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19. The Enemy's Hand Again, And A Capture



"Good morning, Ward. Any word of the progress made by the K. & Z.?" inquired Construction Superintendent Finnan the following morning, Sunday, looking into the telegraph-car.

Alex threw down his towel and stepped to the instrument table. "Yes, sir; here's one that came late last night.

"It says they started from Red Deer yesterday morning, and made nearly three and a half miles."

The superintendent looked somewhat glum as he read the message. "That beats us by half a mile," he remarked. "If the news is reliable, that is. They may plan to give out inflated distances, in order to discourage us. That would be a small matter to them, after trying to burn us out."

"There has been no sign of Little Hawk yet, sir?" Alex inquired.

"No. I am beginning to think the rascal has gone over to the K. & Z.," said the superintendent, turning away. At the door he paused. "By the way, Ward, remind me to give you a message to-morrow morning asking for two more operators. We will have made six or seven miles by Monday night, and will be running the train down the branch. And the temporary station is almost completed," he added, glancing from the window toward a box-car which had been lifted from its trucks and placed on a foundation of ties beside the main-line tracks.

Alex promised gladly. It meant the coming of Jack Orr and Wilson Jennings.

Following breakfast, the morning being a beautiful one, Alex determined on a walk, and set off along the main-line to the west. Two miles distant he struck a small bridge and a deep, dry creek-bed, and turning south along its border, headed for the distant rail-head of the new branch.

At a bend in the creek some two hundred yards from the track-machine and its string of flat-cars, Alex sharply paused. Two saddled ponies were hobbled together in the creek-bottom. Casting a glance toward the construction-train, Alex leaped into the gully, out of sight.

He had not a doubt that the horses belonged to men in the service of the K. & Z., and that something was on foot similar to the attempted burning of the bridge-car.

What should he do? Return the three miles to the junction? or continue on to the track-machine? For undoubtedly the owners of the horses were there; and the machine, he knew, was in the sole charge of an oiler.

Alex decided on the latter course, and making his way along the bed of the stream, passed the hobbled ponies, and on to the new bridge fifty feet in rear of the construction-train.

As he there halted, low voices reached Alex's ears. Peering cautiously out, and seeing no one, he crept forth, and made his way along the side of the embankment toward the train. A few feet from the rear car Alex came upon a three-wheeled track velocipede, used by Elder, the superintendent's clerk in running backwards and forwards between the rail-head and the junction. Pausing, he debated whether he should not put it on the rails, and make a run for the junction immediately. Finally Alex concluded first to learn something further of what was going on, and to count on the velocipede as a means of making his escape in case of emergency. To this end he proceeded cautiously to place the little jigger in a position from which he could quickly swing it onto the irons. Then continuing forward under the edge of the train, he reached the pilot-car.

"Yes; it's a first class machine--the best on the market."

The voice was that of the oiler. Apparently he had been showing the strangers over the track-machine. For a brief space Alex wondered whether after all his suspicions were justified. But at once came the thought, "Why had the strangers hidden their horses in the creek-bottom if they were genuine visitors?" and he remained quiet.

"Where is the boiler?" inquired a new voice, evidently one of the owners of the horses.

"There is none. The steam comes from the engine, behind," the oiler responded. "Here--it comes in here."

"So! And does the machine get out of order very easily?" asked a second voice.

There was something in the tone that caused Alex to prick up his ears.

"Almost never. It's all simple. Nothing intricate," the man in charge replied.

"I suppose it could be put out of order, though--say, you fellows were to go on strike, and wanted to disable things? Eh?"

"Huh! That's rather a funny question. But I suppose it could. Anything could, for that matter."

"What do they pay you, as oiler?"

"Say, what are you two fellows driving at?" the oiler demanded sharply.

There was a momentary silence, during which Alex imagined the two strangers looking questioningly at one another. Then one of them spoke.

"Look here, whatever you get, we will give you a hundred dollars a month extra to put this machine out of order two or three times a week. Nothing very bad, but just enough to lose two or three hours' work each time. We are--well, never mind who we are. The thing stands this way: We have a big bet on that the K. & Z. will win in this building race for Yellow Creek, and--well, you see the point, I guess. What do you say?"

