Part 12

A brief space Jack lay dazed, in a heap, head down. But he had been only slightly stunned, and recovering, he righted himself, and found with satisfaction that he had suffered no more than a bruise of the scalp and an elbow.

He had not long to speculate on his whereabouts. From near at hand came a sound of breaking twigs, and a voice.

[Illustration: THE NEXT INSTANT JACK FELT HIMSELF HURLED OUT INTO THE DARKNESS.]

"Here's one," it said.

Only with difficulty did Jack avoid betraying himself. It was the voice of the man "Watts"!

"What is it?" inquired a second voice.

Through a crack a light appeared. "Silk," announced Watts.

"A good weight, too," he added, tipping the box. "Catch hold."

The packing-case was caught up; and rocked and jolted, Jack felt himself carried for what he judged a full quarter-mile. As the men slowed up a gleam of moonlight showed through the knot-hole, and peering forth he discovered a tree-lined road, and a two-horse wagon.

Sliding the box into the rear of the wagon, and well to the front, the men disappeared. The wait that followed was to Jack the most trying experience of the evening. Had the detective safely landed? Was there not a possibility of the larger box having been shattered? Or sufficiently broken to reveal its true contents, and disclose the plot to the freight-robbers? And what then would be his fate?

These and many other disquieting possibilities passed through Jack's mind, causing him several times as the minutes went by to finger the hooks and buttons which would permit of his escape. Finally snapping twigs, then heavy, stumbling footfalls allayed his anxiety, and the two men reappeared, staggering under the box containing the officer.

With difficulty the unsuspecting thieves raised the heavy packing-case to the tail-board of the wagon.

"It won't go in," said Watts' companion.

"Push this way a little," Watts directed.

"I can't--_Look out!_" There was a scramble, and the box crashed to the ground. At the same moment came a muffled exclamation, and Jack caught his breath. Was it the detective? If so, had the others overheard it?

With relief, however, he heard Watts, who apparently was the chief of the gang, call his companion a mule, and order him to catch hold again. The box this time was successfully slid aboard; and at once the two men climbed to the seat, and the wagon rumbled off.

As they rattled along over a badly-kept road Jack gave as close attention to the passing scenery as his limited view permitted, in order that he might be able to find his way back to the railroad if it should prove necessary. This did not promise to be difficult. On either side the dim moonlight showed an unbroken succession of trees, and also that the robbers were continuing in one direction--apparently due south.

For what seemed at least two miles they proceeded. Then appeared a small clearing, and with a quickening of the pulse Jack felt the wagon slow up and turn in. They were at their destination.

A forbiddingly suitable place for its purpose it was. Standing out darkly on the crest of a rise two hundred yards back, was a low shanty-like house, in which appeared a single gleam of light. Between, to the road, stretched a desolate moonlit prospect of stumps, decaying logs and brush-piles. On either side the woods formed a towering wall of blackness.

Rocking and pitching, the wagon made its way up a rutty, corkscrew lane. They reached the house, and the door opened, and a tall, unpleasant-looking woman appeared and greeted the men.

"Good luck, eh?" she remarked briefly.

"Sure. Don't we always have good luck?" responded Watts. "Is supper ready?"

"Yes. You-uns better come in before you opens them boxes," said the woman.

"All right."

Passing on, the wagon came at last to a halt before a good-sized barn. The two men leaped to the ground, and while one of them opened the large side doors the other proceeded to back the wagon to it.

As the two freight thieves then unhooked, and led their horses to the stable, there came to Jack's ears a welcome tapping. "Are you all right, lad?" whispered the detective.

"Yes, O K, sir, though a bit nervous," Jack acknowledged.

"Keep cool and we'll soon have them where we want them. As they are going in to supper first we'll not leave the boxes till then. That'll give us just the opportunity we want to look around and arrange things nicely.

"Sh! Here they come!"

"Catch hold," said Watts. Jack heard the detective's box slide out, an "Up!" from Watts, the staggering steps of the men across the barn floor, and a thud as the box was dropped.

At what then immediately followed Jack for a moment doubted his senses. It was the voice of Watts saying quietly and coldly, "Now my clever friend in the box, kindly come out!"

They _had_ heard Boyle's exclamation when the box had fallen!

Scarcely breathing, Jack listened. Would the detective give himself up without a--

There was a muffled report, instantly a second, louder, then silence.

"Will you come out now?" demanded Watts.

