The Phantom Tracker by Frederick H. Dewey - HTML preview

CHAPTER XV.

TWICE DEAD.

They had not long to dig, as the soil was yielding, and the strong arms of the excited and determined men drove the spades deep into the hillside. Men clamored to relieve each other, and in their wild desire to force their way through, yelled and even pitched dirt away from the workmen with their hands. Never before had the hillock, in all its experience of murders, robberies and crime, looked upon such a wild, frenzied scene.

Furious were the blows showered upon the mold wall—strong the arms of the resolute, high-strung men that wielded them, and eager the hearts that beat for rescue. Indians, fatigue, hunger—all were forgotten; and as fast as a shovelful of dirt was cast from the blade it was thrown far back by the rapidly moving hands of those for whom there were no shovels.

At last the foremost man, Sam, uttered a sharp cry, and struck a furious blow at the wall; his shovel had gone through—there was a third chamber. At the same moment a loud report rung out inside, a woman’s voice shrieked, and Sam staggered back, clasping his left arm above the elbow with his right hand; some one from the inside had discharged a rifle at him.

Furious before, the excitement now had become frenzy. Several ferocious blows were struck at the hole; it widened; several more, and the men plunged headlong, found themselves in a third chamber, with a body under their feet—a soft, pliant body. Regardless of aught else, they drew it to the gap, and recognized the features—the face—the form of—Kissie.

They heard a noise, a clamor above, and ran eagerly outside, leaving Sam, pale and sick, yet wild with delight, and Mr. Wheeler, caressing the fair girl, who had fainted away. It is useless to describe the scene—pen can not do it; and knowing the reader’s imagination is far more powerful than any description, we leave him to fancy it; it was a meeting of intense joy.

Arriving outside, the men, headed by Cimarron Jack, found the guide and Burt engaged in a fierce struggle with a gigantic man in a serape, a conical hat and black plume. Knife in hand, backed up against the hill, with swarthy face glowing, and black eyes sparkling, he was lunging furiously at them in silence. Colossal in form, expert in the use of his knife, rendered desperate by his small chances of escape, the Trailer fought like a demon and kept his smaller opponents at bay.

“Don’t kill him!” shouted Jack; “we must take him alive. Let me in to him—stand back, boys. I know who he is—the Trailer.”

At the mention of his name, the latter turned and scowled at him, and hoarsely cried:

“Cimarron Jack—my old enemy—may you burn in ——!”

Jack, dashing forward with clubbed gun, and with his huge form towering above his companions, rushed at him. In vain the Trailer endeavored to elude the descending weapon; in vain he darted back; the gun descended full on his head, knocking him backward and prone to the earth, senseless.

Just then a man appeared, running, with a bag in one hand and a long, beautiful rifle in the other; it was Pedro Felipe with his recovered treasure, which he discovered in the new chamber. Finding that the apparition that had haunted him was none other than the ex-robber lieutenant, and that, like himself, he was probably in search of the treasure, he had burned with rage at his theft and crime, and was now seeking his life.

“Dog of a robber—fit associate for your old captain; coward, villain, I have come for your blood! Where is he? Let me reach him.”

But they held him back firmly, and after being made cognizant of Cimarron Jack’s desire to keep him alive, he calmed himself, and proceeded to bind the senseless robber securely. This he did with his lariat, which he brought from inside, keeping the precious bag with him wherever he went. Then after he had bound him fast, and given the body a slight spurn with his foot, he said:

“When he recovers, we will kill him.”

“When the Trailer recovers, he will be shot dead!” added Cimarron Jack.

“Ay, ay!” was the general response.

“All right, boys—let us go and see the pretty girl, and leave the two Robidouxs to stand guard over him. My eye; ain’t she beautiful, though?”

“You bet!” responded Burt, proudly.

Inside they found Kissie quite recovered, with her father and young Carpenter sitting jealously by her. Though pale and thin, she, in her joy, looked, to the eyes of the men, more charming than ever before.

What had come to pass? Was a revolution about to arise? for when she signified she was very hungry, Duncan stirred hastily about, actually glad of a chance to cook. Mind that—actually glad. As all were hungry, he was forced to call upon the men for assistance, services which they gladly rendered, and soon the savory odor of cooking filled the cave.

“So he gave you enough to eat, did he, my daughter?” asked Mr. Wheeler, gazing fondly into her face.