During the pause that followed Alex waited breathlessly, and with growing disappointment. Was the oiler considering the bribe?

"Well," said the oiler at length, "is that your best offer? Couldn't you make it a thousand?"

"A thousand! Nonsense--"

"Two thousand, then."

"What do you mean--"

"Just this!" cried the oiler, and simultaneously there was a rush of feet and a sound of blows. Exultingly Alex was scrambling forth to go to the oiler's assistance, when just above him was a crash of falling bodies, and a figure bounded over the side of the car and rolled sprawling down the embankment.

It was the plucky oiler, and Alex shrank back in horror as the man came to a stop flat on his back, and lay immovable, blood trickling from a wound over his eyes.

Overhead was the sound of someone getting to their feet. "He nearly got you," said a voice.

"Nearly. But I guess I 'got him' one better."

"Is he safe for awhile, do you think?"

As the two men moved to the edge of the car and apparently gazed down at the prostrate figure in the ditch, Alex shrank back with apprehension on his own account.

"Perhaps we'd better make sure of him."

"All right. Here is a bit of rope."

Hurriedly Alex crawled beneath the nearby truck, behind the wheels, and a tall figure in the garb of a cowboy dropped to the ground before him and ran down to the still unconscious oiler. Binding the prostrate man's feet together at the ankles, the cowman turned the oiler on his face, and secured his hands behind his back. Turning him again face up, he studied his eyes a moment, and announcing, "Good job. Only stunned," he returned to the car and drew himself up on it.

"Now what'll we do?" inquired his companion. "That idiot has knocked our plans to pieces. We can't go back and say we neither made the deal, nor did anything else for our money."

"We'll have to tear things up ourselves," said the first man decisively. "Let us see what we can do in the engine-room here."

The footsteps passed into the engine-house, and Alex at once crawled forth, to make his way back to the velocipede.

As he emerged from beneath the car he paused to glance down at the prostrate oiler. Should he leave him lying there? It did not seem right, despite the obvious necessity of heading for the junction without a moment's delay.

As he hesitated, the eyes of the prostrate man flickered, and opened. Alex dodged back, lest the oiler should betray his presence to the men on the car. As he dropped down there came the recollection that there were two seats on the velocipede. Why not take the man with him, if he sufficiently recovered? Good!

Anxiously Alex watched as the stunned man blinked about him. Finally comprehension, then a hot flush of rage appeared in the oiler's face, and with a violent kick he twisted about toward the car.

Springing into view, Alex caught the oiler's startled eye, and made a warning gesture. The man stared dully for a moment, then nodded, and on Alex's further urgent signalling, dropped back and again closed his eyes. Alex produced and opened his jack-knife.

The men above were busily fumbling about in the engine-room. Only pausing to make sure they were entirely occupied, Alex slipped forth, cautiously crept down the embankment, reached the bound man, and with a slash of the knife freed his feet and hands.

"Let us slip back to the velocipede--it's ready to throw on the rails--and make a dash of it for the junction," Alex whispered. The oiler arose, and with one eye on the engine-room door they crept up under the edge of the car, and on toward the rear of the train.

They reached the little track-car, and cautiously lifted it onto the rails.

"Better push it a ways," the oiler advised in a low voice. "They might hear the rumble, with our weight on it."

Gently they set the velocipede in motion. With the first move one of the wheels gave forth a shrill screech. The two paused as the sounds on the pilot-car immediately ceased.

"If we hear one of them going to the edge to look for me, we'll make a run of it," said the oiler.

"They may go on tiptoe," Alex pointed out.

The suggestion was followed by a sharp exclamation from the head of the train. "The oiler's gone!" cried a voice. Simultaneously there was the sound of someone springing to the ground, and Alex and the oiler scrambled into the velocipede seats, Alex facing the rear, and threw themselves against the handles. The oilless wheel again screeched, and from the pilot-car rose the cry, "Around at the end! Quick!"

Alex and the oiler wrenched the handles backwards and forwards with all their might, and the little car leaped ahead. Before they had gained full headway, however, one of the machine-wreckers appeared about the end of the train, and with a cry to his companion, dashed after. He ran like a deer, and despite the increasing speed of the velocipede, quickly gained upon them.

