The Campers Out: or, The Right Path and the Wrong

CHAPTER X – A STARTLING SUMMONS

The stage was within a hundred yards of Black Bear Swamp when something like a tornado struck it. The horses stopped, and the vehicle was partly lifted from the ground. For an instant it seemed to be going over. The driver and the New Englander started with suppressed exclamations, while Wagstaff emitted a cry of alarm, as he and his companion attempted to leap out.

“Sit still! you’re all right!” shouted Lenman, striking his horses with the whip. They broke into a trot, and a few minutes later entered the dense wood, where they were safe from the danger that threatened them a moment before. Indeed, the volley of wind was as brief as a discharge of musketry, passing instantly, though it still howled through the wood, with a dismal effect, which made all heartily wish they were somewhere else.

It was so dark that, but for the flashes of lightning, the passengers would have been unable to see each other’s forms; but the horses were so familiar with the route that they needed no guidance. The driver allowed them to walk, while he held the lines taut to check them on the instant it might be necessary.

Wagstaff and McGovern climbed forward, and crowded themselves on the seat beside the New Englander, each firmly grasping his rifle, for, as they advanced into the wood, their thoughts were of the criminal who they believed would challenge them before they could reach the other side.

Still the rain held off, though the lightning was almost incessant and continually showed the way in front. The wind, too, abated, and all began to breathe more freely.

“I guess the robber won’t dare show himself to-night,” said Wagstaff, speaking rather his wish than his belief.

“What’s to hinder him?” asked Ethan Durrell.

“The storm.”

The driver laughed outright.

“It’s just what is in his favor – hulloa!”

“Gracious! what’s the matter?” gasped Wagstaff, as the team suddenly halted, of their own accord; “let’s get out.”

“Something’s wrong,” replied Lenman; “don’t speak or make any noise; we’ll soon know what it is.”

While waiting for the flash of lightning to illuminate the gloom, it never seemed so long coming. A short time before the gleams were continuous, but now the gloom was like that of Egypt as the seconds dragged along.

No one spoke, but all eyes were fixed on the impenetrable darkness in front, while every ear was strained to catch some sound beside the soughing of the wind among the trees.

All at once, as if the overwhelming storehouse of electricity could contain itself no longer, the whole space around, in front and above was lit up by one dazzling flame, which revealed everything with the vividness of a thousand noonday suns.

By its overpowering glare the figure of a man on horseback was seen motionless in the middle of the road, less than twenty feet distant. He knew of the presence of some one in his path, and he, too, was awaiting the help of the lightning before advancing.

“That’s him,’” whispered Tom Wagstaff; “shall we shoot?”

Ethan Durrell felt the seat tremble under the youth, while the others noticed the quaver in his voice.

“No,” replied the driver; “he hasn’t done nothin’ yet; wait till he hails us.”

“That may be too late, but all right.”

“Helloa, Bill, is that you?” came from the horseman.

“Yes; who are you?” called back the driver.

“Don’t you know me, Hank Babcock?” called the other, with a laugh.

“I sort of thought it was you, Hank, but wasn’t sure.”

“You can be sure of it now; wait a minute till I get out of your way; I’ll turn aside and let you pass.”

Everything was quiet for a moment, except the wind, the snuffing of his horse, and the sound of his hoofs, as he was forced with some trouble close to the trees which grew near the highway.

“Now, it’s all right; go ahead,” called Hank Babcock.

Lenman spoke to his animals and they moved forward. When opposite the horseman, another flash revealed him sitting astride the animal, a few feet to one side. He called a cheery good-night as he drew back, after the stage had passed, and continued his course.

“Driver,” said Wagstaff, when they were moving again; “where is the spot you thought it likely we would meet him?”

“We’re close to it now; you notice the road goes down a little, but not enough for me to put on the brake; have your shootin’ irons ready, for, somehow or other, I feel in my bones that you’ll need ’em.”

“Where’s that chap that was here a minute ago?” asked Jim, with as much tremor in his voice as his friend.

“Who’s that?” asked the driver.

“That Yankee that was sitting right here; he’s gone!”

“I guess not,” replied the driver, reaching back his hand and groping vaguely around; “he must be there.”

“He isn’t; he was here, but he’s missing.”

“Maybe he got so scared he took the back seat,” suggested Tom, who held his rifle in his left hand, while he passed his right through the vacancy in the rear of the stage; “no, I’ll be hanged if he is there; he isn’t in the stage.”

