Kiddie the Scout

by Robert Leighton

Kiddie saw the mustang rear on its hind legs.

"Jim's hit!" cried a voice from the wagon. "He's hit bad."

"Alf'll look after him," called Nick, thrusting a new clip of cartridges into his gun. "Th' rest o' you keep on shootin'. Keep a watch on the side slopes. Some of 'em's liable ter sneak past."

Some of the dismounted Indians now tried to work round to the flanks, crawling like snakes through the grass and taking shelter behind bush and boulder. But the sharp-eyed frontiersmen quickly detected them, and none got through.

Kiddie saw this new danger, however, and, taking Nick's advice, he leapt on his waiting pony and rode back to the rear, to assure himself that Rube and the horses were safe.

Rube was faithfully at his post, minding the horses and watching the back trail, but fretting sorely at being kept away from the excitement of the fighting.

"All right," nodded Kiddie, riding up to him. "Drive the horses back there, to the shelter of the ravine, where the stream comes down. Give them a drink. They'll be glad of it. And—stop there with them. I'll give you a sign when I want you to bring them along."

It seemed to Rube then that Kiddie wanted to get him out of the way, and he wondered at Kiddie's reasons for keeping him from participating in the battle.

Young though he was, and he was only fourteen, Rube considered himself quite capable of handling a gun and looking after himself. And he wasn't a coward. Why could he not be allowed even to look on from a safe shelter?

Kiddie's reasons, nevertheless, were good. He was thinking less of the boy, whom he implicitly trusted, than of his horses, and of a new peril which at this moment seemed to threaten the whole of his company.

Just as he had halted beside Rube he had turned his glance back along the narrow valley. Far off in the blue distance he had seen a thin film of dust rising; or was it smoke? He was not certain at first, but when Rube had gone he looked again in the same direction, and he said to himself in his old drawling Western way—

"'Tain't smoke. Guess it's just dust. An' it's travellin' this ways along the trail. But a cloud of dust same as that must ha' bin turned up by more'n one gallopin' pony. Dozens an' dozens, more like. Guess it's Injuns—a second detachment of Broken Feather's forces—rustlin' along with th' idea of nippin' us in 'tween two fires. A cute idea; but I don't notion that it's goin' ter come off. They're just a bit too late; didn't calculate on our comin' along so quick, I guess."

The fighting had slackened considerably when Kiddie returned to his loophole at the front of the leading wagon. Nick Undrell was still there. He was rigidly looking along the sights of his rifle, hesitating to fire.

"You're aimin' at a dead pony, Nick," Kiddie pointed out.

"I ain't doin' nothin' so fullish," returned Nick. "It's the skunk lyin' doggo behind it that I'm interested in. Broken Feather's thar, sure; and he ain't dead; he ain't even wounded. He's 'bout as much alive an' alert 's ever he was in his nat'ral. But his ammunition's all spent, an' he's jus' waitin' his chance ter quit. He knows I've got th' bead on him. Soon's I shift my gun, he'll do a vamoose, slick, an' his braves along of him."

"Then shift your gun," commanded Kiddie. "Quit shootin' an let's git outer this. Thar's a reinforcement of Injuns comin' down along the trail."

"Eh?" Nick quietly rested his gun on the footboard and drew stealthily back from it. "You watch him, then. When he's gone we'll make a move."

Kiddie watched, and witnessed a curious happening which gave him a vivid insight into the character of the young Sioux chief.

Within a minute after Nick had stepped back out of sight Broken Feather crawled swiftly out from the protecting barrier of the dead mustang and took cover behind a boulder.

Quite near to the same boulder a wounded Indian was vainly trying to mount his pony. The pony was restive and evidently frightened. The Indian, failing to mount, took hold of the pony's long, trailing halter and allowed the animal to drag him away.

Just at this point Broken Feather darted out from behind the boulder, making straight for the pony and the wounded brave.

Kiddie, still watching, naturally supposed that the chief was about to help the wounded man to mount, as any civilized soldier would have done. But this was not Broken Feather's way. Seizing the bight of the halter, he snatched it from the other's grip, while at the same time he struck the wounded Indian a fierce blow with his closed fist, full in the face, which sent him reeling to the ground.

Without a backward glance of pity or excuse, Broken Feather himself leapt to the pony's back, urged the animal to a gallop, and sped off, rallying his remaining warriors to a precipitate retreat.

"Coward and cur!" murmured Kiddie between his teeth. And calling a hurried command to Nick Undrell, he strode out to give help to the wounded Indian, carrying him on his shoulder to one of the wagons.

The Indian's nose was broken. Kiddie fixed it into shape with sticking plaster. He also extracted a bullet from the man's back and bandaged the wound.

"We'll leave him lyin' here on the trail," he decided. "His pards 'll look after him and the others that are wounded, when they come along. They'll soon know what's happened when they scout around. Guess they'll not be eager t' follow us up."

