep. Wuss'n any jackass I ever see'd! Git up an' git, now, less I'll go ahead an' snipe you 'long arter me. How'd thet suit, eh, ole stick-in-the-mud? Shoot at an honest feller ag'in, w'u'd ye? Guess ye won't, no more. Hoop-la!" and then came several more cracks, accompanied by groans and half-choked howls.
"It's Jack," whispered Crees. "Wonder what he's up to?"
"Look!"
As Poynter uttered this exclamation, the bushes parted, and a miserable-looking object broke out into full view. It was a man, but so tattered and begrimed that little else could be guessed. Whether white, black or red, a stranger or an acquaintance, could only be surmised.
His arms were tightly drawn back and secured at the elbows, while a slack withe ran from ankle to ankle. His draggled and matted hair overhung his face, but was not long enough to entirely conceal the existence of a strange freak upon his captor's part. He was bitted!
A good-sized stick was secured between his jaws, about two feet in length. To either end of this a supple vine of grape was attached, so that a jerk, right or left, by the driver, would effectually turn the prisoner, if not quite throw him down.
Holding fast to the opposite ends was the grinning Jack Fyffe, who bore a long, supple hickory rod, with which he occasionally "touched up" the captive. Upon his back were two rifles.
"Good Lord, Jack!" cried Poynter, in amazement, at this truly unique "turnout," "what under the sun do you mean treating the poor devil that way? Who is he, anyhow?"
"Hellow, square, you thar?" returned the rough borderer, appearing not a whit abashed, giving his captive the twitch necessary to turn his head up the hill, and then adroitly applying the whip, that made him spring nimbly forward. "How air you, anyhow, this mornin'? Kinder fotched along a fri'nd to call on you, sorter permiscuous, like. Git up, thar, you critter; step lively, now, an' show the gen'lemen y'ur paces. Hy—ah!"
"For mercy's sake, Jack, let the poor devil loose!"
"Not ef I knows it," retorted Fyffe, coolly; "I hed too much trouble a-gearin' him up, fer thet. An' marcy—the skunk don't know what thet means. He didn't hev no marcy onto you nor the ole man, nor likewise on me, when he tried to shoot me, a little back yon'."
"Who is it?" queried Crees.
"Why, don't you know? It's Jim Meagreson, John Dement, or Snakey, as I call him," declared Fyffe, exultantly.
Poynter stared in amazement, but not so the outlaw leader. With a half-stifled howl of rage and vindictive joy, he drew his knife and leaped forward. Jack Fyffe thought he meant murder, and caught him by the arm.
"Dang it, boss, he's bad enough; but don't butcher him in thet way!"
"Stand off!" yelled Crees, throwing the other violently from him. "Stand off, I say. I am not mad. He is of more use to me living than dead, you fool!"
"All right, then," returned Fyffe, rubbing his shoulder dolefully. "I know thet, but was kinder afeard thet you'd fergit when y'ur mad was up. Thar he is; I turn him over to you fellers, an' dog-goned glad to git shet on him, I am, the onmannerly cuss!"
"'Tis him, Poynter; look!" and Crees held back the captive's head so as to more fully expose the wretch's features.
"It is, indeed," gladly exclaimed Clay, as he beheld the man whom he had been falsely accused of murdering. "And an hour since I would have given ten years of my life if this could have been assured me."
"Wal, square, thar he is, 'thout any o' thet. You're welcome to my shar'."
"But how'd you chance upon him, Jack?"
"Thet's a long yarn—too long fer a feller to spin what hain't had no breakfast," added Fyffe.
"True; I forgot. Go get something and then come up. We may need you;" and then, as the borderer hastened down the hill, the young man turned to the captive.
He was in a truly pitiable condition; but those who beheld him had been far too deeply injured by him to indulge in any such feeling. True, they gave him brandy and bathed his head, but it was only to restore him so that they could gain his confession.
He soon revived and stared around at the two men, Sprowl having taken a position out of sight behind the tree, where he had not yet been seen by Meagreson. The men eyed him in silence, but he only vouchsafed them a look of angry defiance.
"Well, James Meagreson," at length said the outlaw leader, "we meet once again!"