“That’s mighty queer,” remarked the driver; “I didn’t hear him get out, did you?”

“No, but I felt him; he was sitting right alongside of us, when something brushed past me and he was gone – there!”

Once more the lightning brought everything out with intense distinctness, and all saw that there were only three instead of four persons in the stage.

The New Englander was missing: what had become of him?

“I guess he was scared,” suggested Wagstaff, with a weak attempt to screw up his courage; “and preferred to hide among the trees rather than run the risk of meeting that stranger – ”

“Sh!” interrupted the driver, “there’s somebody ahead of us in the road; the horses see him; be ready and remember that if you miss it’s sure death – ”

At that moment the most startling cry that could fall upon their ears rang from the gloom in front:

“Hands up, every one of you!”

CHAPTER XI – NO JOKE

What more alarming summons can be imagined than that which rang from the darkness in front of the stage, as it was slowly winding its way through Black Bear Swamp?

The lightning which had toyed with them before seemed unwilling to do so again, for the impenetrable night was not lit up by the first quiver or flutter of the intense fire.

“Are you ready to shoot?” asked the driver, turning his head and speaking in guarded tones.

“My gracious, no!” replied Wagstaff, as well as he could between his chattering teeth; “I can’t see him.”

“He’s right there in the middle of the road; don’t hit one of the horses – what are you trying to do?”

It was plain enough what the valiant youth was doing; he was crawling under the seat, the difficulty of doing so being increased by the body of Jim, who was ahead of him in seeking the refuge.

“I aint going to fire when there’s no chance of hitting him,” growled Tom, still twisting and edging his way out of reach.

“But the lightning will show him to you in a minute.”

“Let it show and be hanged! I’ve got enough; I surrender.”

The words had been spoken hastily, and Tom and Jim did not throw away any seconds in groping for cover, but, brief as was the time, the terrible fellow in the middle of the road became impatient.

“Are all them hands up?” he roared, “or shall I open fire?”

“My two passengers are under the seat, but they won’t hurt you – ”

The driver checked himself for a moment and then exclaimed, loud enough for the youths to hear:

“He’s coming into the wagon!”

“Heavens! don’t let him do that,” protested Jim; “he’ll kill us all; tell him we surrender and won’t shoot.”

“Where’s them young men that were going to fire so quick?” demanded the fellow, hurriedly climbing into the front of the stage; “let me have a chance at them!”

“It wasn’t us,” called back Wagstaff, “we haven’t anything against you; take all we’ve got, only spare us; you can have our guns and pistols and our money, and everything we have – ”

He ceased his appeal, for at that moment he heard some one laugh.

A shuddering suspicion of the truth came over him, but before he could frame an explanation, Bill Lenman and the man who had just joined the party broke into uproarious mirth.

The youths saw how utterly they had been sold. There was no train robber. Ethan Durrell had played the part of the heavy villain in order to test the courage of these vaunting lads. The driver tried to dissuade him from the trick, afraid of the risk incurred, but, as it proved, he was never in any danger.

The boys crept back from their concealment, and, resuming their seat in front, saw that it was useless to deny the dilemma in which they were placed.

“I don’t see anything smart in a trick like that,” said Tom, angrily; “some folks have queer ideas of a joke.”

“It’s lucky for you,” added Jim, “that the lightning didn’t show you to us; I had my gun aimed and was just ready to fire, but couldn’t see clear enough to make sure of dropping you at the first shot.”

“All that I was afeared of,” said the driver, “was that you would hit one of the horses, and that’s what you would have done.”

“It would have served you right if I had.”

“But it would have been a costly job for you, young man.”

The team had resumed its progress and the violent flurry of the elements began subsiding. The flashes were less frequent, though they appeared often enough to show the course of the stage, as the animals pressed on at a moderate walk.

The driver and the New Englander were more considerate than most persons would have been under the circumstances, for they forebore taunting the youths, whom they had at their mercy. Tom and Jim were resentful enough to have used violence toward Durrell, who bad turned the tables so cleverly on them; but the manner in which he did it gave them a wholesome fear of the wiry fellow from down East.

“Then,” said Tom, addressing the driver, “that was all stuff that you told us about seeing a suspicious person in these woods.”

“No, sir, it was all true,” was the unexpected reply.