"Well, this outfit o' yourn hasn't suffered anyways serious," observed Nick Undrell, when all was ready for a new start. "I've had a look round, an', barrin' a few splinters took off the wagons, an' some holes pierced in the canvas covers, we've not taken a whole lot of harm. Jim Thurston here's th' only one as got badly hit. That broken bone in his arm 'll take a consid'rable time ter git well. It'll be weeks 'fore Jim kin ride again in the Pony Express."

Kiddie was giving a professional bandaging to Thurston's wound.

"You a rider in the Pony Express business, then, Jim?" he asked.

"Bin at it fer a couple of years," Jim answered. "That's what I'm worrying about. I'm figurin' as they'll fire me, slick, fer takin' on a job like this. 'Tain't in th' agreement that I sh'd go foolin' around after hostile Injuns in my off time. I shall be sacked, sure. An' me with a wife an' family, too."

"No need to worry, Jim," Kiddie assured the man. "You'll not get the sack, and your wife and family won't suffer any. You got hurt in my service, and I will see you through. As for the Pony Express ridin', I will even take on the job myself for a spell, until you're better. Does that comfort you any?"

Thurston shook his head and smiled.

"You couldn't do it," he said. "You, a English gentleman—a titled lord, I'm told. You couldn't do it. You gotter be some horseman 'fore you kin ride in the Pony Express. You gotter be brought up to it. 'Tain't no fancy amatoor job."

"Here, Jim, old pard," interposed Nick Undrell. "You'd best dry up. You dunno who you'se talkin' to, sure. His lordship rid in the Pony Express 'fore ever you shoved your toes in stirrups. He was the slickest Express rider along the whole trail. Thar wasn't a skilfuller horseman than Kiddie between Saint Joseph an' Sacramento. Couldn't do it, says you! Well, I should smile!"

"Kiddie, d'ye say? Kiddie? Gee! You never told me that! Course I knows the name o' Kiddie—same's I knows the name of the President of th' United States. Seems I bin makin' a fool o' myself, eh? Reckon it's up ter me t' apologize fer mistakin' him for a English lord; though some crooked-tongued skunk sure told me he was such. Kiddie, eh? Gee!"

"Say, Kiddie, was you plumb serious when you said you'd take Jim's turn in the Pony Express?" questioned Rube Carter, riding again at Kiddie's side.

"Sure," Kiddie smiled in answer. "I'm just hankerin' to be at the old job again, ridin' at top speed with the mail bags, same as I used ter do. Same as your father did. Your father lost his life in the business, you know. Was attacked by Injuns. And Eye-of-the-Moon—Broken Feather's father—went off with his scalp."

Rube was silent for a while.

"Didn't know 'bout the scalpin'," he said presently. "Didn't know as it were Eye-of-the-Moon as done it. Then, in that case, Broken Feather's father killed my father?"

"That's so. Guess you've got no occasion ter be anyways friendly with Broken Feather."

"Pity you allowed him t' escape," said Rube.

"Well, you see, Rube, it wouldn't have been gentlemanly to shoot at a man who was not armed," explained Kiddie, "and he was as good as unarmed when he had spent his last cartridge. You've got to be a gentleman, even when fighting a savage enemy. Yes," he went on, "I shall take a turn with the Express, if they'll let me; and I still have my licence. As for poor Jim Thurston, we will leave him at Lavender Ranch. Isa's sister, Martha Blagg, will look after him."

Kiddie of Birkenshaw's had always been well loved at Lavender, and he was warmly welcomed when his outfit halted at the gate. At his request Martha willingly undertook to nurse the wounded man until he should be well enough to return to his own home.

"My!" she exclaimed, at sight of the three heavily-loaded wagons. "My! Whatever are you goin' ter do with all that furniture? Goin' ter set up housekeepin' on your own account? Whatever have ye' gotten in all them Saratoga trunks?"

"All sorts of fixin's an' fancies," Kiddie told her. "Among other things, if you're hankerin' to know, thar's a heap of dress material that I brought all the way from London fer Martha Blagg. Likewise a dinky pair of shoes with silver buckles, and heels on 'em that'll make you inches taller'n you are now. I reckoned you'd rather have the cloth an' linen an' stuff than English hens or ducks an' sich farm truck, that wasn't just convenient ter bring along. I notioned ter bring you a couple of milch cows—pretty as antelopes, they was—but I couldn't manage 'em. Hosses is diff'rent. The brown mare with the white blaze up her face is fer Isa. Guess we may's well take her to the stable right now. He'll find her when he comes home. I'll send along the other fixings when I unpack."

He was in no great hurry to "unpack." When his outfit arrived at the camp, the main contents of the wagons were unloaded and stowed away under shelter, and the English horses were corralled. Only the materials for the building of his new cabin were left in the open at the edge of the trail.

These were the walls and partitions, doors, floors, and roof, already built in portable sections of stout American timber, needing merely to be erected and clamped in place on a substantial foundation.

