The Boy Ranchers on Roaring River Part 18

The three rode along silently. Now and then Bud would s.h.i.+ft in the saddle, for it is no easy thing to ride a long ways on a nervous pony with one's hands tied behind. Finally they seemed to reach their destination--the house Bud had seen in the distance. It was a ramshackle affair, with the roof partly torn away and no vestige of paint. Evidently it had once been used for a farm house, for about it were several other shacks, probably to store grain in.

Delton dismounted and held the bridle of Bud's pony.

"Your new home," he said, with a grin. "Come right in. Sorry we can't fix you up better, but you see all the servants are away."

The lad hesitated a moment.

"Off you come!" Delton seized Bud by the belt and pulled. The boy tumbled off his pony and hit the ground.

"That wasn't--necessary!" the boy panted, as he lay there with most of the breath knocked out of him. Luckily he had fallen on his side, and not on his face, which would have meant a real injury, his hands tied as they were.

"Maybe not, but I figger it'll do you good. Give you an appet.i.te for dinner," and Delton laughed harshly. "Where I come from we treat 'em worse than that."

"Aw, let him alone," Sam growled. "No use hurtin' the kid! That won't help us any. If we get caught it won't be so good havin' a lot of enemies."

"Who said we were goin' to get caught?" Delton walked over to where Sam sat on his pony. "Sam, I haven't liked your actions lately. Now you yell about getting caught. You know what happened to that last bird who arranged for me to meet up with the cops?"

"Yea, I know." Sam moved uneasily in his saddle. He did not meet Delton's eyes. "You don't think I'd tell on you, do ya--an' get twenty years myself? Ain't likely. Anyway----"

"All right! Pipe down. Get this kid inside. I want to see if Slim got back yet."

"Come on, kid. Here, I'll help you up. Hurt yourself?" Sam had dismounted and a.s.sisted Bud to his feet.

"No, I didn't. Thanks. What was his idea in pulling me off like that?

If ever I get him I'll remember it."

"Oh, he always pulls stunts like that. Wants everybody to know he's a hard guy. Comes from New York, and thinks he can put it all over the West. One thing I will say for him, he sure can shoot. That's enough, now."

Sam's tone changed, and a warning light came into his eyes.

"I ain't paid to talk to you. Let's go," he growled.

He led Bud up the steps and into the house. The shades were pulled down tight, and the gloom made it very difficult for Bud to see much.

He noticed some sort of a hat-tree in the hall, and as they walked toward the back he saw the doors of several rooms which opened off the lower hall. Into one of these Sam led his captive.

"Here's where you stay," he said. "No use tryin' to get out, for the windows are barred. And that door is oak. Here--" and Sam struggled with the knot which bound Bud's wrists behind his back. "Make you feel a little comfortable, anyhow. You can't do much without a gun.

There's water in that pitcher. I'll try to sneak you in some bread about noon."

Without another word Sam stepped out of the room and closed the door.

Bud heard a key grate in the lock, and then a bolt shot home.

"Taking no chances," he thought. "My, it feels good to get my arms free!" He stretched l.u.s.tily. "Wonder where on earth I am? Let's take a look at those windows. Bars, hey?" He pulled the shade aside.

Surely enough on the outside were several iron bars, making the room a veritable jail. "They sure got me penned up here proper! Now why did they go to all this trouble? Just because I found that pit by the water hole?

"That doesn't seem reasonable. Must want me for something besides that. Guess I'll know soon enough. In the meantime I'll take a look around. Water! That's right--I am thirsty. Funny how you forget that when you're excited." Bud was talking to himself now. There are people who seem to be able to puzzle things out better if the problem is put into words than if they just revolve it over in their minds.

Bud was one of these, and as he investigated his prison he kept talking in a low tone to himself.

With the shades up he was able to get a better view of the room. It was small, and had only that one window in it. The furniture consisted of a chair and a table. The floor was bare. The walls were painted a dull gray. Bud pushed experimentally against one of the sides, but to no purpose. It was as solid as iron.

There was one more thing to be tried, that was the door. Bud was reconciled to spending at least the morning within the room, and it made very little difference to him whether the door was of oak, as "Sam" had said, or some softer wood. However, he thought, he might as well take a crack at it. Try anything once, he reasoned.