This statement instantly awoke interest again in the question, for even Durrell had supposed the driver was playing with the fears of the boys.

“If that’s the case,” he said, “we may have trouble yet, though it gets me how a man dare try anything like that in this part of the world.”

“They haven’t tried it yet,” was the reminder of Lenman.

“No, and I guess they won’t; but from what I’ve read and hearn tell, it’s just such crimes that succeed, ’cause nobody expects anybody would dare try them.”

That night was an eventful one in the history of the occupants of the old stage-coach plying between Belmar and Piketon. That the driver was uneasy was shown by his silence and his close attention to his team and matters in front. He took no part in the conversation, but let the others do the talking while he listened and watched.

All noticed the rapid clearing of the sky. The disturbance of the air was peculiar, for, while it threatened a severe rainfall, nothing of the kind took place, not a drop pattering on the leaves. The electric conditions changed back again to something like a normal state, the lightning ceasing, the wind falling, and the clouds dissolving to such an extent that, before Black Bear Swamp was crossed enough moonlight penetrated the woods to reveal their course.

It was a singular sight when the party in the stage found themselves able to see the ears of the horses, and, soon after, the trees at the side of the road, and by and by could make them out for several paces in front of the team.

This was a vast relief, but the boys, instead of resuming their places at the rear of the coach, kept the second seat in front, while Durrell put himself beside the driver, where both had the best opportunity for discovering any peril the instant it presented itself.

“Do you think there will be any trouble?” asked the New Englander, after being silent a minute or two.

“I don’t know what to think,” was the discomforting reply.

“But we are getting pretty well through the plaguey place; it can’t be fur from t’other side.”

“That don’t make any difference; one spot in these woods is as bad as another.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t a pistol,” said Durrell.

“I aint, for I tell you it won’t do to try to use anything like that on them chaps.”

“If there were several it might be different, but the idea of two of us surrendering to one man – it galls me, Bill. I was going to get one of them boys to let me have a revolver, but I don’t want to do it as long as you feel this way.”

“I wouldn’t have it for the world; if I was sure there was but the one, I don’t know as I would object – that is, if you wanted to fight purty bad.”

“You seen only one man, you told me.”

“But that’s no sign there isn’t others near.”

“True. By gracious, Bill!” whispered the New Englander, peering forward and to one side in the gloom; “I believe I did see a person in front of us just then.”

“I didn’t notice him,” replied the driver, trying hard to pierce the gloom; “where is he?”

“Not in the middle of the road, but on the left.”

That was the side on which Durrell was sitting, so that he had a better opportunity than the driver. He believed something moved, but the shadows among the trees were too dense to make sure. The fact that the horses had shown no sign of fear was good reason to suspect Durrell was mistaken, but enough doubt remained to cause misgiving.

They talked so low that the boys behind them could only catch the murmur of their voices, without being able to understand their words. They were in such trepidation themselves that they forgot their recent farce, and, speaking only now and then in whispers, used their eyes and ears for all they were worth.

“If any one stirs, he’ll be shot!”

Some one at the side of the road uttered these words in a low but distinct voice, adding in the same terrible tones:

“Stop that team! There are three of us here, and we’ve got you covered; each one of you get down and stand at the side of the road and hold up your hands! Do as you are told and you won’t get hurt! Try any of your tricks and you’ll be riddled!”

Ethan Durrell was the only one in the stage who spoke. His voice trembled, so that his words were hardly understood.

“Don’t shoot, please, we’ll get down; we won’t do anything if you’ll be easy with us; be keerful them guns don’t go off – ”

“Shut up!” commanded the angry criminal; “we don’t want any talking. Dick, keep your eye on ’em as they come out and don’t stand any nonsense.”

“Do you want me down there, too?” asked the driver, who fancied he ought to be excused.

“You can sit where you are, but don’t forget you’re covered, too, and don’t stir. Come, hurry down, old chap!”

The last remark was addressed to Ethan Durrell, who showed some reluctance to obeying the stern order.

The fact was the New Englander was straining his eyes to the utmost. He saw the tall figure at the side of the highway, just abreast of the horses’ shoulders, but he could not detect any one else. That might not signify anything, as nothing was easier than for several persons to conceal themselves among the trees.

The question the plucky Durrell was asking himself was whether they had been held up by one man or more. If there were more than one it was madness for him to resist, but if there was but one he meant to make a fight, even though he had nothing more formidable than his jack-knife about him.

