Part 13 (1/2)

If there was one thing more than another that Percy Rapson and Dan Medlicott coveted, it was an opportunity to accompany Sergeant Silk on one of his police expeditions on the Rattlesnake patrol. But such an opportunity came very seldom, and it was quite an exceptional circ.u.mstance that Dan happened to be able to make himself of use on the occasion when Red Derrick was captured in White Wolf Gulch.

The way it all happened was this--

Two men were riding along the trail, one on a piebald broncho, the other on a black mustang. They were on their way to the meeting place appointed by their leader, Red Derrick. Everything had been well planned, but they were not fully certain that they were safe, and they were both nervously anxious. As they came out from the gloom of a pine forest into the open, the man on the piebald broncho looked searchingly into the night darkness over his left shoulder. Then he s.h.i.+fted his grip on the reins and glanced uneasily at his companion.

”Say, Bill,” he inquired, ”you plumb sure as we ain't bein' follered?”

Bill Allison's hand went as by instinct to his revolver.

”Follered, Hen?” he questioned, looking around and listening. ”Did you see anythin'?--hear anythin'?”

”Well,” returned Hen, ”I just notioned a while ago as I caught the clip of a horse's hoof agin a stone, way back thar. Might ha' bin a' echo.

Dessay it was.”

”Couldn't ha' bin anythin' else,” Bill a.s.sured him. ”Thar's no Injuns messin' around. Th' Mounted P'lice is busy somewhere else. n.o.body knows where we are, or where we're goin'--n.o.body, 'cept Red Derrick hisself.

No, pard, we ain't bein' follered. Guess you're right 'bout its bein' a'

echo.”

He jabbed his pony's flank with a spurred heel and the two broke into a quicker pace. For a couple of miles or so they continued riding side by side, along the indistinct trail, neither speaking. But within the gloom of a dark, wooded bluff they slowed down, turned abruptly from the beaten track, and pursued their way quietly, stealthily, in single file, through the long gra.s.s, descending into the hollow of a secluded coulee, where they came to a halt.

”Jim said as he'd show a light,” said Bill. ”Watch for it over yonder.

D'ye make out the old shack?”

He pointed across the coulee to a small log hut, so overgrown with tangled creepers that in the darkness it could hardly be distinguished from the surrounding bush.

Hen Faxon nodded.

”Queer sort of a crib ter bring us to,” he observed, preparing to dismount. ”Makes a fellow feel some scared. Why couldn't Jim ha' done the business when he was along east yesterday?”

Bill gave a sneering little laugh.

”Pr'aps you've an idea as he'd bin wiser ter discuss the biz in the public saloon at Hickory Crossing, with a crowd of ranchers an'

cowpunchers, and maybe one of the Mounted P'lice fer audience?” he suggested. ”But Jim Derrick ain't that sort. He ain't no novice tenderfoot ter let any trampoosin' stranger know what cards he holds.

And I reckon he holds a straight flush this game, see?”

”Um!” muttered Hen.

The two men dismounted and hobbled their ponies.

”We'll wait here till he gives a sign,” said Bill, taking out his pipe.

They lay in the gra.s.s, smoking, with their eyes directed towards the dark shape of the dilapidated, deserted log cabin, which was their appointed meeting-place. After a long time of waiting, Bill Allison's broncho threw up its head and stood alert with twitching ears.

”Reckon Jim's thar now,” decided Bill. ”Yes, he's strikin' a light, see! Leave the ponies where they are.”

He stood up and led the way across the coulee. Red Derrick met them at the ruined doorway.

”Yo're punctual, boys,” he said. ”Thought I heard you comin' t'other way. Everythin' all right?”