“Oh, yes, plenty; and a warm, soft blanket to sit upon; and he was kind, too—only sometimes he would rave to himself, stricken by remorse.”

“Did he maltreat you in any manner?” fiercely demanded Carpenter.

“Oh, no, not at all. He was away most of the time; and when he was present he always kept busy counting a splendid—oh, so lovely!—treasure he had; all gold, and jewels and ornaments—an immense sum they must be worth.”

“That is what brought Pedro here, then,” remarked Sam; “he has the bag, now, outside, where he is guarding the Trailer.”

“Oh, Pedro was so good to me. When he went out to tell you I was here, that horrid man stole in by a secret passage, snatched the bag from a small hole, then put out the torch and carried me in here. His horse he kept there, and sometimes he would get stubborn and try to kick me; then you should have seen him beat him. Once some Indians tried to cut their way through to us and he shot and killed one.”

“Yes, he lies outside now. We heard the shot, and it mystified us,” remarked Napoleon Robidoux.

“That villain caused us enough trouble,” said Burt. “I’m downright glad he has lost the gold—Pedro has fairly earned it.”

“So he has,” was the cry.

A shout came from without, in Pedro’s voice:

“Come out—come out!”

Expecting Indians, all rushed out but Sam and Mr. Wheeler, the former being disabled by the bullet of the Trailer, which had passed through his arm, though not breaking it. When they arrived outside they found the Mexican glowering over the ex-robber, who had recovered his senses, and was now scowling upon the party. The blow from the rifle had not proved a very forcible one, as a large “bunch” on his head was the only sign of it.

“Now he has recovered, we will shoot him at once!” and Pedro’s eyes sparkled.

“Ay, ay—take him out!” was the unanimous cry.

The Trailer scowled.

All of these men had seen “Judge Lynch,” and many had assisted him. Following the order of the age, they did not hesitate, but proceeded at once to business.

They took him from the hillock, from the side of the savage he had slain, and among other red corpses scattered about they placed him upon his feet. He immediately lay down.

“Get up!” commanded Pedro, who was the acknowledged chief.

The robber only scowled in reply.

“Get up, and die like a man and not like a cowering hound!” urged Jack.

This had the effect desired, and the Trailer rose.

“Now, senors, load your rifles!”

“They are all loaded.”

“It is well. Have you any thing to say, Trailer?”

No answer save a scowl.

“It is your last chance. Again, have you any thing to say?”

“Si: car-r-ramba!”

“It is enough. Take him out.”

He was placed now in the open plain, facing the hillock. The men drew up in line, not twenty feet distant.

“Are you all ready, senors?” asked Pedro, aiming at the victim’s heart.

“We are ready.”

“It is good. Aim well, each at his heart. I will count three. One.”

The Trailer’s face was a trifle paler now, but his scowl was blacker and more malignant.

“Two!”

The Trailer stood firm. Along the line of men eying his heart he saw no look of mercy, nor look of pity; only a settled determination to execute the law of “Judge Lynch.”

Dead silence.

“Three!”

The Trailer fell flat on his face. Lifting him up they found him dead—twice dead—but now forever on earth.

Our tale is ended. Cimarron Jack, with many good wishes and blessings from his true friends, at length tore himself away, and rode off toward the Colorado River, to which place he was en route, long to be remembered by those he had befriended. Simpson parted with Pedro much against his will, but was consoled by the latter’s promising to meet him on the Colorado. Then he, Pedro, and Cimarron Jack were to unite, and well armed and equipped were to penetrate to the ruins of the old Aztecans—a much talked of, but rarely seen, country. They underwent many marvelous and perilous adventures, but we have not space to relate them.

Pedro was rich—enormously rich—and on returning safely to his “sunny land” was joyfully welcomed back, and congratulated upon his success. God bless him, say we.

When the party arrived at Fort Leavenworth, as they safely did, there was a wedding, and a joyful one it was, too, Sam, of course, being the happy groom. There the party separated, all but Duncan and Simpson continuing their journey east.

Strange to say, Duncan—grumbling, unhappy Duncan—went back with Simpson, in order to explore the Great Colorado Canon with the three Indian-fighters, in the capacity of camp-cook. He was unhappy, of course, and he had no cooking conveniences; but managed to assume complete mastery over his strangely-assorted companions, and to keep them alive with his original observations and half sulky grumblings.

THE END.