He hesitated on the step in front, one hand resting on the haunch of the horse and the other grasping the front support of the cover of the coach.

“Don’t wait,” whispered Lenman, “or you’ll make him mad.”

“Hurry up,” added Tom Wagstaff, “and we’ll follow you.”

“Come, I reckon you’d better hurry,” added the figure at the side of the road.

“All right, here I come!”

The New Englander sprang outward, and as he did so he flung both arms about the neck of the rogue and bore him to the earth.

CHAPTER XII – THE VICTIM OF A MISTAKE

Ethan Durrell may have been verdant-looking and peculiar in his ways, but he was one of the pluckiest of men. It was impossible for him to know whether the scamp who held up the stage had any companions or not, until the matter was proven by taking a risk which, if he went the wrong way, was sure to be fatal. With this uncertainty, and without so much as a single weapon at his command, he leaped upon the unsuspecting ruffian, and, throwing both arms around his neck, bore him to the ground.

The attack was wholly unexpected by the fellow, who was standing with loaded revolver pointed toward the stage, ready to fire on the instant he observed anything suspicious. It was necessary for the New Englander to spring down from the front of the coach, but every one except himself thought his intention was to land in front of the other and there submit to the inevitable. The quavering voice of Durrell had convinced his friends that he was as timid as any of them in the presence of real danger.

He closed his arms like a vise, so as to pinion those of the stranger against his sides. The impetus of his own body drove the man backward, and before he could recover Ethan tripped and threw him with such violence that his hat fell off and an exclamation was forced from him.

He uttered fierce execrations and strove desperately to get his arm free that he might use his weapon on his assailant, but there was no possibility of shaking off the embrace of the wiry New Englander, who hung on like grim death.

“Bill, you and the boys watch out for the other fellers,” called Durrell, as he struggled with the man; “if any of them show themselves, shoot! I’ll ’tend to this one.”

At this moment the rogue seemed to remember his friends, and he called:

“Quick, Sam! Shoot him! Don’t miss! Let him have it!”

Even in that excitement Ethan noticed that the fellow’s appeal was to “Sam” instead of the imaginary “Dick,” whom he first addressed. The suspicion that he was alone was strengthened, and the daring New Englander put forth all his power to subdue him.

“It’s no use! I’ve got you and I’m going for you like two houses afire. Stand back, Bill, and don’t interfere; if I can’t bring him to terms, then I’m going to resign and climb a tree.”

Everything was going like a whirlwind. Although Bill Lenman preferred on such occasions as the present to be a non-combatant, he was not the one to stay idle when a friend risked his life for him. He threw the lines over the horses’ backs and sprang down to give what help he could; but in the darkness it was hard to decide in what way he could aid the other. It was evident that Durrell was pushing matters with vigor, and there was no doubt that he expected to bring the rogue to terms.

But it was easy for one in Ethan’s situation to be mistaken. As long as the fellow kept his pistol, the New Englander’s life was in danger. Bill stooped over with the intention of twisting away the weapon, but at the moment of doing so it was discharged, apparently at the driver himself, for the bullet grazed his temple.

Finding himself unable to turn the pistol on his assailant, the ruffian saw a chance of deflecting the muzzle sufficiently to hit the new-comer, as he thought, and he fired, missing him by the narrowest margin conceivable.

Before he could fire again a vigorous kick of the driver sent the weapon flying off in the darkness.

“Keep your hands off!” called Durrell, the moment he discovered his friend was near him; “I can manage him alone. If you want to do anything get ready to tie him.”

That was an easy matter, for stage-drivers are always supplied with extras, and a little skill will enable one to get along without a few straps already in use.

Durrell found his customer tough and powerful. He held him fast for some seconds, but he seemed as tireless as his assailant, and the contest would have been prolonged with the possibility of the fellow working himself loose and darting off among the trees; but fully mindful of this danger, the New Englander had recourse to heroic measures.

He tightened his grip on the fellow’s throat until he gasped for breath. This was repeated to the danger point, though the man continued to struggle as long as he had the power.

But Durrell had no wish to punish him beyond what was necessary. He now called to the driver that he could give some help if he wished. Bill appeared to be bristling with straps and ropes, and was eager to do something, for, truth to tell, he felt ashamed that, after all he had said to the New Englander, the latter had attacked the fellow so bravely, while until this moment the one chiefly concerned had given no help at all. He was anxious to make amends.

