'We are sure up against it. Think now, and think quick.'
'First, I'll try to fix the boy. If that won't work ... we'll kidnap him. Then we'll take no chances with Leslie. There's a cool two hundred an' fifty thousand in this deal for us, an' we're goin' to get it.'
With that Buell went into his office and closed the door; the other man, Stockton, walked briskly down the platform. I could not resist peeping from my hiding-place as he passed. He was tall and had a red beard, which would enable me to recognize him if we met.
I waited there for some little time. Then I saw that by squeezing between two plies of lumber could reach the other side of the platform. When I reached the railing I climbed over, and, with the help of braces and posts, soon got to where I could drop down. Once on the ground I ran along under the platform until I saw a lane that led to the street. My one thought was to reach the cabin where the Negro cook stayed and ask him if Dick Leslie had come to camp. If he had not arrived, then I intended to make a bee-line for my mustang.
VI. Dick Leslie, Ranger
Which end of the street I entered I had no idea. The cabins were all alike, and in my hurry I would have passed the cook's shack had it not been for the sight of a man standing in the door. That stalwart figure I would have known anywhere.
'Dick!' I cried, rushing at him.
What Dick's welcome was I did not hear, but judging from the grip he put on my shoulders and then on my hands, he was glad to see me.
'Ken, blessed if I'd have known you,' he said, shoving me back at arm's-length. 'Let's have a look at you... . Grown I say, but you're a husky lad!'
While he was looking at me I returned the scrutiny with interest. Dick had always been big, but now he seemed wider and heavier. Among these bronzed Westerners he appeared pale, but that was only on account of his fair skin.
'Ken, didn't you get my letter–the one telling you not to come West yet a while?'
'No,' I replied, blankly. 'The last one I got was in May–about the middle. I have it with me. You certainly asked me to come then. Dick, don't you want me–now?'
Plain it was that my friend felt uncomfortable; he shifted from one foot to another, and a cloud darkened his brow. But his blue eyes burned with a warm light as he put his hand on my shoulder.
'Ken, I'm glad to see you,' he said, earnestly. 'It's like getting a glimpse of home. But I wrote you not to come. Conditions have changed– there's something doing here–I'll–'
'You needn't explain, Dick,' I replied, gravely. 'I know. Buell and–' I waved my hand from the sawmill to the encircling slash.
Dick's face turned a fiery red. I believed that was the only time Dick Leslie ever failed to look a fellow in the eye.
'Ken! ... You're on,' he said, recovering his composure. 'Well, wait till you hear– Hello! here's Jim Williams, my pardner.'
A clinking of spurs accompanied a soft step.
'Jim, here's Ken Ward, the kid pardner I used to have back in the States,' said Dick. 'Ken, you know Jim.'
If ever I knew anything by heart it was what Dick had written me about this Texan, Jim Williams.
'Ken, I shore am glad to see you,' drawled Jim, giving my hand a squeeze that I thought must break every bone in it.
Though Jim Williams had never been described to me, my first sight of him fitted my own ideas. He was tall and spare; his weather-beaten face seemed set like a dark mask; only his eyes moved, and they had a quivering alertness and a brilliancy that made them hard to look into. He wore a wide sombrero, a blue flannel shirt with a double row of big buttons, overalls, top-boots with very high heels, and long spurs. A heavy revolver swung at his hip, and if I had not already known that Jim Williams had fought Indians and killed bad men, I should still have seen something that awed me in the look of him.
I certainly felt proud to be standing with those two rangers, and for the moment Buell and all his crew could not have daunted me.
'Hello! what's this?' inquired Dick, throwing back my coat; and, catching sight of my revolver, he ejaculated: 'Ken Ward!'
'Wal, Ken, if you-all ain't packin' a gun!' said Jim, in his slow, careless drawl. 'Dick, he shore is!'
It was now my turn to blush.
'Yes, I've got a gun,' I replied, 'and I ought to have had it the other night.'
'How so?' inquired Dick, quickly.
It did not take me long to relate the incident of the Mexican.
Dick looked like a thunder-cloud, but Jim swayed and shook with laughter.
'You knocked him off the roof? Wal, thet shore is dee-lightful. It shore is!'
'Yes; and, Dick,' I went on, breathlessly, 'the Greaser followed me, and if I hadn't missed the trail, I don't know what would have happened. Anyway, he got here first.'
'The Greaser trailed you?' interrupted Dick, sharply.
When I replied he glanced keenly at me. 'How do you know?'
'I suspected it when I saw him with two men in the forest. But now I know it.'
'How?'
'I beard Buell tell Stockton he had put the Greaser on my trail.'
'Buell–Stockton!' exclaimed Dick. 'What'd they have to do with the Greaser?'
'I met Buell on the train. I told him I had come West to study forestry. Buell's afraid I'll find out about this lumber steal, and he wants to shut my mouth.'
Dick looked from me to Jim, and Jim slowly straitened his tall form. For a moment neither spoke. Dick's white face caused me to look away from him. Jim put a hand on my arm.
'Ken, you shore was lucky; you shore was.'
'I guess he doesn't know how lucky,' added Dick, somewhat huskily. 'Come on, we'll look up the Mexican.'
'It shore is funny how bad I want to see thet Greaser.'
Dick's hard look and tone were threatening enough, yet they did not affect me so much as the easy, gay manner of the Texan. Little cold quivers ran over me, and my knees knocked together. For the moment my animosity toward the Mexican vanished, and with it the old hunger to be in the thick of Wild Western life. I was afraid that I was going to see a man killed without being able to lift a hand to prevent it.
The rangers marched me between them down the street and into the corner saloon. Dick held me half behind him with his left hand while Jim sauntered ahead. Strangest of all the things that had happened was the sudden silencing of the noisy crowd.
The Mexican was not there. His companions, Bud and Bill, as Buell had called them, were sitting at a table, and as Jim Williams walked into the center of the room they slowly and gradually rose to their feet. One was a swarthy man with evil eyes and a scar on his cheek; the other had a brick-red face and a sandy mustache with a vicious curl. Neither seemed to be afraid, only cautious.
'We're all lookin' for thet Greaser friend of yourn,' drawled Jim. 'I shore want to see him bad.'
'He's gone, Williams,' replied one. 'Was in somethin' of a rustle, an' didn't leave no word.'
'Wal, I reckon he's all we're lookin' for this pertickler minnit.'
Jim spoke in a soft, drawling voice, and his almost expressionless tone seemed to indicate pleasant indifference; still, no one could have been misled by it, for the long, steady gaze he gave the men and his cool presence that held the room quiet meant something vastly different. No reply was offered. Bud and Bill sat down, evidently to resume their card-playing. The uneasy silence broke to a laugh, then to subdued voices, and finally the clatter and hum began again. Dick led me outside, where we were soon joined by Jim.
'He's holed up,' suggested Dick.
'Shore. I don't take no stock in his hittin' the trail. He's layin' low.'
'Let's look around a bit, anyhow.'
Dick took me back to the cook's cabin and, bidding me remain inside, strode away. I beard footsteps so soon after his departure that I made certain he had returned, but the burly form which blocked the light in the cabin