He planned to erect the cabin on a long-chosen site apart from Gideon Birkenshaw's homestead, but near enough to be neighbourly.

The spot he had decided upon was a level plateau among the pine trees between the beaver pond and Grizzly Notch, where he had years ago killed his first bear. It was so close to the Sweetwater that in the mornings he could rise from his cot and dive from the brink of the cliff into the clear running creek.

There was some timber to be felled and the foundation to be dug and new paths to be made through the woodland glades, and it would take some weeks of hard work before the cabin could be occupied. But he had made all his plans and measurements in anticipation; nothing had been neglected.

Long before he had decided finally to return to the wilds—long ago, in the irksome social life of London—he had dreamt of this possible cabin hidden in the peaceful seclusion of the forest, where he could study the ways of the birds and beasts, where he could live the life of a lonely scout and trapper, hunting or fishing for his own food, cooking his own meals, doing everything for himself without the help of servants. And now his dream was coming true.

CHAPTER V

BLAZING THE TRAIL

The day after the arrival of his outfit was a Sunday, and he did no unnecessary work. But on the Sunday afternoon he saddled one of the prairie ponies and rode along the trail to Fort Laramie. Here he presented his licence to the agent of the Pony Express Company and asked to be engaged in the place of Jim Thurston, until Jim was able to resume his job.

Kiddie's name was prominent in the records, his reputation as an Express rider was not forgotten, and his request was readily granted.

"You'll start on Jim's western section five o'clock in the mornin'," the agent intimated. "Thar's a dispatch—a very important Gov'ment dispatch—comin' along. I'm givin' you the responsibility of carryin' it to Drifting Smoke Crossing, where you'll transfer the mails to Roger Picknoll. You'll find relay ponies waitin' as per usual at the stages along the trail. And, say, you gotter be some keerful."

Kiddie smiled.

"D'you mean more'n ordinary careful?" he asked. "Isn't an Express rider always careful?"

"You've hit it," nodded the agent. "I sure means more'n or'nary keerful. Not only because of the dispatch. Nobody excep' the Gov'ment keers a red cent 'bout that docyment. But thar's a gang o' road agents—robbers an' horse thieves—at work along thar. They're liable t' interfere with any rider, no matter who or what he may be, on the chance of findin' valu'bles about him. Attacked a innercent, peaceful traveller only last week, they did; robbed him, took his pony, an' left him lyin' gagged an' bound an' senseless."

"Any idea who they are?" Kiddie inquired. "What's their partic'lar way of workin'?"

"By all accounts they got a many ways," said the agent. "I dunno just which report ter believe. One says they've the habit of disguisin' theirselves as Red Injuns, another holds as they goes foolin' around as or'nary cowboys, but wearin' face masks; an' another as they travels in a faked-up conveyance that strangers might mistake for a stage coach. But all agree that they're just desp'rate chara'ters all round. As to who they are, well, I dunno no more'n you. All I knows is that one o' the wust of the hull gang's a man named Nick Undrell."

"Nick Undrell?" Kiddie repeated the name as if it were new to him. "Well, I guess Nick won't interfere with me any. Good evenin', boss. I shall be here on time. Don't worry."

He stabled his pony in the town, and, as the night was fine and it was not yet late, he strolled out on foot for a walk along the Little Laramie River. At a distance of about a mile he entered a pine wood, made his way among the trees, and at length halted in front of a cunningly hidden shanty. He stood listening and watching. He heard the rattle of dice. There was a screened light in the window, but it was hurriedly extinguished when he knocked.

After a long delay the door was cautiously opened by a man wearing a mask. A strong smell of tobacco smoke and spirits came from within.

"Nick Undrell is here," said Kiddie, looking into the muzzle of a revolver held close to his face. "I heard his voice. Put aside that gun and tell him to come to the door. Tell him it's Lord Saint Olave."

The masked man within the doorway scrutinized the unexpected and evidently unwelcome visitor, at whom he still held his menacing revolver.

"Tell him it's Lord Saint Olave," Kiddie repeated in a level, insistent voice.

At mention of this name the man slowly lowered his gun and drew back a step, opening the door a trifle wider.

"Lord Saint Olave?" he muttered in surprise. "Lord Saint Olave—here—at this time o' night! Wantin' ter see——" He removed the black cloth mask that had hidden his face—"Wantin' ter see me?"

"Yes, Nick. That's why I'm here," returned Kiddie. "I want to see you kind of private. You've no occasion t' be alarmed. I'm not in the vigilance service, you know. Thought I'd just saunter along and have a jaw with you, that's all."

"Come right in, sir," said Nick, now holding the door wide open. "I got a few friends here; but they was jus' quittin' when you knocked."

Kiddie followed him within the darkness. The light in the room was then turned up, and he saw four evil-looking men busily pulling off their masks, putting away their pistols, and sweeping their playing cards, dice-box, and a "pool" of coins and greenbacks from the table.

