CHAPTER VI.
THE HUMAN BLOODHOUND.
At the first report, Polk Redlaw sprung to his feet, with all the Indian instincts of his nature fully aroused. He caught a glimpse of the main body rushing forward, and not knowing who they were, he dropped to the ground and glided to a safe distance, but from whence he could still see those out in the open ground.
At first he thought it was the vigilance committee returned to finish up their work, but he was not certain, and deeming discretion the better course, determined to keep shady until he knew what card to play. If a rescue, he resolved to dog them wherever they might go, for his hatred of Poynter could only be assuaged by the latter's death.
When the double tragedy was over, and the other guards secured, the band rushed forward and forcibly burst in the door of the tavern; and were proceeding toward the "long-room," when Henderson called out from the loft:
"Who the devil air you, an' what ye want?"
"Better shet y'ur eyes an' years, 'Honest Jim,' so't you won't hev to lie when you tell the vigilantes thet you don' know who tuck the pris'ner," returned Jack Fyffe, significantly.
"Ef you don't do nothin' else, why, I won't know any on ye at all. An' ef ye like, jist take a good swig apiece, an' I'll charge it to profut an' loss," laughed the host, who apparently was not averse to having Poynter escape the doom that threatened him.
"Bully for you, ol' hoss; you won't lose any thin' by it!" was the cry, and his invitation was complied with, two or three times over.
Only pausing for one huge gulp of the liquor, Jack Fyffe unbarred the door, and soon severed the cords that hampered Poynter, who, after chafing his benumbed limbs, thanks to the skill Polk Redlaw had shown in drawing the knots, emerged from the long-room, a free man once more.
He glanced around him with not a little curiosity, scanning the forms and features of his rescuers as thoroughly as was practicable by the dim, flickering light cast by the one rude lamp. But if he recognized any of them, excepting Fyffe, he did not show it by word or sign.
"Come, boys," spoke up the tall man we have noted before, "we must make tracks, or those vigilantes will be down upon us. They must have heard the rumpus, I reckon."
"But what shall we do with the prisoners—let them go?"
"No; take them along. We'll keep 'em as hostages, so that if any of our fellows are strung up, we can retaliate. Five of them, isn't there?"
"Yes; but about Sant?"
"Maltby?"
"Yes. He's dead."
"Take him along. If we leave him here, they'll toss him into the first hollow, and he was too good a man for that."
"You seem to be leader here, sir," said Poynter, placing a hand upon the man's shoulder. "What do you intend doing with me?"
"Well, that depends mainly upon yourself. If you have had enough of these vigilance fellows, why, come with us. We never go back upon a fellow-craftsman," returned the man, cordially.
"And you are—"
"The same as yourself; free livers is our name for it. Those whom we favor with our custom call us horse-thieves and counterfeiters," laughed the leader.
"Ah!" muttered Poynter, and bending his head as if in deep thought.
"All ready, Tamelt?"
"All ready, sir," was the prompt reply, and the little band left the house.
Jack Fyffe directed Poynter to a horse, which, with great delight and surprise, he found was his own noble bay, that had been taken when he was arrested. The five prisoners were also mounted, their horses having been found in the tavern stable; but they rode not by their own aid. Strong cords bound them to the saddle so securely that even had they tried to cast themselves to the ground, the effort would have been unsuccessful.
Poynter and Fyffe rode together, as they struck into a rapid lope along the soft, loamy road, but not until quite clear of the neighborhood, did either of them speak.
"Wal, we've sp'ilt the fun o' them hounds ter-morrer, 'tany rate," chuckled Fyffe.
"Yes, but how did it all come about?" queried Poynter, who did not appear very much at ease, when we consider what he had escaped.
"Wal, in co'se we wasn't a-goin' to see a fri'nd jerked up thet a-way, 'thout helpin' 'im. So's soon as I see'd how it war gwine to work, I sent Sant Maltby to let the cap'n know, an' whar I'd meet 'em to 'xplain, like. Then we crawled up, an' tuck the guard, but poor Sant got throwed clean in his tracks. The rest you know."
"Who were the men you took prisoners?"
"Thar's one on 'em you'll be glad to see—Jon'than Green."
"Ha!" exclaimed Poynter; "the lying scoundrel! But, Jack, my friend, do you know you've made a mistake?"
"How so?"
"I am no counterfeiter—never was."
"Thunder, you say!" ejaculated Fyffe.
"It's the truth," soberly affirmed Poynter. "I have never committed a deed against the law, to my knowledge, in my life."
"But the evidence?"
"Was one tissue of falsehood from first to last! Why it was started, or who was the one who planned it, I know no more than you do; but I will find out if it takes a lifetime," hotly exclaimed Poynter.
"Hello, my friends, what's up here?" asked the leader, falling back beside the two men, at the sound of Poynter's excited tones. "Not quarreling, I hope?"
"No, sir, I owe him too much for that," warmly responded Poynter. "But, are you the captain?"
"For the time being, I am. Why?" said the man, somewhat surprised at the other's tone.
"Then I must speak with you, for a moment."