"He'll get us!" Alex exclaimed.

"The creek bridge is just ahead. That'll stop him," said the oiler.

The second man appeared, and joined in the chase.

The first runner saw the bridge, and redoubled his efforts. In spite of their best endeavors, he drew rapidly nearer. A hand shot out to clutch the oiler's shoulder.

It reached him--and with a rumble they were on and over the bridge, and their pursuer had sprawled forward flat on his face.

He was on his feet again like a wildcat, however, and crossing the bridge three ties at a time, leaped to the flat ground beside the track, and was again after the velocipede like a race-horse.

Try as they would, Alex and the oiler could get no more speed out of the low-geared machine, and with alarm Alex saw the runner once more drawing near. The second man they had outdistanced.

Closer the cowman came. "Stop!" he shouted. "Stop! You may as well! I've got you!"

Determinedly they held on, working the handles desperately, Alex watching the grim, clean-shaven face and the fluttering dotted handkerchief about the pursuing man's neck with a curious fascination.

At last he was parallel with them. Still running, he drew his revolver. "Stop!" he ordered. "Stop, or I'll put one through you!"

"Keep it up, boy," the oiler directed sharply. "He daresn't fire. He daresn't add murder to it. And he'd be heard at the junction."

The runner snapped his gun back into its holster, and putting on an extra spurt, rushed slanting up the embankment, and threw himself bodily upon the oiler. They tumbled off backwards in a struggling heap. Throwing his weight against the handles, Alex stopped the velocipede, sprang off, and dashed to the oiler's assistance.

The cowman's revolver had fallen from his belt. Alex caught it up and pressed it against the back of the man's head. "Stop it! Let go!" he cried. "I'll certainly shoot!"

The man half relaxed, and glared up sideways. Alex brought the muzzle to his eyes, and slowly he freed his hold on the oiler. "Oh, very well," he muttered with a curse. "You win."

"No--don't!" said Alex, as the enraged oiler spun about to strike the half-prostrate man. "He's down, and has given up."

At that moment interruption came from another quarter. It was a shrill cry from the direction of the creek-bed, and turning, all three saw a round-shouldered figure on horseback scrambling from the creek-bottom, leading the ponies of the two would-be wreckers, and the second cowman running toward him.

"It's Little Hawk!" Alex exclaimed.

The cowboy reached the Indian, sprang at him, there was a terrific scrimmage, and the white man sprang from the melee with the bridle of one of the ponies, leaped into the saddle, and was off across the prairie in a whirl of dust.

So interested had Alex been in the second conflict that momentarily he had forgotten the man on the ground before him. He was reminded by suddenly finding himself sprawling upon his back, and regaining his feet, found their prisoner also racing off at top speed. The oiler darted after, but quickly gave it up. He was no match for the light-footed cowman.

Seeing the pistol still in Alex's hand, he cried, "Shoot! Shoot him!"

Alex raised the revolver, faltered, and lowered it. "No. I can't," he said.

"I can!" The oiler darted back and wrested it from Alex's hand. As he whirled about to fire, Alex grasped his arm. "No! Wait! Look!" he exclaimed. "The Indian is after him!"

Turning, the oiler saw the Indian, with his own and one of the other ponies, storming across the ground in pursuit of the runner. Silently they watched.

As he heard the pounding hoofs behind him, the fleeing cowboy glanced about, and set on at greater speed than ever. Quickly, however, the horses cut down the distance between them.

The Indian leaned toward the second pony, took something from the saddle-horn, and began to adjust it on his arm.

"He's going to lassoo him!" said Alex breathlessly.

Nearer drew the Indian to the fleeing man, and hand and lassoo went into the air and began to weave circles. Tensely the two on the embankment watched.

Closer the horses drew. Wider the circle of the lassoo extended.