"The four o' you kin quit, soon's you likes," said Nick Undrell. "His lordship an' me we've got a private pow-wow on hand, an' we don't want no listeners mussin' around."

The men emptied their glasses, stood up, hitched their belts, and went slowly past him and out at the door.

Kiddie knew them by sight. They had all been of Nick's gang in the defence of the mule wagons. One still had a patch of sticking-plaster across his cheek which Kiddie himself had put there over an arrow wound. When they were gone outside he turned to Nick.

"Any partic'lar reason why you and your convivial guests should hide your countenances behind masks?" he inquired in a casual tone, glancing about with curious calculation.

Nick Undrell did not answer this very pertinent question, and his visitor did not press him, but resumed, still casually—

"Can't say as this is quite a palatial residence for an industrious man that's called successful. You used ter make good money at one time, Nick, when you worked along with Buckskin Jack; had a consid'rable bankin' account, too. This all you've got ter show for it?"

"Yep. All I possess in the world, barrin' my pony, is contained in this yer shanty."

"What you done with that profitable ranch you had, back of Devil's Gate?"

"Lost it," Nick answered, as if a range of a hundred fertile acres with its herd of horses were a trifling article that had dropped through an unsuspected hole in his pocket. "Lost it."

"Just so," nodded Kiddie. "Gambled it away, I guess; staked the whole property on the turn-up of a miserable queen of spades, and lost the lot."

"As a matter of fact," Nick smiled grimly, "it were th' ace of hearts as done me in. An' the skunk as won it offen me wasn't a white man, neither, but a greasy Injun. So now you know."

"Ah, Nick, you sure ain't the man you was in Buck's time; gamblin', drinkin', hidin' your guilty face behind a mask, afraid when a harmless visitor knocks at your door. What d'you suppose Buck would have thought of you? What d'you expect me myself to think?"

"Dunno," said Nick ashamedly. "Th' ain't many men along this yer trail like Buckskin Jack an' you, Kiddie. Thar's nobody ter lend a guidin' hand to a man that's anyways weak. If I'd had you or Buck ter blaze the trail for me I reckon I'd never have lost my way, same's I have done. Savvy?"

"You c'd git back to the right trail even yet if you'd only go straight," urged Kiddie.

Nick shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Say, what you got in the bag?" he inquired abruptly.

Kiddie had opened his haversack and taken from it a small canvas wallet, which he laid on the table in front of him. He also produced a very beautiful gold cigarette case.

"Have a smoke, Nick," he invited, opening the case and displaying a compact double row of very fine Turkish cigarettes with gold tips. "These are a special brand. I never smoke myself; just carry these ter give away. Take!"

Nick Undrell glanced at them and shook his head.

"Them's just toy smokes," he objected. "Gimme some sensible, strong pipe terbacco an' I'll thank you; but I got no use fer aristocratic playthings like them. What you got in th' bag?"

Kiddie afterwards had an important reason for remembering Nick Undrell's contempt for cigarettes. Slipping the gold case into his breast pocket, he now took up the canvas wallet and opened it to take out a substantial bundle of American bank notes.

"I've to pay you and your boys for the great help you gave me in guarding my outfit along the trail," he explained, speaking now in his character of Lord St. Olave. "I don't forget that you risked your lives and were in danger of losing them. I want to reward you all accordingly."

"No occasion ter hurry 'bout the payment," said Nick, assuming an air of indifference. "Next week'll be time enough." He glanced down at the bundle of greenbacks and gave a little gasp of envious surprise. "Say," he observed, "you got consid'rable confidence in folk's honesty to carry a heap o' dollars like that along o' you."

Kiddie met the man's cunningly covetous glance as he passed the whole bundle across to him.

"Guess that's considerably more'n you an' your gang of road-agents found on the harmless traveller you robbed on the trail last week and left gagged and bound," he said pointedly.

"Eh?"

Nick clutched the notes and drew back. His hand went to his hip.

Kiddie seemed to have anticipated this movement, and he was quite ready for it.

"Keep your hand away from your gun," he said quietly. "I'm covering you with mine, and I'm quicker than you. Listen! You see, I know about that affair. I was hoping that you'd be able to tell me you'd no hand in it. But now I know by your behaviour that you're guilty, that you were the ringleader of the despicable gang. I'm not accusin' you. I repeat that I'm not in the vigilance service; I'm not a policeman. I may tell you, however, that I knew your evil reputation before I engaged you to take charge of my outfit. I trusted you, Nick, and you did not betray my trust. You acted straight—you and your men alike—and every cent of the amount I've just handed to you is well deserved and honestly earned."

