The Young Forester by Zane Grey (read any book txt) 📗

It chanced that as I lay on my side my eye caught a gleam of light through a little ragged hole in the matting of pine branches. Part of the interior of the cabin, the doorway, and some space outside were plainly visible. The thud of horses had given place to snorts, and then came a flopping of saddles and packs on the ground. “Any water hyar?” asked a gruff voice I recognized as Bill's. “Spring right thar,” replied a voice I knew to be Bud's.

“You onery old cayuse, stand still!”

From that I gathered Herky was taking the saddle off his horse.

“Here, Leslie, I'll untie you—if you'll promise not to bolt.”

That voice was Buell's. I would have known it among a thousand. And Dick was still a prisoner.

“Bolt! If you let me loose I'll beat your fat head off!” replied Dick. “Ha! A lot you care about my sore wrists. You're weakening, Buell, and you know it. You've got a yellow streak.”

“Shet up!” said Herky, in a low, sharp tone. A silence followed. “Buell, look hyar in the trail. Tracks! Goin' in an' comin' out.”

“How old are they?”

“I'll bet a hoss they ain't an hour old.”

“Somebody's usin' the cabin, eh?”

The men then fell to whispering, and I could not understand what was said, but I fancied they were thinking only of me. My mind worked fast. Buell and his fellows had surely not run across Hiram Bent. Had the old hunter deserted me? I flouted such a thought. It was next to a certainty that he had seen the lumbermen, and for reasons best known to himself had not returned to the cabin. But he was out there somewhere among the pines, and I did not think any of those ruffians was safe.

Then I heard stealthy footsteps approaching. Soon I saw the Mexican slipping cautiously to the door. He peeped within. Probably the interior was dark to him, as it had been to me. He was not a coward, for he stepped inside.

At that instant there was a clinking sound, a rush and a roar, and a black mass appeared to hurl itself upon the Mexican. He went down with a piercing shriek. Then began a fearful commotion. Screams and roars mingled with the noise of combat. I saw a whirling cloud of dust on the cabin floor. The cub had jumped on the Mexican. What an unmerciful beating he was giving that Greaser! I could have yelled out in my glee. I had to bite my tongue to keep from urging on my docile little pet bear. Greaser surely thought he had fallen in with his evil spirit, for he howled to the saints to save him.

Herky-Jerky was the only one of his companions brave enough to start to help him.

“The cabin's full of b'ars!” he yelled.

At his cry the bear leaped out of the cloud of dust, and shot across the threshold like black lightning. In his onslaught upon Greaser he had broken his halter. Herky-Jerky stood directly in his path. I caught only a glimpse, but it served to show that Herky was badly scared. The cub dove at Herky, under him, straight between his legs like a greased pig, and, spilling him all over the trail, sped on out of sight. Herky raised himself, and then he sat there, red as a lobster, and bawled curses while he made his huge revolver spurt flame on flame.

I could not see the other men, but their uproarious mirth could have been heard half a mile away. When it dawned upon Herky, he was so furious that he spat at them like an angry cat and clicked his empty revolver.

Then Greaser lurched out of the door. I got a glimpse of him, and, for a wonder, was actually sorry for him. He looked as if he had been through a threshing-machine.

“Haw! haw! Ho! ho!” roared the merry lumbermen.

Then they trooped into the cabin. Buell headed the line, and Herky, sullenly reloading his revolver, came last. At first they groped around in the dim light, stumbling over everything. Part of the time they were in the light space near the door, and the rest I could not see them. I scarcely dared to breathe. I felt a creepy chill, and my eyesight grew dim.

“Who does this stuff belong to, anyhow?” Buell was saying. “An' what was thet bear doin' in here?”

“He was roped up—hyar's the hitch,” answered Bud.

“An' hyar's a rifle—Winchester—ain't been used much. Buell, it's thet kid's!”

I heard rapid footsteps and smothered exclamations.

“Take it from me, you're right!” ejaculated Buell. “We jest missed him. Herky, them tracks out there? Somebody's with this boy—who?”

“It's Jim Williams,” put in Dick Leslie, cool-voiced and threatening.

The little stillness that followed his words was broken by Buell.

“Naw! 'Twasn't Williams. You can't bluff this bunch, Leslie. By your own words Williams is lookin' for us, an' if he's lookin' for anybody I know he's lookin' for 'em. See!”

“Buell, the kid's fell in with old Bent, the b'ar hunter,” said Bill. “Thet accounts fer the cub. Bent's allus got cubs, an' kittens, an' sich. An' I'll tell you, he ain't no better friend of ourn than Jim Williams.”

“I'd about as soon tackle Williams as Bent,” put in Bud.

Buell shook his fist. “What luck the kid has! But I'll get him, take it from me! Now, what's best to do?”

“Buell, the game's going against you,” said Dick Leslie. “The penitentiary is where you'll finish. You'd better let me loose. Old Bent will find Jim Williams, and then you fellows will be up against it. There's going to be somebody killed. The best thing for you to do is to let me go and then cut out yourself.”

Buell breathed as heavily as a porpoise, and his footsteps pounded hard.

“Leslie, I'm seein' this out—understand? When Bud rode down to the mill an' told me the kid had got away I made up my mind to ketch him an' shet his mouth—one way or another. An' I'll do it. Take thet from me!”

“Bah!” sneered Dick. “You're sca'red into the middle of next week right now.... Besides, if you do ketch Ken it won't do you any good-now!”

“What?”