Suddenly it leaped through the air like a great snake. The runner saw the shadow of it, and with a cry that they heard, half turned and threw out his arms to ward it off. The loop was too large, the cowman missed it, and as the Indian pulled up in a cloud of dust, he whipped in the slack, and the noose tightened fairly about the renegade's waist. An instant after, however, the second pony, plunging ahead of the Indian's, threw the rider forward, slackening the lariat. In a twinkle the cowman had loosened the noose, and was wriggling out of it. He had freed one foot before the Indian had recovered himself. Then with a terrific yank the horseman snapped in the slack, the cowman's feet flew from under him, and with one foot taut in the air, caught at the ankle, he lay cursing and shaking an impotent fist.

As Alex and the oiler ran forward the Indian sat on his horse like a statue, holding the lariat taut.

The oiler reached the prisoner first, revolver in hand.

"Get up, you!" he ordered. Sullenly the man obeyed. Removing a handkerchief from about his neck, the oiler gave it to Alex, who securely bound the man's hands behind him. Throwing off the lassoo, they turned toward the Indian. With some wonder, they saw he was carefully examining the hoofs of the pony he was leading. Concluding the inspection with a grunt, he came forward, winding up the rope, and halted before them.

"You hoss?" he asked of the prisoner, pointing over his shoulder.

The cowboy looked at him contemptuously, and responded, "Well, what if it is, Old Ugly-Mug?"

The oiler brought up the pistol. "I don't know why he wants to know, but you go ahead and tell him!" he ordered threateningly. "He's twice the man you are. Is it your horse?"

"Yes."

Little Hawk turned away with a grunt of satisfaction, and mounting his pony, rode off towards the junction.

What the Indian meant Alex learned when, with their prisoner between them, he and the oiler approached the boarding-train, and met Little Hawk returning with Superintendent Finnan.

"That him!" said the Indian briefly as they drew near. "Him burn cars!"

From the prisoner came a hissing gasp. As Alex turned upon him with a sharp ejaculation of understanding, however, the man assumed an indifferent air, and strode on nonchalantly.

"What do you want?" he demanded insolently of the superintendent. "Can't a man pull off a--a little joke without these idiots of yours going out of their heads? It was nothing more than a bit of fun me and my mate was having," he affirmed boldly.

Superintendent Finnan smiled sardonically. "That is what the K. & Z. call it, eh?"

Alex, still with a hand on the prisoner's arm, felt him start. But brazenly the man replied, "K. & Z.? What's the K. & Z.? A ranch brand? I never heard of it."

On a thought Alex stepped forward and whispered a word in the official's ear.

"Go ahead," said the superintendent.

"I'm going to search your pockets," Alex announced, stepping back to the side of the renegade cowman. "No objection, I suppose, since you don't know what K. & Z. means?"

"Search ahead," agreed the prisoner, half smiling. "And good luck to you if you find anything to connect me--if you find anything," he corrected quickly.

From a trouser pocket Alex drew out a large jack-knife. With a suspicion of trembling he opened one of the blades and examined it, while the owner regarded him curiously. With a shake of the head the young operator opened the second blade. A quick smile of triumph lit up his face, and delving into a vest pocket, he brought forth a scrap of paper, unfolded it, and took out a fragment of charred pine shaving.

Turning his back on the now anxiously watching, though still puzzled, owner of the knife, he held the shaving against the edge of the blade. The superintendent bent over it, and uttered a delighted "Exactly!"

Triumphantly Alex turned toward the prisoner, and held the hand with the knife and shaving before him. "Does this help you to recall what K. & Z. means?" he asked.

"Recall? I don't--"

"See these two little ridges on the shaving? See these two little nicks in the blade?"

With a hoarse cry the man flung himself backward, and bound as he was, began struggling like a madman. Alex, the superintendent and the Indian were to the oiler's assistance in a twinkle, however, and a few minutes later saw the renegade in their midst on the way to the boarding train--and, as it finally proved, to the jail at Exeter.

"I don't know who to thank most," said Superintendent Finnan later--"you, Ward, or the oiler, or Little Hawk. Nor what appreciation to suggest higher up."

"You might make it a blanket and Winchester for the Indian, and a purse for the oiler, for the knocks he got and the bribe he refused," Alex suggested.

"And yourself?"

"Oh, just let me keep the rascal's knife, as a memento," responded Alex modestly.

"Very well; we'll agree on that--for the present," said the superintendent.