"You trusted me—you trusted the lot of us—knowin' we was low-down roosters that wouldn't think twice of killin' a man for the sake of his goods? That wasn't just wise, Kiddie. We might ha' bin springin' a trap on you. Why, the traveller you referred to—him as were left senseless on the trail—hadn't more'n the value of ten dollars on him all told. He'd only a nickel watch, his knife, a pistol as wouldn't shoot, an' a broken-winded cayuse that was hardly worth taking away. And you gave us the chance to make off with the whole of your valu'ble outfit! It wasn't wise. It wasn't safe."

"Then you guessed it was of value?" Kiddie questioned.

"Value? Well, I didn't on'y guess; I knew. We'd gotten word of it days an' days 'fore it came along. So had the Redskins. But we didn't cotton to the Injuns gettin' in front of us, see? We didn't have th' ambition of seein' Broken Feather collar the boodle."

"Eh?" Kiddie looked across with level, penetrating eyes. "In front of you? Then you admit that you had plans of your own?"

Nick Undrell was filling his pipe, ramming the tobacco in with nervous vigour.

"Don't make too sure, Lord Saint Olave," he retorted calmly. "Speakin' fer myself, I were ready to guard your property with me life, for the sake of who you are—the son of Buckskin Jack. An' when you comes up, trustin' me right down to the dust, an' requestin' me ter make up a armed escort, well, I reckon I was plumb on the job, an' didn't look fer no extravagant reward like this." He indicated the bundle of bank notes.

"But there were other plans," insisted Kiddie. "You'd planned to rob me on your own account. Don't deny it. Be candid. I'm wantin' to understand your position and your character."

Nick stared at him, but could not bear for long the searching expression in Kiddie's clear eyes. He lowered his own.

"Thar's no bluffing a player like you, Kiddie," he said. "You've called my hand. I gotter show up. You's correct. Thar was sure another plan. But we wasn't figurin' t' attack you on the trail, same as th' Injuns did—an' failed. We wasn't figurin' ter do no shootin'. Even allowin' as we'd attacked the wagons an' killed the drivers an' young Rube an'—an' you, it wouldn't ha' bin easy fer us t' carry away the goods. We couldn't have unloaded all them Saratoga trunks an' all that household furniture on the open prairie without bein' dropped on. Your hosses, too, we couldn't ha' hidden 'em. We couldn't alter their coats or their shape or action. They'd sure been observed an' admired all along the back trail from Leavenworth to Laramie. Everybody would ha' known 'em. No, it wasn't good enough."

"And so," rejoined Kiddie with a smile, "you decided to make a virtue of necessity, eh?"

Nick had lighted his pipe, and he took several thoughtful puffs at it before he answered.

"We decided ter delay operations. D'ye savee?"

"Yes, I see," nodded Kiddie. "You decided to wait until I had done the unpacking for you—until I'd got the valuables nice and handy for the robbery in the lonesome cabin that I'm building for myself in the woods."

"That's about the size of it," acknowledged Nick. "An' now you're warned."

"Forewarned and forearmed," returned Kiddie. "I shall be prepared, you may be sure. And you can expect a hot reception. A very hot reception, indeed."

Nick strode up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder with the wet stem of his pipe.

"Look 'ee here, Lord Saint Olave," he said steadily; "you ain't read my c'ara'ter true; not yet. You got a lot to learn 'fore you knows me proper. I ain't the low-down cur as you takes me for—not by a long chalk. I ain't beyond gettin' back on the right trail, if yer only gives me time. Your comin' back here to the wilds has made a kinder diff'rence t' me—a heap of diff'rence. D'ye savee?"

"I'm glad to hear it, Nick, my boy," said Kiddie. "And I quite understand. You mean that because I'm back here to blaze a trail for you, you'll give up gambling, you'll give up hard drinking, and you'll never again molest harmless travellers or do thieving of any sort. Do you promise all this, Nick? Eh? Straight, now, do you promise it? I know you'll keep your word, once you give it. You're a desperado, but I don't think you would break your word."

Nick Undrell pulled himself together.

"It's a steep proposition," he murmured. "But I guess I ain't no coward. Yes, Kiddie," he answered resolutely. "I promise; I promise faithful. You're blazin' the trail for me, an' I'm shapin' ter foller it true."

CHAPTER VI

JIM THURSTON'S SUBSTITUTE

At half-past four on the following morning, Kiddie stood alone on the trail with his saddled pony, waiting in the darkness outside the depot of the Express in Fort Laramie, and listening for the thumping sound of hoofs which should tell him that the westward bound mail was approaching.

He was earlier than it was necessary he should be, but he was aware from long past experience that when there was an especially important dispatch among the mails, the riders taking up their successive relays tried to gain a few minutes on their time.

And this was what now happened, for he had been waiting less than a quarter of an hour when he heard the expected sound from afar. Shortly afterwards the incoming rider dismounted at his side, breathing heavily after a ride of two hundred and forty miles.

"You've saved seventeen minutes on schedule time, pardner," Kiddie told him. "Guess I shall improve on that, if my ponies are all up to the mark an' ready at their stations."

