TORTURED INTO SUBMISSION.
Brick was tempted to push on without looking back. But when a pleading appeal for help rang in his ears he hesitated and stopped.
Bogle had sunk above his waist in the middle of the slushy spot, which was nothing less than a treacherous bog. He was struggling desperately to free himself, and his face was ashen-gray with terror.
“Don’t leave me here, youngster,” he pleaded. “It’s a regular death-trap. I’ll never get out alone. Help me, quick.”
“I can’t do it,” replied Brick. “I’ll only get in myself. Anyway, I would be a fool to put myself in your power. You’ve murdered the man that tried to help me, and you ought to hang for it.”
Bogle swore a terrible oath, and his eyes flashed a bitter hatred at the lad. Again and again he struggled furiously to escape from the oozy quagmire. His body sank lower and lower, until the surface of the bog was almost level with his armpits. Then his rage changed to abject despair.
“For the love of Heaven, save me,” he begged. “Don’t you see that I am being sucked down? I will be dead in five minutes. There lies a log at your feet. Roll it out here. The bog will easily bear your weight.”
Brick looked on with horrified eyes. He could not make up his mind what to do. It was hard to risk the freedom which he had gained at such cost.
Bogle noted the lad’s hesitation.
“Don’t be afraid,” he cried. “I swear to do you no harm. If you get me out of this place, I will set you free. I will give you all the money back, and will guide you to the edge of the swamp. Do you think a dying man would deceive you?”
His voice rose to a shrill pitch, and he extended his arms appealingly.
Brick concluded to trust the ruffian. He could not bear to go away and leave him to such a terrible fate.
“I’ll save you, if I can,” he said, “and I shall expect you to keep your promises.”
“I will, lad,” declared Bogle. “I swear it. Quick, or you will be too late. I’m sinking deeper all the time.”
Brick took hold of the log, and rolled it slowly across the quagmire. Several times he sank to the knees. Finally he twisted the log around so that the farther end came in reach of Bogle’s hands.
The man grasped the log with a glad cry. He pulled and tugged for nearly five minutes, and gradually worked his body loose.
“Give me a lift, youngster,” he said, “and I will be all right.”
Brick walked half-way across the log, and extended the rifle.
Bogle grasped the weapon by the barrel. He came slowly up until his knees rested on the log. He was covered with filthy black mud from head to foot. With an effort he rose to his feet.
A strange gleam of triumph flashed across his crafty face. With one hand he snatched the rifle from Brick, and with the other he seized the lad by the collar.
“I’ve got you again,” he exclaimed. “That was cleverly done.”
Brick was at first too dazed by this unexpected treachery to offer any resistance. He permitted his captor to lead him across the log to firm ground.
Then he struggled to break loose.
“You promised to let me go,” he cried, indignantly.
“Is this the way you reward me for saving your life?”
Bogle laughed harshly.
“Keep quiet,” he said, “or I’ll have to tap you on the head with this rifle stock. What sort of a greenhorn do you take me for? I would have promised anything to get out of that place.”
Brick ceased to struggle. He knew it was useless. With a sinking heart he marched back through the swamp, held tightly by his ruffianly captor.
They soon came in sight of the cabin. When they crossed the threshold they met with a surprise. Raikes was sitting on the bed with a clean white bandage wrapped around his forehead.
“That you, Joe?” he said, feebly. “Where have you been? Did the lad escape?”
Bogle hastily explained.
“I’m sorry for what happened, old man,” he added. “It was an accident, and I was to blame. I thought you were dead when I dashed out of the cabin after this young scamp here.”
“It was a close call,” replied Raikes. “The ball plowed a furrow right across my forehead.”
“You need rest,” said Bogle. “Sleep will fix you up better than medicine.”
“Yes; I reckon so,” admitted Raikes. “But what are you going to do with the lad? No more violence, Joe—for my sake. There are other ways to break him in.”
“It shall be as you say,” replied Bogle, “though I hate most infernally to lose the time. Still, you may not be able to travel for a day or two.”
He hesitated a moment, and thoughtfully knitted his brows. Then he took a piece of rope from his pocket, and cut it in two.
Dexterously tripping Brick to the floor, he bound his ankles and wrists. Then he dragged him across the room, and threw open the door of a small, low closet that was level with the floor.
“Do you see that?” he exclaimed. “It’s not a very snug place, but it’s where you’ll stay until you consent to write those letters. And nothing to eat or drink, remember. If you choose to starve to death, it’s your own lookout.”
A moment later Brick was in the closet, and the door was jammed tightly shut.
The closet was of such small dimensions that Brick could not stretch his body out full length, nor could he sit upright. The floor was hard, and through the log-wall next to the open air came a cold and cutting wind.
His limbs were bound very tightly, and soon he suffered from cramp and shooting pains. But Brick had an obstinate nature, and the thought of yielding was extremely bitter.
Incredible as it may seem, he actually held out all that day, and all of the night that followed. He suffered untold pain, and the torments of hunger, thirst and cold. Morning dawned, and breakfast preparations echoed through the cabin. The closet door was opened a slight crack, and Bogle’s voice asked.
“Have you had enough, youngster?”
“Yes,” muttered Brick, sullenly.
“Will you write those letters?”
“Yes,” in a reluctant tone.
The door opened wide, and Brick was pulled out into the warmth and comfort of the room.
The youth’s bonds were cut, and his stiffened limbs were rubbed with brandy. Then he was seated at the table, and given a hot breakfast. Raikes saw that he wanted for nothing, and even Bogle appeared to be in a rare good humor.
By the time the dishes were cleared away, Brick felt in good shape physically. But his sober and downcast face showed the keen humiliation of his defeat. When writing materials were brought out, he took pen and paper, and wrote at Bogle’s dictation. Occasionally his eyes flashed, or his nostrils quivered. But not a word passed his lips. Bogle read the two letters in approving silence. Then he handed them to Raikes, who put them in his breast pocket.
The matter was not again referred to. The day wore monotonously on. Brick sat in a corner most of the time, looking miserable and unhappy. His companions paid no attention to him, but whispered a good deal among themselves.
The weather had moderated, and rain had fallen during the night. About midday the sky cleared, and a strong wind sprang up. It grew bitterly cold out of doors, and a blazing fire was scarcely sufficient to keep the cabin comfortable. This seemed to give great satisfaction to Raikes and Bogle. Brick overheard a few low remarks, such as “start at daybreak,” “hard crust on the snow,” “no danger of discovery.”
When night came, Brick went to sleep between his captors. The broad light of day awakened him. He was alone on the bed, and his wrists were manacled. Bogle was the only other occupant of the cabin. He stood before the stove, stirring the contents of a frying-pan.