Buffalo Bill's death message or, In the face of doom
that kind, betther than a knife or a pistol. He’ll be comin’ r-round in
a minute, but we can have him fast enough befure he does.”
With the rope which he had meant to use as a lasso, Buffalo Bill tied
the hands and feet of the unconscious man.
When, five minutes later, the fellow recovered enough to talk, he looked
with quailing eyes into the faces of his captors.
“Do you belong down there?” said the scout, nodding in the direction of
the cabins. “We know you do, of course. Answer our questions straight,
and we won’t be hard on you.”
“Why did yez come acrass?” queried Flynn.
“You laid a trap for me,” said the man, looking at Flynn. “I ought to
’a’ knowed it was a trap, but I didn’t believe that any men could be
over here, not of our crowd. How you got in here I don’t know. That
bellow one of you let out didn’t sound like anything human, and that
helped to fool me; I thought it must be some kind of a beast.”
“Baste! It was near to bein’ a baste, for it was a nagur.”
“Mister Flynn, will yo’ quit callin’ me a nigger?” Cudjo protested. “I
ain’t no nigger, I’se a gem’man ob color, and I’se been a car po’ter,
suh. I ain’t a nigger no mo’ dan you is, I’d hab you comperhend.”
The prisoner turned his staring eyes on Cudjo.
“Did you ever see one of these?” asked Buffalo Bill, holding before him
one of the stick pins showing a skull and crossbones.
The prisoner stared at it with unwinking eyes, but it was clear he was
astonished.
“I’ve seen something like it,” he admitted slowly.
“There is something like it on the door of the cabin which can be seen
from here!”
“Yes.”
“About two years ago a band of masked bandits attacked and robbed a
train on the Cedar Mountain Railroad. They wore stick pins like this.
Were you with that crowd?”
The prisoner hesitated. “What are you drivin’ at?” he said. “I dunno
what you’re talkin’ about.”
“The leader of that band was Red Reynard, the Fox, and Red Reynard is in
command of the men in the cabins down there. Am I right in that?”
“In the fiend’s name, who are you?” said the man, as he lifted himself
on his elbow and stared hard.
“You are Buffalo Bill!” he added, with sudden comprehension.
“I admit it.”
“And you’ve follered Red Reynard? This will be a surprise to the boys.”
“Then Red Reynard is down there?”
“So long’s you know all about it, what’s the use of denyin’ it?”
“He came here through the cañon of the Lost River, by way of the tunnel
through the cliffs; and he’s found gold in the sand of the stream.
You’re taking out a tremendous lot of it, and are sending it to Frisco
by Poker Pete, and stacking it up in the banks there.”
The prisoner stared as if dazed; the knowledge possessed by Buffalo Bill
struck him as something so uncommon and unaccountable that it was weird.
“Yes,” he admitted. “If you’ll loosen up these cords a bit I’ll tell
everything I know, though I guess you don’t need me to. You must ’a’ got
in here the same way we did.”
“Where is Klamath John now?” was Buffalo Bill’s next question, at which
the prisoner’s eyes widened again.
“Klamath Jack, you mean?”
“Klamath Jack, or Klamath John, I suppose it’s all the same. Where is
he?”
“I don’t know. He went to Frisco a couple of weeks ago, and ought to be
back by now.”
“How did he get out of the Cup? There’s another way besides the river?”
“Yes, there’s another way.”
“Tell us about it.”
“You climb the cliffs with ropes.”
But a certain change in his manner made the scout sure he was lying.
“Tell me how Klamath John looks,” was the scout’s next demand.
“He is smooth-faced, but he disguised himself before he set out for
Frisco.”
“We met the divil!” cried Flynn. “He wore a false beard and a wig.”
“Yes, that’s what he wore.”
“Did he intend to visit the town of Klamath?” said the scout.
“I understood so; he was to come back by there.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“Not much. He’s the lieutenant, and acts as chief here when the chief is
gone.”
“And the chief is Red Reynard?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you fellows been here in the Cup?”
“The better part of a year.”
“And you’ve taken out a lot of gold in that time, and sent it to
Frisco?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You built the cabins?”
“Yes, we cut the logs above here and floated ’em down. ’Twasn’t any
great job.”
“How long was it planned for your gang to stay in here?”
“As long as we liked; there wasn’t no time set. We was suited here;
plenty of game in the Cup here, and fish in the river, and what extrys
we needed could be brought from Frisco, or some place like it. We
thought we’d hit it good here, and we didn’t care to get out in a hurry,
’specially as officers outside was lookin’ for some of us. We calc’lated
to leave by and by, of course, to enjoy the gold we got here, but we
wasn’t hurryin’ it. We was comfortable enough.”
His manner admitted that he believed the end of that pleasant dream had
come.
---------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IX.
THE PRISONER’S ESCAPE.
The red-shirted prisoner, who had confessed to the name of Jim Benton,
lay on the ground, bound hand and foot, and watched with curious eyes
the transformation taking place in the appearance of Buffalo Bill.
The scout had produced the wig and the beard worn by Klamath John, and
had put them on. He did not need the false imperial and mustache, for
his own resembled them in a marked degree; but the Dundreary side
whiskers made a great change in his looks.
When Buffalo Bill had effected these alterations, he untied the prisoner
and made him surrender his red shirt and hat, his boots, and his muddy
trousers, giving him in lieu of them a pair of blankets in which to wrap
himself. When the scout had put these on he would not have been
recognized by his most intimate friend.
“I’m going into your camp,” he said to the prisoner. “Perhaps I can make
the gang there believe I’m one of them, or at least one of their kind.