To Jack's horror there was no response. Watts repeated the order, then called on his companion for an axe, and there followed the sound of blows and splintering wood.

"Now haul him out."

Terror-stricken, Jack listened. Suddenly there came the sound of a scramble, then of a terrific struggle.

The detective was all right! It had been only a ruse! Uttering a suppressed hurrah Jack began hurriedly undoing the fastenings of his door, to get out to the detective's assistance. Before he had opened it, however, there was the sound of a heavy fall, and a triumphant shout from Watts. Promptly Jack paused, debated a moment, and restored the fastenings. He would wait. Perhaps they would bind Boyle and leave him in the barn.

A moment later Jack regretted his decision. Through the knot-hole he saw the detective led by, his arms bound behind him, and one of the freight-robbers on either side.

The voices and footsteps died away in the direction of the house, and Jack fell to wondering what he should do. Before he had decided he heard the voices of the men returning. Apprehensively he waited. Had they any suspicion of his presence in the second packing-case?

While he held his breath and grimly clutched his revolver, they slid his box to the rear of the wagon, lifted it out, and deposited it on the barn floor.

"Going to have a look at it? Make sure it hasn't some live stock in it too?" inquired the second man.

Jack's heart stood still.

"No; it's all right," declared Watts confidently. "We'll have supper first." And to Jack's unspeakable relief they passed out and closed the barn door. Listening until from the house had come the slamming of a door, Jack once more freed the fastenings within the box, slipped the board aside, again listened a moment, and crawled forth.

As he stood stretching his cramped limbs, he glanced about. A tier of what looked like bolts of cloth in the moonlight beneath one of the barn windows caught his eye. He stepped over.

It was silk--silk such as he had seen in the warehouse at Claxton!

Instantly there came to Jack a startling suggestion. As quickly he decided to act upon it. "They may never 'catch on,'" he told himself delightedly, "and in any case it will give me a good start back for the railroad, for help."

Glancing from the barn window, to make sure all was quiet in the direction of the house, he drew his box into the moonlight, took out the parcel containing the telegraph instruments, and proceeded to remove the hooks and buttons, and all other signs of the "door." Then quickly he filled the box with bolts of silk from the pile beneath the window.

That done, he found a hammer and nails, and muffling the hammer with his handkerchief, as quietly as possible nailed the boards into place. Triumphantly he slid the box to its former position on the floor.

"I think that will fool you, Mr. Watts," he said with a smile, and catching up the telegraph instruments he turned to the door.

On the threshold he started back. The two men, and two others, were returning from the house.

In alarm Jack looked about for a way of escape. Across the barn was a smaller door. He ran for it on tiptoe, darted through, and found himself in the stable. Passing quietly on to the outer door, which the cracks and moonlight revealed, he waited until the four men had entered the main barn, then slipped forth, and keeping in the shadows, ran toward the house.

[Illustration: HE SAW THE DETECTIVE LED BY, HIS ARMS BOUND BEHIND HIM.]

A beam of light streamed from one of the rear windows. Jack made for it, and cautiously approaching, peered within. The woman he had seen at the door was at a table, washing dishes, her back toward him. And just beyond, facing him, and bound hand and foot in a big arm-chair, was the detective.

For some minutes Jack tried in vain to attract the officer's attention. Then the woman obligingly stepped into the pantry with some dishes, and quickly Jack gave a single tap on the window-pane. Boyle looked up instantly, started, smiled, then nodded his head in the direction of the railroad. Jack held up the parcel containing the telegraph instruments, the detective nodded again, and in a moment Jack was off.

It was an exhausting run over the rough, little-used road, now darkened by the overhanging trees; but at length Jack recognized the point at which he had been carried from the woods, and turning in, soon found himself at the railroad.

Hurrying to the nearest telegraph pole, he swarmed up to the cross-tree, and quickly filed through the wire on one side of the glass insulator. The broken wire fell jangling to the rails. Connecting an end of the wire he had brought with him to the wire on the other side of the pin, Jack slid to the ground, made the connections with the instrument, and the relay clicked closed.

At once someone on the wire sent, "Who had it open? What did you say?"

"Alex!" exclaimed Jack, at once recognizing the sending; and was about to break in when the instrument clicked, "17 just coming--CX."

"Claxton, and 17! Just what we want!" Quickly interrupting, Jack sent, "CX--Hold 17! Hold her!"