Reading the purpose of his captors and knowing that if bound all help was at an end, the robber struggled like a wild cat. He fought, kicked, struck, bit, and shouted to his friends to come to his help, addressing them by names without number, but all in vain; he could not have been more helpless if enclosed by a regiment of men. Bill Lenman was skilled in tying knots, and in less time than it would be supposed the prisoner was so firmly bound that he resembled a mummy, so far as the use of his limbs was concerned.

The moment came when he gave up in despair. He saw the game was over, and it was throwing away his strength to resist further. While he had been so ready with speech, he ceased all utterances when the first knot was secured between his elbows, and resolutely refused to utter another word.

“What are you going to do with him?” asked Lenman, as they stood him like a post on his feet.

“What are we going to do with him? why, take him to Piketon, of course, and deliver him to justice!”

“I know that,” replied Bill, with a laugh, “but I was thinking whether it was best to stow him under the seats or strap him with the trunks on behind; he might enjoy riding with that box.”

“No; we’ll take him inside with us; some of the straps might give way and we would want to be within reach of him. Where’s them boys?” asked Durrell, abruptly; “I forgot all about them while this business was going on.”

The attack and capture of the would-be stage robber consumed very little time, but it gave a chance to our young friends which they quickly turned to good account. They saw but one possible result of the affair, and concluded to make a change of base. It could not be doubted that they had done so, since neither was within sight or call.

Lenman had paid no attention to them, and it cannot be said that he regretted their absence. True, their fare remained uncollected, but that was not the first time he had carried passengers free, and he could stand it again.

The prisoner was deposited with as much care on the middle seat of the stage as though he were a package of dynamite. Durrell placed himself behind him where he could forestall any movement on his part. It would not be supposed that there was any chance of anything of that kind, but Durrell had read and heard enough of such people to understand the danger of trusting to appearances. The exploits of some of the gentry in the way of tying and untying knots would rival the Davenport brothers and other so-called “mediums.” Then, too, Durrell thought, he might have other weapons about him, for no search had been made of his garments. Anyway, it cannot be doubted that the New Englander was wise in maintaining such a vigilant watch of the fellow.

Despite this exciting incident, which threw Bill Lenman’s nerves into a more turbulent state than for years, he could not help smiling as he listened to the efforts of the New Englander to open conversation with the prisoner. Durrell’s curiosity was of the kind that it could not be kept in the background. He was interested in the man and was resolved to learn more about him.

He began in his insinuating way to inquire as to his name, how long he had been in this bad business, what led him to make such a dreadful mistake, where he was born, whether his parents were living, how many brothers and sisters he had, and so on with a list of questions which no one could remember.

But the prisoner never once opened his mouth. He saw nothing was to be gained by so doing, and, though it is not to be supposed he would have told the truth, he did not trouble himself to state fiction.

At the moment of emerging from Black Bear Swamp, Lenman was alarmed by being hailed by a stranger who asked for a ride. This was unusual, for he was now so close to Piketon that the walk would not have taxed any one.

Durrell whispered to the driver to refuse to take him up, for no doubt he was a confederate of the prisoner; but Lenman thought it more dangerous to refuse than to comply. He therefore checked his team, and told the applicant that the town was near by and he was about to indulge in a needless expense; but the stranger cared naught for that, and hastily climbed up in front and seated himself beside the driver, who peered at him as best he could in the gloom, but was unable to make out his features.

“If he tries any tricks,” said Lenman to himself, “I’ll neck him before he knows it; after that chap from New England showed such pluck I aint going to back out of the next rumpus.”

Evidently the driver felt the force of the example, for he kept a close eye on the stranger. Besides this, he thought the occasion warranted a little extra urging of the horses, and he put them to the briskest trot they had shown since leaving Belmar.

Ethan Durrell, as may be supposed, was fully as anxious as the driver, for he was almost certain the man in front was a friend of the prisoner, and if so, there was little to prevent a rescue, since, as I have shown, neither Durrell nor Lenman was armed.

The relief, therefore, was great when the lights of the little town glimmered through the darkness, and shortly after the stage came to a halt in front of the old-fashioned inn, where it had stopped regularly for so many years.

The passenger last picked up, there was reason to believe, had never seen the rogue before. The latter may be dismissed with the remark that, having been caught in the commission of his crime, he received full and merited punishment therefor.