"My name is not Meagreson, and I don't know you—never set eyes on you before," sullenly responded the captive.
"Do you know me, then?" put in Poynter.
"Know you? Yes; for a vile horse-thief and counterfeiter!"
"Do you mean to say—" began Crees, when he was interrupted by the other.
"I mean to say that I am plain John Dement, an honest trader, and that you shall dearly rue this outrage."
"Bah! that's played out. You may as well own up now, for your accomplice and tool has betrayed you; has exposed all your plots and crimes. If you are obstinate, we will just hand you over to the vigilance committee, whose aid you are so fond of invoking, and let them deal with you."
"Am I a fool?" sneered Meagreson. "Don't I know that you dare no more show your face to one of them than to kiss a rattlesnake? The only answer you'd get would be a hempen cord and swinging bough!"
"Now that's nonsense, old man," put in Sprowl. "You're the fool. They've got you in a corner, and you may as well come down. Green and the rest of the boys have owned up, and unless you make terms as we did, it'll be all night with you."
"Who's that?" faltered the prisoner, a gray shade settling upon his florid features.
"Sprowl," replied that worthy. "I've told all I know and am going to swear to it, if you are obstinate; and, as you very well know, it's enough to hang you a dozen times over."
"The others—"
"I tell you they've 'peached, and you're a spotted man, if these gentlemen are only a mind to press the matter," glibly said Sprowl.
A deep groan was his only answer, as Meagreson fell forward, his form trembling like a leaf.
"Let him be, Poynter," said Crees, "and when he thinks it all over, he'll see that it's of no use holding out further. Here comes Fyffe."
"Hellow, what you fellers bin a-doin' to my hoss?" cried that worthy, as he leisurely strolled up the hill, wiping his greasy mouth upon his shirt-sleeve, and smacking his lips. "Make a bully quarter-hoss, he would, ef he was a leetle better trained. Stumbles an' kicks over the traces now, kinder; but he'll do."
"Never mind now, Jack," interrupted Poynter. "He's thinking."
"Yas; needs it, I reckon. While y'ur hand's in, jest think a leetle how all-fired nigh you come to killin' a feller-critter-man. Sp'ilt my ha'r, anyhow," at the same time tugging at the shaggy lock that grew beside his ear, trying to bring it before his eyes. "See thar."
It did indeed look as though a bullet had cut a jagged passage through it, as he had hinted. Then Poynter seated himself beneath the tree, motioning Jack to do the same, saying:
"There's nothing else just now, Fyffe; sit down and tell us how you chanced upon this fellow, and all about it."
"Don't care 'f I do, square," quoth Jack, gnawing off a huge mouthful of "niggerhead," and then passing the plug to Sprowl. "Don't chaw, b'lieve?"
"No."
"I do. Wal, I allus war fond o' tellin' stories. Mam, she used to dress my trowsers with her ol' slipper purty nigh the hull time, 'cause of this habit o' mine; but, Lord, thet didn't do no good. Only driv' it back ag'in, like. But dad, he was a yarner, now I tell you! I kain't hold a kendle to him when he'd got a good streak on. Jest about half-cocked, an' then stan' from under! He'd allus got a bigger one back, too, ef anybody'd top his'n, fer a cap-sheaf. I tuck arter him, I consait, though the ol' coon 'd offen say 'at he's 'shamed of me, 'cause I couldn't lie better; but thet's nyther hyar nor thar.
"When I 'gun winkin' this daylight airly, I got up an' begun sorter swoopin' 'round fer grub. But blamed the bit could I find, 'cept some wenzun, an' I swore I'd hev none o' thet. Fact is, my appertite is sorter delacut, like, an' won't b'ar plain grub, like you bigger fellers.
"So, as I went down to the crick fer a drink, I see'd lots o' gre't big turkey-tracks in the mud, toes a-p'intin' downarts; an' so I jest shoulders shooter an' shakes moccasin sorter lively, 'cause I'd made up my mind to hev a gobbler fer breakfust, an' nothin' shorter. Ef I says a thing, even ef it be jest to myself, sorter, it's gwine to be did, ef so be it kin.