"Go on; I have no secrets from Jack."
"Well," slowly uttered Poynter, "from what I have heard, I believe you labor under a serious mistake, regarding who and what I am."
"How so?" interrupted the leader. "Are not you the man that the vigilance committee arrested and condemned?"
"I am; as my back can testify!" bitterly gritted the young man.
"Well, then, where's the mistake?"
"In this: I was wrongfully accused. I have never, knowingly, passed a coin, and as for murder, there is no blood upon my hands, save that shed in self-defense."
"Whe-ew!" whistled the outlaw. "But Jack told me the evidence was complete!"
"It was not his fault for thinking so. I would have believed the same in his place. But I am speaking the truth, and thought it best to tell you how the case stands, lest you should think me a traitor or a spy, in case the truth ever comes out."
"You were right. But what do you intend doing? The hunt will be hot for you, as, if a man would take all that trouble and expense to put you out of the way, legally, he will not let you off so easily."
"I know that; and in perfect freedom, is the only chance of my ever clearing myself. I frankly own that I am puzzled," slowly replied Poynter.
"Well, sir, I am not often mistaken in a man, if I do say it myself," added the outlaw leader, after a pause. "And now I make you a proposition. Will you accept my hospitality for a few days, or weeks, until this excitement cools down?"
"Are you in earnest, and would you trust a stranger so far?" ejaculated Poynter, in astonishment.
"Not every one, I admit," laughed the other. "But you I can, and will; and if necessary, will answer to the band, for your honor, with my own life. But understand me: upon no account are you to divulge what you hear or see; nor the places we will take you to, even if your life depended upon it, unless we give you permission. And in return, you will be left free to come and go, as you will. You will not be asked, or expected, to do any thing against your conscience; and if you should need any assistance that we can give, you have but to say as much."
"That is far more than I could expect, and I sincerely thank you for it," rejoined Poynter, warmly clasping the outlaw's hand. "But I am at a loss to imagine the cause of such generosity."
"It is easy told. You are an innocent man, unjustly accused and condemned; and I was once the same. False friends and misfortunes have made me what I now am, and I still have some of the bitter feeling in my heart, if I am an outcast, a branded felon.
"Besides, I feel a strange liking for you; why, or from what cause I know not, unless from the resemblance upon this one point."
"Well, sir," exclaimed the escaped prisoner, "I will gladly accept your offer, and if there is any return that I can make, without—"
"I understand you," interrupted the outlaw, with a tinge of melancholy in his tones, "and would be the last man in the world to ask you to forfeit your feeling of self-respect. But come," he added, again assuming his old air of reckless gayety. "We have fallen behind, and they'll think we are deserters. Spur up!"
"But one moment. Have we far to go?"
"Less than two miles, now," was the reply. "But why?"
"Nothing much; only I would rather be in the neighborhood, for—"
"For certain reasons, I presume," laughed the outlaw leader. "But never mind, I was young once myself, although I don't look much like it now," and he ended with a half-sigh.
Poynter's curiosity was keenly aroused, by the language and manner of his strangely-acquired friend, so different from what might have been expected; and found himself wishing for a better chance to observe his features, than was afforded by the dim, uncertain light.
As he peered toward him, Clay could see that it was a robust, powerful form, nearly if not quite as much so as his own. Of the features he could distinguish naught save the glitter of a pair of sparkling eyes, and the long, flowing hair of almost snowy whiteness, as was also the luxuriant beard and mustache.
As we said, Polk Redlaw resolved to dog the rescuing party wherever they might go, spurred on by his bitter hatred of Clay Poynter. And he was just the person to accomplish this if it lay in human power to do so.
Tall and gaunt, he was like the grayhound, swift and tireless; while in other respects his instincts were those of the bloodhound. The traits inherited from the Indian cross in his blood were aroused and in full play on the night in question.
When he saw Poynter emerge from the tavern under the bright glare of the torch carried by Jack Fyffe, unbound and in freedom, the heavy rifle rose as if by instinct to his cheek, and, for a moment, the wings of death again appeared to overshadow the young man. A single pressure of the finger, a touch sufficient to bend a feather, upon the hair-trigger, would have sufficed, and in the darkness it appeared easy enough for Polk to have made his escape.
But the gun was lowered. The mongrel was not satisfied with such a revenge. His hatred was too intense; he required a death of shame—of degradation; a death that would destroy both the life and honor of his foe, and leave a record at which the finger of scorn and contempt would be pointed.
When the cavalcade plunged into the darkness of the tree-shadowed road, the human bloodhound followed hard upon the scent. His rifle trailed in one hand, his head and neck craned forward, Polk Redlaw sped along with noiseless strides that appeared to be made without an effort.
So steady, silent and uniform was his progress, that it seemed like a magnificent piece of machinery, rather than a man. His Indian blood shone forth now, in his free and untrammeled motion, as he kept at a certain distance in the rear of the rescuers, the same whether they rode faster or more slow.
From his crouching position he could not be seen upon the shadowed road, while those whom he was trailing, being mounted, could quite plainly be distinguished. But for a time we must turn elsewhere.