Then, "To X--This is Jack, Al. I'm in the woods about four miles from Claxton. We found the freight thieves, but they have Boyle prisoner. Ask the chief to have 17 take on a posse at CX and rush them here. I'll wait here, and lead them back. If they are quick they'll capture the whole gang."

"OK! OK! Good for you," shot back Alex. The wire was silent a moment, then Jack heard the order go on to Claxton as desired.

Twenty-five minutes later, waiting in the darkness on the track, Jack saw the headlight of the fast-coming freight. The engineer, on the lookout, discovered him, pulled up, and a moment after Jack was off through the woods followed by two officers and several of the train crew.

When they reached the farm, lights were still moving about in the barn. Stealthily the party made for it, and surrounded it.

"How would you like to lead the way in, Jack?" whispered the sheriff as they paused before the door. "That would be only fair, after the trick Watts played on you."

Jack caught at the idea delightedly, and all being ready, boldly threw open the barn door and entered with drawn revolver, followed by the sheriff.

The four occupants were so completely taken by surprise that for a moment they stood immovable about a box of dry-goods they had been repacking.

"How do you do, Mr. Watts," said Jack, smiling. "This is my friend the sheriff, and the barn is surrounded. I think you would be foolish not to give up."

"Yes, hands up!" crisply ordered the sheriff. And slowly the four pairs of hands went into the air, and the entire balance of the long-successful gang of freight thieves were prisoners.

It was Jack himself who rushed off to the house and freed Detective Boyle. A half hour later, with one of the robbers' own wagons filled with a great quantity of recovered stolen goods, the sheriff escorted his prisoners back to the railroad, and before daylight they were in the jail at Eastfield.

Jack received considerable attention because of his part in the capture, and the affair still forms one of the popular yarns among trainmen on that division of the Middle Western.

XV

THE DUDE OPERATOR

Alex Ward, like most vigorous, manly boys of his type, had a fixed dislike for anything approaching foppishness, especially in other boys. Consequently when on reporting at the Exeter office one evening he was introduced to Wilson Jennings, Alex treated him with but little more than necessary courtesy. For the newcomer, an operator but little older than himself, was distinctly a "dude"--from his patent-leather shoes and polka-dotted stockings to his red-and-yellow banded white straw hat. His carefully-pressed suit was the very latest thing in light checked gray, he wore a collar which threatened to envelope his ears, and his white tie was of huge dimensions. Also he possessed the fair pink-and-white complexion of a girl.

Alex was not alone in his derisive attitude toward the stranger. Shortly following the appearance of the night chief Mr. Jennings nodded everyone a good-evening, and departed, and immediately there was a general roar of laughter in the operating-room.

"Where did he fall from?" "Whose complexion powder is he advertising?" "Did you get onto his picture socks?" were some of the remarks bandied about.

When the chief announced that the new operator was from the east, and was being sent to the little foothills tank-station of Bonepile, there was a fresh outburst of hilarity.

"Why, that cowboy outfit near there will string him up to the tank spout," declared the operator on whose wire Bonepile was located. "It's the toughest proposition on the wire."

"On the quiet, that is just why Jordan is sending him," the night chief said. "Not to have him strung up, that is, but to put him in the way of 'finding himself,' so to speak."

"He'll certainly 'find himself' there, then--if there's anything left to find when the ranch crew get through," laughed the operator. "I'd give five real dollars to see that show, and walk back."

"At that, you _might_ have to walk back, if you wagered your money on the outcome," responded the chief more gravely, turning to his desk. "Clothes don't make a man--neither do they un-make one. The 'Dude' may surprise us yet."

Whether the outcome of his appointment to the little watering station was to be a surprise or no, there was no doubt of Wilson Jennings' surprise when the following morning he alighted from the train at Bonepile, and as the train sped on, awoke to the realization that he was entirely alone. Blankly he gazed at the little red-brown "drygoods-box" depot, the water-tank, the hills to the west, and to north, south and east the limitless stretching prairie. He had never imagined anything like this when he had decided on giving up a good position in the east to taste "some adventure" in the great west.

However, here he was; and picking up his two suitcases, the boy made his way in to the tiny operating-room, and on into the bunk-kitchen-living-room behind. For here, "a hundred miles from anywhere," the operator's board and lodging was provided by the railroad.

Early that evening Wilson was sitting somewhat disconsolately at the telegraph-room window when he was startled by a loud whoop. There was a second, then a rush of hoofs, and a party of cowboys came into view.

