The Sunset Trail Part 31

"Whom have you got there?"

As the one in search of knowledge hove in reach, Mr. Masterson smote him upon the head with his heavy eight-inch pistol. The inquiring one went over backward, and Mr. Masterson was pleased to see that he fell free of the wheels. Yes, it was right; the unknown had sinned the sin of an untimely curiosity.

The engine whistled, the train moved, and Mr. Masterson packed the unconscious Cimarron into the car and placed him in the nearest seat.

There were half a dozen pa.s.sengers scattered about; all were soundly slumbering. Mr. Masterson drew a breath of relief, and wiped his face; for the night was an August night and the work had been hot. Then he rearranged Cimarron's blankets, and threw a cupful of water in his face by way of restorative. That, and the breeze through the lifted window, caused Cimarron to open his eyes.

"Give me some whiskey."

Mr. Masterson looked conscience-stricken.

"I forgot the whiskey!"

"Forgot the whiskey!" repeated Cimarron, in feeble scorn. "What kind of a rescue party do you call this? I'd sooner have stayed where I was!

Besides, I had it laid out how I'd finish shootin' up that Jenkins party the moment I could totter over to the Sheaf of Wheat."

Mr. Masterson, to whom the petulance of the sick was as nothing, vouchsafed no return, and Cimarron sank back exhausted.

When the conductor appeared, the wary Mr. Masterson met that functionary in the car door.

"Got any children?" asked Mr. Masterson.

"Five," said the conductor, whom it is superfluous to say was a married man; "five; an' another in the shops."

"The reason I ask," observed Mr. Masterson, "is that my brother over there has measles, and I wouldn't want you to go packing it back to your babies. I have to wrap him up to keep him from catching cold. The doctor said that if he ever caught cold once we'd have some fun."

While Mr. Masterson was exploring Ogallala and perfecting his scheme of rescue, he had purchased tickets to Grand Island. He bought tickets to Grand Island because he intended to get off at North Platte; the ticket-buying was a ruse and meant to break the trail. The conductor, as he received Mr. Masterson's tickets, thanked him for his forethought in defending his children from the afflicted brother.

"I'm a father myself," said Mr. Masterson, who in amplification of any strategy was ever ready to round off one mendacity with another.

The dawn was showing when the train drew in at North Platte. Shouldering the helpless Cimarron, Mr. Masterson stepped onto the deserted station platform. Cimarron gave a querulous groan.

"Where be you p'intin' out for now?" he demanded. "I'm gettin' a heap tired of this rescue. It's too long, an' besides it's too toomultuous."

"Tired or no," responded Mr. Masterson, steadily, "you're going to be rescued just the same." The Cochino Colorow was a gentleman whose true name was Mr. Cooper. He had been rebaptised as the "Cochino Colorow,"

which means the "Red Hog," by the Mexicans and the Apaches when he was a scout for General Crook, and about the time the latter gained from the same sources his own t.i.tle of the "Gray Fox."

Mr. Cooper was not heralded as the Cochino Colorow because of any aggressive gluttonies; but he was round and with a deal of jowl, and suffered from a nose that, colour and contour, looked like the ace of hearts. Besides, Mr. Cooper had red hair. These considerations induced the Mexicans and Apaches to arise as one man and call him the Cochino Colorow; and the name stuck.

Mr. Masterson and the Cochino Colorow had been fellow scouts under the wise Ben Clark when the latter guided the Black Kettle wanderings of General Custer. Since then the Cochino Colorow had adopted more peaceful pursuits as proprietor of the Bank Exchange in North Platte, and on the morning when Mr. Masterson, with Cimarron over his shoulder like a sack of oats, came seeking him, he was a familiar as well as a foremost figure of that commonwealth.

The Bank Exchange was almost empty of customers when Mr. Masterson and his burden arrived; a few all-night souls were still sleepily about a faro table, and the Cochino Colorow himself was behind the box. "h.e.l.lo, Bat!" exclaimed the Cochino Colorow, manifestly surprised, and turning the box on its side to show a recess in the deal. "Where in the name of Santa Ana do you come from? What's that you're totin'?"

"I'm totin' a friend," replied Mr. Masterson.

The Cochino Colorow hastily a.s.signed a talented person who was keeping the case, to deal the interrupted game, while he in person waited upon the wants of the fugitives. Mr. Masterson told the story of their adventures to the Cochino Colorow.

"And for all my walking in the water about those tickets," concluded Mr.

Masterson, "I'm afraid the Ogallala outfit will cross up with us before ever I can freight Cimarron into Dodge. The moment that drunkard Smart comes to, or the rest of 'em find they're shy Cimarron, they'll just about take to las.h.i.+ng and back-las.h.i.+ng the situation with the telegraph, and I figure they'll cut our trail."

"Which if they should," confidently returned the Cochino Colorow, "we'll stand 'em off all right. Between us, I'm the whole check-rack in North Platte."