He seized the two satchels, transferred them to his own saddle, mounted, and with a wave of the hand started off to the westward.

Not a moment had been wasted in making the change, and his trained pony broke at once into a full gallop which would be continued while the trail was level until the next station was reached, some thirty miles away, where a fresh pony would be awaiting him.

His first relay station was at Hot Springs, and it took him less than a minute to change mounts. He rode eight different ponies on this trip, and each of them satisfied him. Their pace depended upon the nature of the ground.

Where the trail was good, as across Laramie Plain, and could be taken at the gallop, the speed was something like twenty-five miles an hour, but where the way was rugged, as among the Porcupine Mountains, fifteen, or even ten miles in an hour was considered good going.

When Kiddie reached the station at Sweetwater Bridge he had gained by six minutes. Gideon Birkenshaw had come down from the homestead to greet him, and the fresh pony was held by young Rube Carter. Kiddie's Highland deerhound, Sheila, was also on the trail. As he dismounted, she raised herself on her hind feet and put her paws on his shoulders to lick his chin.

"Down, Sheila, down!" commanded Kiddie, drawing away from her. "I'm on duty. I've not come home to you."

Sheila walked majestically apart from him.

"Amazin' wise, that animal is," said Gideon, taking the bridle of the tired pony, and watching Kiddie leap to the saddle of the fresh one. "Built same's a racehorse, she is. Them long legs of hers, they'd cover a heap o' ground, eh? What kinder work did she do in her own country, Kiddie? Huntin'?"

"Yes, deer hunting," Kiddie answered. "She could race any stag—outdistance any horse. Has a pedigree as long's your arm, Gid. She's quite an aristocrat."

"Splendidest dog I ever see in my life," commented Rube, patting the hound's shaggy head. He seized her collar and held her in a firm grip while Kiddie started. She strained against him as her master went farther and farther away.

Rider and pony were quickly out of sight in a fold of the trail, but again they appeared on the farther rise. Sheila pulled harder now, but Rube dug his heels in the ground, and dragged her back.

"No, you ain't goin' ter foller him," he protested.

But with a sudden strong wrench the hound broke away, and bounded off along the trail, sending Rube flying backward into the bushes. Rube scrambled to his feet.

"Look! look, Boss!" he cried, excitedly. "Gee! did y'ever see a critter run like that? My! jus' look! Kiddie may well say she c'd outdistance any hoss. D'you reckon a railroad train c'd go faster'n that, Gideon!"

"Dunno," said Gideon, watching the animal racing at full stretch through a cloud of dust. "I ain't just certain 'bout that railroad train; but I sure never seen a critter go along quicker'n that hound's goin' now. Why, she'll overtake Kiddie inside of half an hour, for all his long start of her!"

Kiddie, indeed, had not gone half a dozen miles before the deerhound was galloping at his pony's heels. The pony's ears were twitching nervously, and there was a change in the measure of its headlong stride. Kiddie felt instinctively that he was being closely followed, yet there were no hungry wolves about at this time of year.

An impatient yelping bark reached him. He glanced round over his shoulder. The dog soon came level with him.

"Go back—back, Sheila!" he called.

But Sheila only slackened her pace, and dropped behind, where he could neither see nor hear her.

At a bend in the trail, where it entered a deep gully, overshadowed by trees, Kiddie looked round to assure himself that the hound had obeyed him. To his surprise he saw her still following him closely. He drew rein, dropping from a swift gallop to an easy canter. Still Sheila was close behind. Kiddie began to scold her, but, as this had no effect, he pulled up to a halt, and dismounted.

"Now, do as you're told, Sheila," he said, half gravely, half coaxingly. "Go back home, you're not to come with me. I'm going too far. Go home, now; there's a good girl."

The hound seemed to understand, for she turned away a few steps and then looked at him pleadingly, standing with her jaws open, and her long dripping tongue working like a piston over her white fangs.

Suddenly she lifted her head, and looked sharply into the shadow of the trees. Her ears were raised as if she had heard some strange, suspicious sound.

Kiddie, preparing to re-mount, listened also. He heard the breaking of a twig far in among the thickly-growing trees. At the same instant something like the buzz-z of a mosquito passed by his ear. An arrow flashed across the trail between him and the dog, striking against a stout tree trunk on the farther side. Then a second arrow, aimed higher, rattled among the upper branches.

Now, Kiddie had his mail bags to think of. He had already lost several precious moments dealing with the hound, and he could not afford to waste time in trying to discover what possible enemy was lurking in the woods with the evident purpose of taking his life.

Drawing his revolver, he fired two shots in the direction from which the arrows had come. Then he turned to Sheila.

"Seek him, Sheila—seek him! After him—quick!" he ordered, pointing out the way; and as the deerhound plunged into the woodland he snatched up the nearer arrow, ran to his pony, and, re-mounting, renewed his broken journey.

At Three Crossings, which was his next relay station, he showed the arrow to the man who met him with the fresh pony.