"But I trailed them dratted birds so fur thet I'd e'ena'most gi'n up all hups o' drappin' one, an' hed 'bout made up my mind thet wenzun was a heap better, enyhow, when I sot blinkers on as fine a strutter as ever gobbled to a hen. Up goes my gun, slip goes my fut, an' down I rolls inter the crick, while the dratted bird flops off through the bushes, tail on eend, like a quarter-hoss wi' a jimson burr fer a crupper.
"Didn't I cuss some, sorter, as I got out? Mebbe not; 'tany rate, off I put ag'in arter thet turkey, fer I swore I'd hev it ef it tuck all day. No 'tarnal two-legged bird sh'u'd fool me like thet, not by no manner o' means, ef I knowed myself, an' I rayther thunk I did. So on I splurges, lickety-split.
"But I stopped ag'in, mighty sudden, though 'twa'n't a turkey I see'd. It was a man kinder strollin' along, fer his health, I reckon, an' he pulled up too. Thar we stud, a-gawpin' at each other like looneys, when he spluttered out sunkthin' thet kinder smelled o' brimstone, and then took to his heels like the devil was arter him.
"An' ef he wasn't, I was, 'cause I never yet see'd a feller thet run 'thout takin' arter 'im jest like blazes. It's a kinder 'farmity like, I reckon; anyhow it's a fact. Wal, he put an I put, jest a-scratchin' dirt an' a-kickin' up the leaves the beatinest kind you ever did hyar tell on.
"I'm purty hefty on the run, as ye know, but blamed ef he wasn't mighty nigh my master. But I'd never say die tell the bellers clean bu'sted, an' at last he jumped for kiver, a-swingin' his shooter mighty keerless like. I did ditto, an' thar we war. I sorter grinned, 'cause it 'minded me of ol' times when ha'r went wild.
"But then I peeked out, mighty keerful like, 'cause I didn't want another hole in my brush-patch overly much, when I hope I may never see the back o' my neck, ef thar he wasn't a-streakin' it through the woods, his coat tails a-streamin' out wuss'n the tag eend to a comet. Lord, wasn't I gritty then? Mebbe not!
"I jest set my grinders like a clamp, pulled the slouch furder on my head an' then set ol' toad-smashers to work. The ground jest fa'rly smoked about me, I run so fast, and I overhauled ol' smarty like fun. He pecked 'round an' see'd it, then whirled 'round to'rds me, yellin' out he'd shoot fer shore.
"But my Ebenezer was up like a mice, an' I kept on, wild fer bitin' an' gougin'. The dratted imp did shoot shore enough, but it jest clipped my ha'r a leetle, an' then I downed him. I was mad at the feller's impedence in burnin' powder when I was jest in fun, all the time, an' drawed my knife to finish up the job.
"I had her raised all ready, when I caught his eye, an' helt my han'. I knowed him in a minute, though he'd changed a heap sence we met last. I knowed how tickled the ol' man 'uld be, ef he see'd him, 'cause he kinder 'lowed he kicked the bucket long ago.
"But thar he was, an' I 'tarmined to fotch him inter camp. So I started, but the bugger tried to run onc't or twic't, an' so I thought I'd see how he'd work in a single gear. He cut up rusty a leetle, an' n'arly nipped off my thumb, the onmannerly brute; but when I once got him fa'rly bitted he done purty well, barrin' the kickin' an' stumblin'," concluded Fyffe, with a long-drawn yawn.
"It'll turn out the best day's work you ever done, Fyffe," said Crees, extending his hand.
"And I will not forget it very soon, either, old fellow," warmly added Poynter.
"Wal, ef so be you fellers is satisfied, I'm shore I be," grunted Jack, lying back upon the grass.
"But what do you think I'd best do next, Mr. Crees?" asked Poynter, after a slight pause, a little anxiously. "I think, with Sprowl's evidence, here, I need not hesitate about showing myself openly once more."
"You have a good deal to work against down there, yet, and I think you'd best wait a little, and see what we can get out of our friend, yonder," responded Crees, thoughtfully.
"Well, I suppose I must, though it's hard to be lying idle when such charges are hanging over me," sighed Poynter.