Arthur Hastings’ fortunate arrival.
Jake was generally on the lookout for sudden bursts of fury on the part of his sire, but this time he was taken by surprise. Before he could dodge or stir an inch from his tracks, he received a most unmerciful beating, one that gave me a faint idea of what was in store for Joe Wayring. When he turned to run, the face he presented to our view was bleeding in half a dozen places.
“There, now,” exclaimed Matt, who was almost frantic. “Go an’ hide some more money from your pap, an’ blab when you was told to hold your jaw, won’t you? Now that I have got my hand in, I reckon I might as well finish with you,” he continued, turning back and taking his stand behind the prisoner. “Once more I ax you: Will you tell me where you have hid that money?”
“I have nothing more to say,” replied Joe, in an unfaltering voice.
The answer added fuel to the fire of Matt’s rage. He moistened his hand and seized the switch with a firmer hold, while Joe turned his face to the tree and nerved himself to receive the expected blow. That was more than Arthur Hasting could endure; but it brought his scattered wits back to him. In an instant his double barrel was at his shoulder, and his flashing eye was looking along the rib.
“Hold on there!” he shouted. “If you touch that boy I will put more holes through you than you ever saw in a skimmer. Throw down that gad and stand where you are.”
The effect of these words was magical. Jake Coyle, whose doleful howls of anguish had awakened a thousand echoes among the surrounding hills, suddenly ceased his lamentations; the white face of Joe Wayring turned toward us lighted up with hope; and Matt and Sam looked at Arthur and his threatening gun with eyes that seemed to have grown to the size of saucers. For a second or two no one moved or spoke; then one of the three marauders gave a perfect imitation of the cry of alarm the mother grouse utters when her brood is menaced with danger, whereupon Matt and his boys disappeared in the most bewildering way. They were seen to drop where they stood, and that was the last of them. Although Arthur rose to his feet as quickly as he could and Roy plied the paddle with all his strength, they did not catch another glimpse of the squatter, nor was there the slightest rustling in the bushes to tell which way he and his allies had gone.
CHAPTER IX.
TOM VISITS THE HATCHERY.
Let us now return to Tom Bigden, whom we last saw paddling disconsolately toward the camp where he had left his cousins, Ralph and Loren Farnsworth, a short half hour before. Tom had expected to spend a pleasant forenoon at the hatchery, taking lessons in fish-culture; but his interview with Matt Coyle had knocked that in the head. The squatter’s astounding proposition, taken in connection with the dreadful things he had threatened to do in case his victim failed to comply with his demands, had opened Tom’s eyes to the disagreeable fact that he had over-reached himself by yielding to his insane desire to take vengeance on Joe Waring. He knew he could not enjoy himself at the hatchery with the fear of exposure and disgrace hanging over him, so he started for camp at his best paddling pace to ask Ralph and Loren what he should do about it.