"Say, Hoskin, how's that?" he questioned. "Some skunk hidin' in the timber this side of Medicine Creek, figured ter do me in with it. Poisoned, ain't it?"

Hoskin took the weapon and critically examined its barbed point.

"Yep," he nodded meaningly, handing it back. "It's sure poisoned. A scratch with it would kill you right away. Got any partic'lar enemy among them Injuns hangin' out along your way? What about the lot as was at Birkenshaw's t'other morning? You was thar, I hear. What about Broken Feather?"

"Broken Feather could hardly know that I'm takin' this trip with the Pony Express," Kiddie demurred.

"Um!" Hoskin shook his head. "I ain't so sure 'bout that, Kiddie," he said. "He has spies planted all along the trail. He knows 'most everything. You'd best be keerful."

Late on that same day. Rube Carter was crossing the trail, carrying a load of material for Kiddie's building operations, when he saw Sheila limping towards him over the bridge. He dropped his load, strode up to her, and was putting his arms about her neck in welcome when he noticed that there was blood on her chin and throat. He searched for an open wound, but found none.

"Looks as if you'd bin gettin' back to yer old business of huntin' stags," he said. "Wait, though," he added, seeing a nasty tear in the skin over her shoulder. "Stags don't carry no knives along of 'em, an' if that ain't a knife stab on your shoulder, then I sure ain't fit t' be called a scout."

Rube was very much perplexed concerning Sheila's condition. It appeared to him that, after all, she had not overtaken her master; that notwithstanding Kiddie's confidence in her running powers, she had proved that a Highland deerhound was not the equal in speed of a well-trained prairie pony.

Rube blamed himself for having allowed her to break away from him. He was glad, however, that she was not lost, and that her injury was not serious. But where had she been? What had she been doing?

He at once began to exercise his scoutcraft in the endeavour to puzzle out the mystery.

The blood marks on her chin and throat might very well be accounted for on the supposition that, instead of following her master, she had gone aside from the trail to give chase to some large animal—a mountain goat or a big-horn antelope, and that she had attacked and perhaps killed it, as she had been trained to do when out deer-stalking in her native Highlands of Scotland.

She might very easily have been wounded in the encounter by a backward prod of an antelope's sharp horn; even as she might have got the stains about her mouth in licking the bleeding wound.

But, unfortunately for this simple theory, the wound in the hound's shoulder was not of a kind to suggest the stab of a goat's horn or of an antelope's sharp-pointed antler. It was clearly and unmistakably the cut of a knife; not round, but thin and straight, and it was too far forward and too high over her shoulder for her to turn her head and get at it with her tongue.

Moreover, some of the bristles that had been cut by the knife remained there loose among the congealing blood, showing that it had not been licked. Rube's obvious conclusion was that it was not an animal, but a man she had attacked; that she had bitten him severely, and that he had used his knife in defending himself. But who that man might be, or why the hound should attack him, Rube could not even conjecture.

It was a dark night, and Rube was sound asleep in his bunk, when Kiddie changed ponies at Sweetwater Bridge on his eastward-bound trip; but Kiddie made time to ask Abe Harum if Sheila had returned.

Abe told him that she was then in her kennel, but added nothing about her condition. On the following day, however, when he returned home for a spell of rest, it was Rube who met him on the trail.

"Seems Abe told you as the hound had come back," began Rube. "It was my fault she followed you. I couldn't hardly help lettin' her loose. Thar was no holdin' her in. She got up t' you, then? How long was she gettin' abreast o' you? I guess you hadn't gotten far, eh? Gee! how she did cover the ground!"

"Why," Kiddie answered, "she was alongside o' me inside of six miles from here. Good going, wasn't it?"

"Sure," agreed Rube. "But she didn't come back so quick, Kiddie, nothin' like it. Did yer know she'd a cut on her shoulder?"

"Eh—a cut?" Kiddie started in vexed surprise. "Is it bad?"

"Oh, no," Rube assured him, "makes her limp some. But I've doctored th' wound, an' it's gettin' along all right. Come an' have a squint at it."

He brought the dog out, giving no expression to his own theory. Kiddie examined the wound.

"Cut of a knife," he decided immediately.

"Thar was blood on her mouth," said Rube. "I washed it. 'Twasn't her own blood."

"Then they sure got to close grips," concluded Kiddie, "and I guess he got as much as he gave. She'd make for his throat, but I'm figurin' that he'd put up an arm to protect himself. His left arm, most like, as he'd use his right for the knife. We gotter keep our eyes open for a man with a lame left arm, Rube."

"Didn't yer see him, Kiddie?" Rube questioned.

"No."

"Then how d'you know anythin' about it? How d'you know it was a man as done it? How d'you know she didn't kill him outright, same's she'd kill a stag? An' why did she go for him, anyway?"

