The Campers Out; Or, The Right Path and the Wrong

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

“No; we’ll take him inside with us; some of the straps might give way and we would want to be within reach of him. Where’s them boys?” asked Durrell, abruptly; “I forgot all about them while this business was going on.”

The attack and capture of the would-be stage robber consumed very little time, but it gave a chance to our young friends which they quickly turned to good account. They saw but one possible result of the affair, and concluded to make a change of base. It could not be doubted that they had done so, since neither was within sight or call.

Lenman had paid no attention to them, and it cannot be said that he regretted their absence. True, their fare remained uncollected, but that was not the first time he had carried passengers free, and he could stand it again.

The prisoner was deposited with as much care on the middle seat of the stage as though he were a package of dynamite. Durrell placed himself behind him where he could forestall any movement on his part. It would not be supposed that there was any chance of anything of that kind, but Durrell had read and heard enough of such people to understand the danger of trusting to appearances. The exploits of some of the gentry in the way of tying and untying knots would rival the Davenport brothers and other so-called “mediums.” Then, too, Durrell thought, he might have other weapons about him, for no search had been made of his garments. Anyway, it cannot be doubted that the New Englander was wise in maintaining such a vigilant watch of the fellow.

Despite this exciting incident, which threw Bill Lenman’s nerves into a more turbulent state than for years, he could not help smiling as he listened to the efforts of the New Englander to open conversation with the prisoner. Durrell’s curiosity was of the kind that it could not be kept in the background. He was interested in the man and was resolved to learn more about him.

He began in his insinuating way to inquire as to his name, how long he had been in this bad business, what led him to make such a dreadful mistake, where he was born, whether his parents were living, how many brothers and sisters he had, and so on with a list of questions which no one could remember.

But the prisoner never once opened his mouth. He saw nothing was to be gained by so doing, and, though it is not to be supposed he would have told the truth, he did not trouble himself to state fiction.

At the moment of emerging from Black Bear Swamp, Lenman was alarmed by being hailed by a stranger who asked for a ride. This was unusual, for he was now so close to Piketon that the walk would not have taxed any one.

Durrell whispered to the driver to refuse to take him up, for no doubt he was a confederate of the prisoner; but Lenman thought it more dangerous to refuse than to comply. He therefore checked his team, and told the applicant that the town was near by and he was about to indulge in a needless expense; but the stranger cared naught for that, and hastily climbed up in front and seated himself beside the driver, who peered at him as best he could in the gloom, but was unable to make out his features.

“If he tries any tricks,” said Lenman to himself, “I’ll neck him before he knows it; after that chap from New England showed such pluck I aint going to back out of the next rumpus.”