If Klamath Jack and Red Reynard are away my chances are all the better.
Perhaps you think I look somewhat like Klamath Jack now?”
“The dead image of him.”
But again the scout detected the false note.
“Thanks for the hint that the disguise isn’t as good as I thought it.
Maybe it wouldn’t be healthy for me to try to make them think I am
Klamath Jack. You will be kept close here, and if you do not make
trouble you will have none. My friends will guard you, and they have
orders to shoot you if you try to get away.”
Buffalo Bill departed in the boat which had brought the prisoner to the
island, dropping down the river in the darkness. He was hardly out of
sight before Benton, under cover of the blankets that had been thrown
over him, was twisting at the cords which held his wrists together
behind his back. As he did so he felt the cold touch of a rock, and
against its jagged edge he began to saw the cords that were around his
wrists.
The darky was roosting well back from the shore, under the trees, with
his eyes fixed on the dark water, where momentarily he expected to see
the “’gator.”
Flynn was crouched on the ground but a few paces from the prisoner,
smoking his pipe reflectively. Mickey was following Buffalo Bill in
imagination, wondering what the outcome would be, and he was denouncing,
with Irish vehemence, the fate that kept him on the island when so
daring an adventure was to be carried out.
For these reasons, and also because he fancied the prisoner was tied
securely, Flynn was giving little attention to aught save his own
thoughts.
Benton made no noticeable sound as he sawed the cords to and fro against
the jagged edge of the rock. He, too, was thinking of Buffalo Bill, but
he was thinking much more of himself and his chance of escape.
“Marse Flynn,” he heard the darky say, “if dat fing comes up dar ag’in
hit’s gwine tuh be monst’ous close to yo’ laigs, hit might bite um off.
’Gators is got pow’ful sharp teeth.”
“I wish it was gnawin’ at these strings, then!” thought the prisoner,
with a grim sense of humor. “I don’t seem to be doin’ anything, and I
reckon that infernal scout will be back here before I cut through ’em.”
“Divil take the ’gator!” said Flynn, unmoved by the darky’s warning.
“Alligators was niver known to ate annything but nagurs an’ dogs.”
“Den yo’ ain’t safe dar at all, Marse Flynn!”
Flynn turned toward Cudjo, who seemed to be showing his ivories in a
grin.
“Call me a dog, will yez?” he said. “Take that!”
A stick whistled through the air, aimed at the darky’s head, but Cudjo
dodged it, and laughed.
The sounds caused by this altercation and the crash of the stick in the
bushes Jim Benton took advantage of. Sawing furiously, he felt one of
the strands of cord fall away. This so encouraged him that he continued
his work, with a hope that became buoyant as he felt the cords loosen
more and more.
Finally his wrists were free. He rolled over on his side, and stretched
his arms, working his fingers to relieve the stiffness occasioned by the
cords.
“Now, if I had my feet loose!” was his thought.
To accomplish that promised not to be so easy.
Making a pretense of restlessness, he twisted about until he had his
ankles against the rock that had cut through the wrist cords. Slowly he
began to work to cut the ankle cords in the same way.
“What the divil makes ye squirm ’round so, like a shnake?” said Flynn,
whose attention was at length drawn.
“Marse Flynn, dat man been doin’ dat fuh mo’ dan ten minutes, I
reckons,” observed Cudjo.
“An’ ye niver mintioned it to me! Yez ar-re a gr-reat wan to be lift to
watch a prisoner! Don’t yez know that ivery movement that luks
suspicious has to be reported? Yez are not only a nagur, but a fool
nagur!”
“Misteh Flynn,” protested the darky, “if you keeps on ’sultin’ me in dat
scan’lous manner, I done gwine bus’ yo’ haid open wid a stone. I don’t
stood nuff f’um you already. I ain’t been lef’ to watch dat pris’ner;
you has been placed in discharge ob him yo’self. An’ if he gits away de
faults ob de matter will be laid at yo’ do’. I washes my han’s of you. I
hopes you falls in dat river an’ de ’gator ’vours you! You is de mos’
contemptuous man I ebber see. I’se a gem’man ob color, unnerstan’, and I
been a car po’ter!”
Mickey Flynn walked over to the prisoner. The latter had ceased his
struggles to cut those ankle cords, and lay back now, narrowly watching
the Irishman through half-closed eyes. His hands were behind his back,
to give them the appearance of being tied there.
“What the divil ar-re yez up to, annyway?” Flynn demanded, stooping over
him. Flynn’s temper had been ruffled by the words of the darky. “Ye’re
wrigglin’ round like a wor-rm, begorra! What’s bitin’ ye?”
“These cords are tied so durn tight that they hurt me, that’s all,” the
prisoner explained, hoping when he said it that Flynn would go away.
“Oh, they ar-re? Well, the likes av you ought to have a cor-rd round his
nick, begorra, with an ind av it fastened to the limb av a three! Thim’s
my sintimints; and that’s what would be done to yez, av I was havin’ me
own way about it. Cody’s too aisy intirely wid crathers av your class.”
He stooped over, to inspect the cords that he supposed held the man’s
wrists.
It was to the prisoner a critical moment; he had no time for hesitation.
Driven to desperation by the discovery that stared him in the face, he
lifted his bound feet, and planted them with such force in the
Irishman’s stomach that Flynn was hurled backward and fell with a crash
in the bushes.
The next moment the prisoner had staggered up. He tried to run, but
fell, then he began to roll over and over like a cart wheel, on his way
to the water.