Mr. Masterson's fears were justified. As early as the afternoon of the same day, Mr. Sopris and a companion, whom Mr. Masterson, because of the handkerchief which bound his brows, suspected to be the inquisitive one, walked into the Bank Exchange. Mr. Masterson and the Cochino Colorow had remarked their approach from a window while they were yet two blocks away.

"Is either of 'em that Jenkins crim'nal?" asked the Cochino Colorow.

"No," said Mr. Masterson.

"I'm sh.o.r.e sorry," replied the Cochino Colorow. "If one of 'em now was that Jenkins crim'nal, we'd nacherally prop pore Cimarron up by this yere window, an' let him have a crack at him with my Winchester."

The Cochino Colorow suggested that Mr. Masterson retire to the room where lay the invalid Cimarron. He said that he could best treat with the visitors alone.

Cimarron was tossing to and fro on a couch in a cubby-hole of an apartment immediately to the rear of the Bank Exchange bar. Since the intervening part.i.tion was of pine boards, an inch for thickness, what pa.s.sed between the Cochino Colorow and the invaders fell plainly upon the listening ears of Mr. Masterson and Cimarron.

The visitors laid bare their mission. They set forth the escape of Cimarron; and while they would not pretend that Ogallala hungered to destroy that individual, they did urge a loss to the Ogallala honour if he were permitted to walk off in a manner of open, careless insolence.

"It ain't what this Cimarron does," explained Mr. Sopris; "it ain't that he's done more'n shoot away three of Jenks' fingirs, an' as they was on the left hand, they may well be spared. What Ogallala objects to is the manner of this person's escape. It not only puts Mr. Smart in the hole, speshul, but it reflects on Ogallala for hoss sense."

"Well, gents," returned the Cochino Colorow with cool nonchalance, "you can't expect me to bother myse'f to death about what comes off in Ogallala. Which, speakin' general, I'm that numbed by my own misfortunes, I don't care much what happens, so it don't happen to me."

"It wasn't," retorted Mr. Sopris, "that we allowed you'd feel a heap concerned, but we got a p'inter that you're harborin' these yere felons personal."

"Is that so?" observed the Cochino Colorow, a.s.suming airs of chill dignity. "Gents, since you impugns my integrity, my only word is, 'Make your next move.'"

"Our next move," observed Mr. Sopris, "will be to go squanderin' about into the uttermost corners of this yere deadfall, an' search out our game."

"Sh.o.r.e!" exclaimed the Cochino Colorow, picking up a rifle that stood in the corner. "An' bein' plumb timid that a-way, of course I'll neither bat an eye nor wag a year ag'in the outrage."

The Cochino Colorow c.o.c.ked the Winchester. Mr. Sopris shook his head, as might one whose good nature had been abused.

"That's plenty!" said Mr. Sopris. "Since sech is your att.i.toode of voylence, we jest won't search this joint."

"No, I don't reckon none you will," retorted the Cochino Colorow, fingering the Winchester. "You two delegates from Ogallala had better hit the trail for home. An' don't you never come pirootin' into North Platte searchin' for things no more."

Mr. Masterson and Cimarron overheard this conversation, and the dialogue so affected the latter that Mr. Masterson had his work cut out to keep him in his blankets. As the colloquy ended and the retreating footfalls told the departure of the committee from Ogallala, Cimarron, sore, sick and exhausted, turned his face to the wall with a sigh of shame.

"Bat," he said, pleadingly, "would you mind leavin' the room a moment while I blush?" Then he continued while his tears flowed: "We're a fine pair of centipedes to lie bunched up in yere while the Red Hog plays our hands!"

"They were only four-flus.h.i.+ng," said Mr. Masterson, soothingly, by way of consolation.

In the corral to the rear of the Bank Exchange stood a ramshackle phaeton, which was one of the sights that North Platte showed to tourists. This conveyance belonged to the mother-in-law of the Cochino Colorow. The lady in question, who was of a precise, inveterate temper, was in the East visiting relatives, and the Cochino Colorow, after sundry drinks to convey his courage to the needed height, endowed Mr.

Masterson and Cimarron with the phaeton to a.s.sist them in a cross-country break for Dodge. After this generous act the Cochino Colorow was troubled in spirit.

"I'll fight Injuns for fun," explained the Cochino Colorow, defensively to Mr. Masterson, "but whether you deems me weak or not, I simply shudders when I think of my said mother-in-law an' what she'll say about that buggy. But what could we-all do? Cimarron has got to _vamos_. Them Ogallala sharps will most likely be showin' up to-morry with a warrant an' a comp'ny of milishy, an' that vehicle is the one avenoo of escape.

While her language will be mighty intemperate, still, in the cause of friends.h.i.+p, a gent must even face his mother-in-law."

"What do you reckon she'll do?" asked Mr. Masterson, who was not a little disturbed by the evident peril of the good Cochino Colorow.

"Mebby Cimarron had better give himself up."

"No," replied the desperate one. "It shall never be said that anything, not even a well-grounded fear of that esteemable lady whom I honours onder the endearin' name of mother-in-law, could keep me from rus.h.i.+n'