"She went for him because I sent her into the forest after him," Kiddie explained. "The scoundrel shot a poisoned arrow at me. And, having myself no time to spare, I left the business to the dog, see?"

"An arrow!" exclaimed Rube, "a poisoned arrow! Well, 'twas sure a Injun done it. Any one else 'ud have used a gun."

"Might have been a white man, for all that," resumed Kiddie. "An arrow's a silent weapon, and if it's poisoned, as this one certainly was, then a mere scratch would be fatal; whereas the victim might recover from a bullet wound. Whoever it was, however, Sheila must sure have left the mark of her fangs on him."

"How d'you know she didn't kill him?" Rube persisted. "How d'you know he ain't lyin' there dead, right now?"

"Because," Kiddie rejoined, "on my return trip—knowing exactly where the thing happened—I went into the forest and searched. I found spots of blood. I found signs of the struggle; that was all. There wasn't any dead body lyin' around."

"P'raps th' other Redskins carried his body away," conjectured Rube.

"But he was alone," pursued Kiddie. "I'm plumb sure there was nobody with him."

"See the marks of his moccasins?"

"No. He wore nailed boots, which left scratches on the root of a cotton wood tree."

"Boots, eh? A Injun would have wore moccasins that wouldn't leave no scratch, even on the soft bark of a tree root. Y'see, a white man might wear moccasins, same's I do; but I never knew a Redskin shove his hoofs inter hob-nailed boots. Wait, Kiddie, wait! I've gotten a idea."

"Let's hear it, then, Rube. I'm glad to find that you're exercising your powers of reasoning. What's your idea?"

"This," declared Rube, with a knowing headshake. "I was figurin' that the low-down scoundrel as fired that poisoned arrow might be—well, might be Nick Undrell. I never told you before, Kiddie, but that day when your outfit was attacked by the Injuns, I heard one of Nick's chums say ter him—time you was ridin' alone in advance of the wagons—that now was the chance if Nick had a mind ter put a bullet inter you an' vamoose wi' the boodle."

"Yes," smiled Kiddie, "and your idea is that because one of his chums said such a thing as that, Nick went miles and miles out of his way to hide himself in Medicine Creek Forest and try to do the trick by putting a poisoned arrow into me, eh? And what d'you reckon might have been his motive?"

"Dunno," answered Rube. "Never thought of that."

"Because," pursued Kiddie, "if it was robbery, an experienced frontiersman like Nick Undrell wouldn't calculate on finding much boodle on a Pony Express rider. He'd find it a heap more profitable to do the robbery right here where all my valuables are. Besides, Nick is too slick a hand with the pistol to have any truck with an Injun's bow and arrows. No, Rube, my boy, your idea isn't worth a whole lot, come to analyze it. Even if I suspected Nick Undrell of shooting that arrow, the fact remains that when I started on that ride I left him in Fort Laramie, that he had no relays of ponies, as I had, waiting ready along the trail, and that he couldn't anyhow have got to Medicine Creek in front of me. It wasn't humanly possible. Any other solution ter suggest, Rube?"

Rube shook his head decisively.

"No," he answered. "I'm just more puzzled than ever. Can't straighten it out nohow. Can't think who it could be, or why he did it. Thar's only one thing t' be said, Kiddie, an' that's this: the man as tried ter take your life was either a Injun wearin' white man's boots, or else a white man usin' a Injun's bow an' arrow. Beyond that, I'm makin' up my mind ter look out fer a individual—red or white—goin' around with his left arm in a sling."

"Don't hold too tight t' th' idea that it was in the arm he was bitten—" Kiddie cautioned. "Sheila might have seized on any other part of his anatomy. My own notion is that the hound herself will spot him sooner'n you or I could do."

"Thar's a lot in that notion," Rube acknowledged. "Guess I'll keep my eye on the hound all the time. An' when I sees her bristles rise an' her teeth showin' an' hears a growl rumblin' up from her throat, I shall sure know that the skunk ain't a far way off."

CHAPTER VII

RUBE CARTER'S VISITOR

"Hullo!"

Rube Carter was studying the architect's plan of Kiddie's woodland cabin. The portable sections of the building were all precisely numbered; but they were nevertheless perplexing, and he wanted, above all things, to avoid mistakes.

Usually when in doubt he could apply for an explanation to Kiddie himself, but on this particular day Kiddie was absent on duty with the Pony Express, and Rube had to puzzle out the difficulty unhelped. He had one of the elevation plans spread out in front of him on the working bench, and was trying to ascertain the exact position of a window casement, when a moving shadow crossed the sheet of paper.

He had not heard any one approaching. The only sounds he had been conscious of were the mumbling of his pet bear cub lying beside him chained to a log, busily licking the inside of an empty honey jar, and the regular strokes of the woodman's axe as Abe Harum worked at the felling of a pine tree some distance away. The shadow came from behind him and stopped on the sunlit expanse of paper.

Rube turned sharply round and looked up at the intruder.