It was the "welcoming committee" of the Bar-O ranch, the "outfit" referred to by the operator at Exeter.

With a final whoop the cowmen thundered up to the station platform, and dismounted. Muskoka Jones, a huge, heavily-moustached ranchman over six feet in height, was first to reach the open window. Diving within to the waist, he brought a bottle down on the instrument table with a crash.

"Pardner, welcome to our city!" he shouted.

The response should have been instantaneous and hearty. Instead there was a strange quiet.

The following Bar-O's faltered, and exchanged glances. Surely the Western had not at last "fallen down" on its first obligation at Bonepile! For since the coming of the rails they had regarded the station operator as a sort of social adjunct to the ranch--the keeper of an open house of hospitality, their daily paper, the final learned authority on all matters of politics and sport. And if this latest change of operators had brought them--

Muskoka spoke again, and the worst was realized.

"Well, you gal-faced little dude!"

The cowmen crowded forward, and peering over Muskoka's board shoulders, studied Wilson from head to foot with speechless scorn.

Muskoka settled forward on his elbows.

"Are you a real operator?" he inquired.

In a voice that sounded foolish even to himself Wilson responded in the affirmative.

"Actooal, real, male operator?"

The cluster of bronzed faces guffawed loudly.

"But y' don't play kiards, do you?" Muskoka asked incredulously. "Now I bet you don't. Or smoke? Or chew? Or any of them wicked--"

"Here are some cigarettes the other man left." Hopefully the boy extended the package--to have it snatched from his hand, scramblingly emptied, and the box flipped ceilingward.

In falling the box brought further trouble. It struck something on the wall which emitted a hollow thud, and glancing up the cowmen espied Wilson's new, brilliantly-banded hat. In a trice Muskoka's long arm had secured it, with the common inspiration the cluster of faces withdrew; the hat sailed high in the air, there was an ear-splitting rattle of shots, and the shattered remnant was returned to Wilson with ceremony.

"There--all proper millinaried dee la Bonepile," said Muskoka. "An' don't mention it."

"Now give me that white-washed fence you have around your ears." The boy shrank farther back in his chair, then suddenly turned and reached for the telegraph key. In a moment the big cowman's pistol was out.

"Back in your chair! Give me that white fence!" he commanded.

Trembling, Wilson removed his collar and handed it over. The cowman stepped back and calmly proceeded to shoot a row of holes in it.

"There," he announced, returning it, "much better. That's Bonepile fashion. Put it on."

Meekly Wilson obeyed, and the circle of cowmen roared at the result.

"Now," proceeded Muskoka, "that coat of yours is nice. Very nice. But I think it'd look better inside-out. Try it."

Wilson again turned desperately toward the key, the cowman banged on the table with his pistol, and slowly the boy complied. And a few minutes after, on a further command, he emerged from the doorway--in shattered hat, perforated collar, ridiculously turned coat, and with trousers rolled to his knees--a spectacle that set the cowboys staggering and shouting about the platform in convulsions of laughter.

In fact the result was so pleasing that after enjoying it to the full, the ranchmen decided to carry the hazing no further, and only requesting of Wilson that he wave his hat and give "three cheers for the citizens of Bonepile," they mounted their ponies, and scampered away.

Hastening in to the telegraph instruments, Wilson began frantically calling Exeter. Before X had responded, however, the boy paused, and sat back in his chair, a new light coming into his eyes.

"Yes, sir; I'll wager they sent them down here to do this," he said aloud.

Suddenly he arose, and began removing the turned coat. "I'll stick it out here for two weeks--if they lynch me!" declared the "dude" grimly.

It was early Wednesday evening of a week later that the monthly gold shipment came down from the Red Valley mines. The consignment was an unusually large one, and in view of the youth of the new operator the superintendent wired a request that Big Bill Smith, the driver of the mines express, remain at the station until the treasure was safely aboard train.

On reading the message, however, Big Bill flatly refused. "Why, it's the night of Dan Haggerty's dance," he pointed out indignantly. "Doesn't the superintendent know that?"

"The superintendent didn't--and didn't care," was the response to the wired protest. "The driver was supposed to remain at all times. It was an old understanding."

Understanding or not, Big Bill declined to remain, and stormed out the door, announcing that he would get someone down from the Bar-O ranch. Half an hour later Muskoka Jones appeared.

"Good evening. I'm sorry it was necessary to trouble you, sir," apologized Wilson.

"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.

"Hello, 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.