He walked over and turned the k.n.o.b softly. It refused to budge an inch. Then Bud applied more pressure. This time it turned slowly.

Hope rang in Bud's heart as he felt the latch click back, then as he remembered hearing the door bolted his heart sank again. Still he turned the k.n.o.b as far as it would go, and pushed. The door opened about half an inch.

Then it stuck. Bud's hand dropped from the k.n.o.b, and he ran his fingers along the crack. Half way up they encountered cold metal--a chain which allowed the door to open only a little, then held. Bud seemed as securely fastened as though he had been unable to budge the door at all. Then he thought it was possible the bolt worked on a slide, and if he could reach through the crack and ease it out of the slide, he would be free.

"A knife would do the trick," he thought. "Nothing like that around here. I wonder if my belt buckle would do?" He tried forcing it through the crack. "Nope. Not long enough. Isn't there something about the room I could use? Chair--that's no good. Neither is the table. Water pitcher--can't see what good that is. Porcelain, I guess." He ran his hand over the pitcher.

"Yep. Well, that doesn't seem to help. Unless--" he hesitated. A thought struck him. "If I could break it and use a piece of it like a knife I'll bet I could sc.r.a.pe that bolt over! But how can I break it without making a racket and bringing Delton and his gang rus.h.i.+ng in?"

Bud thought a moment. Then he snapped his fingers softly, and his eyes lit up. "I've got it!" he whispered.

Taking off his vest and s.h.i.+rt he wrapped the pitcher well in them, after pouring out the water. Then he tapped it gently against the window-sill. It made almost no noise, so he hit it harder. After a few tries he felt it break. As he unwrapped his bundle of shattered porcelain he saw he had, luckily, broken a piece just the size he wanted. He replaced his s.h.i.+rt and vest and with the piece of pitcher in his hand he made once more for the door, this time with a real hope of escaping.

"Just the right length!" Bud exalted as he slid the narrow knife-like porcelain through the crack in the door and against the bolt. Then he started to coax the bolt from its slide. Softly, softly he sc.r.a.ped against the iron, and to his delight felt it move ever so little. He could not open the door to its full extent in his endeavor to slip the bolt, for this would tighten the chain and hold the metal piece more firmly in its slide. He had to work with his left hand holding the door at the proper angle and his right hand using the piece of the water pitcher.

It was tiresome work. Several times Bud halted as he heard footsteps in the hall outside, but they went on their way without stopping. The porcelain was rapidly wearing down. Its edge had already become dulled, and no longer offered the purchase on the iron that it did at first. But finally Bud succeeded--the bolt slid back.

Cautiously he tried the door. It opened! In obedience to Bud's push, the door swung wide. For a moment the lad stood still, listening intently. The low murmur of voices came to his ears.

"Down the hall," he thought. "Must be in that large room I pa.s.sed coming in."

He stepped gently forward. A board creaked under his foot, and froze him into instant stillness. The murmur of voices droned on, and once more Bud moved forward. Down the hall he tip-toed. Nearer and nearer to the room wherein the men were talking he came. Now he was directly opposite. The door was tightly closed, but he could make out the conversation distinctly.

"A cinch!" he heard someone say. "There's nothing to it! Even if Jake doesn't know about the Shooting Star, he can run the bunch through all right. And the sooner the better."

"You know when the run is planned for?" someone asked.

"Sure! And I think we'll be lucky on the weather. Looks like rain to me."

"Well, I hope so. It's all set for to-morrow night, then?"

"Check! All set. To-morrow night it is."

Outside Bud was listening intently, his heart thumping in his breast.

CHAPTER XV

BILLEE DOBB'S STORY

Back at the Shooting Star ranch the three others, Nort, Billee Dobb and Yellin' Kid, were occupying themselves with the business of the day.

The Kid having reported on the condition of the "shacks," Nort decided that a new bunk house would be necessary before the shearing season to accommodate the extra men. He and Yellin' Kid, together with Billee Dobb, then lazed about the place, awaiting the return of d.i.c.k and Bud.

It was eleven o'clock before d.i.c.k came riding into the yard.

"Bring any grub back with you?"

"No. The store said the buckboard would be right over, almost as soon as I got here. Is the kitchen all cleaned out?"