Part 34 (1/2)

”Good evening, Willie. Don't mention it,” was the big cowman's scornful response. Then, having momentarily paused to cast a contemptuous eye over the lad's neat attire, he threw himself on the floor in the farthermost corner of the room, and promptly fell fast asleep.

Some time after darkness had fallen the young telegrapher, dozing in his chair at the instrument table, was startled into consciousness by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. With visions of Indians or robbers he sprang to the window, to discover a dim, tall figure dismounting on the platform. In alarm he turned to call the sleeping guard, but momentarily hesitating, looked again, the figure came into the light of the window, and with relief he recognized Iowa Burns, another of the Bar-O cowmen.

”h.e.l.lo, kid,” said the newcomer, entering. ”Where's Old Muskoke?”

”Good evening. Over there, asleep, sir. I suppose you knew he was taking Mr. Smith's place, guarding the gold until the train came in?”

”Sure, yes. I was there when Bill come up.” He crossed to the side of the snoring Jones, and kicked him sharply on the sole of his boots. ”M'skoke!

Git up!” he shouted. ”Here's something to keep out the chills.”

Again, and more sharply, he kicked the sleeping man, while the boy looked on, smiling.

Suddenly the smile disappeared, and the lad's heart leaped into his throat. He was gazing into the black, round muzzle of a pistol, and beyond it was a face set with a deadly purpose. Instinctively his staring eyes flickered towards the box of bullion.

”Yep, that's it. But wink an eye agin, an' y' git it!” said Burns coldly, advancing. ”Now, git back there up agin the corner of the table, an'

stand, so 'f anyone comes along you'll appear to be leanin' there, conversin'. Go on, quick!”

Dazed, cold with fear, the boy obeyed, and Iowa, producing a sheaf of hide thongs, proceeded to bind his arms to his side.

As the renegade tightened a knot securing the boy's left leg to the leg of the table, Muskoka's snoring abruptly ceased, and the sleeper moved uneasily. In a flash Iowa was over him, pistol in hand. But the snoring presently resumed, and after watching him sharply for a moment, Iowa returned to the boy.

”Now move, remember, an' I shoot,” he repeated warningly. ”To make sure, I'm going to fix up that snoring idiot over there before I finish you.

An' don't you as much as shuffle your hoof!” Recovering the bundle of thongs, he strode back to the sleeper.

As previously the man's back had been turned Wilson had shot a frantic glance about him. In their sweep his eyes had fallen on the partly open drawer in the end of the table, immediately below his left hand, and in the drawer had noted the bowl of a pipe. At the moment nothing had resulted, but as the renegade's back was again turned his eyes again dropped to the drawer, and a sudden wild possibility occurred to him.

His heart seemed literally to stand still at the audacity, the danger of it. But might it not be possible? The light from the single lamp, on the wall opposite, was poor, and his left side thus in deep shadow. And his left hand--he tried it--yes, though tightly bound at the wrist, the hand itself was free.

His first day at the station, the visit of the men from the ranch, Muskoka's contemptuous greeting, recurred to him. Here was his opportunity of vindication.

With a desperate clenching of the teeth the boy decided, and at once began cautiously straining at the thongs about his wrist, to obtain the reach necessary. Finally they slipped, slightly, but enough. Carefully he leaned sideways, his fingers extended. He reached the pipe, fumbled a moment, and secured it.

Burns was on his knees beside the unconscious guard, splicing a thong. An instant Wilson hesitated, then springing erect, pointed the pipe-stem, and in a voice he scarcely knew, a voice sharp as the crack of a whip, cried:

”Hands up, Burns! I got you!

”_Quick! I'll shoot!_”

The renegade cowman, taken completely by surprise, leaped to his feet with a cry, without turning, his hands instinctively half-raised.

”Quick! Up! _Up!_” cried the boy. A breathlessly critical instant the hands wavered, then slowly, reluctantly, they ascended.

For a moment the young operator stood panting, but half believing the witness of his own eyes to the success of the stratagem. Then at the top of his voice he cried: ”Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Muskoka! Wake up! Wake up!”

Iowa, muttering beneath his breath, paused anxiously to watch results.

”Muskoka! Muskoka!” shouted the lad. The snoring continued evenly, unbrokenly.

Iowa indulged in a dry laugh. ”Save your wind, kid,” he said. ”I fixed a drink he took before he came down.”

At this news the boy's heart sank.