Green Timber Thoroughbreds

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

He resumed his journey at a slightly better pace, planning the morrow’s departure to the nearest town and the best manner of his quickest possible return. He would take precautions of the Danglers, as he had promised, but he must avoid involving the law if he could think of a way. Why not bring a bodyguard back with him, and thus supported, beard the—! Hell! * * * He pitched forward at the blow, fumbling for an inner pocket even as he fell. But he hadn’t a chance. He was jumped, pounded deep in the snow, bound at wrists and ankles, gagged and blindfolded. He was yanked out roughly and turned over; and that was all for a few minutes. He heard a shrill whistle from close at hand, and the softened answer; and then, for a little while, he was left undisturbed on his back. His nose and chin were exposed, and on these he felt the snowflakes falling faster and faster. He was slightly dizzy and slightly nauseated, but his mind was clear. His thick fur cap had saved him from a knockout. He was not in pain, though his discomfort was considerable; and he was angry enough to bite. The Danglers had him, he knew—and here was just and sufficient cause for rage. The Danglers had tricked him—and here was cause for shame. He had been guilty of military error as old as warfare: he had underrated the enemy. He was a fool! No wonder the girl had been afraid for him.

Presently he felt a fumbling at the thongs of his snowshoes. The snowshoes were removed. He felt a pair of hands under his shoulders, another pair at his knees, and he was lifted and carried. He strained his ears to catch a voice, but in vain. He was roughly handled—bumped and dragged. It was quite evident to him that his captors were in a hurry to get him to some particular spot, but it seemed that they were utterly indifferent as to his condition upon arrival. They carried him feet first; and frequently the leader got completely away from the other and his head and shoulders were dropped with a smothering thump.

Brief rests were frequent. Where the underbrush was awkwardly dense, he was simply dragged along by the feet. Now and then he caught a whiff of strong tobacco smoke; and later he caught a whiff of ardent spirits. After many minutes of this, or perhaps an hour—for with so many bumps and thumps he found it useless to attempt the reckoning of the passage of time—and after a less brief halt than usual, his webs were replaced and his ankles were freed, and he was stood upon his feet. For a moment he contemplated the advisability of delivering a few blind kicks—but before he had arrived at a decision he was pushed from the rear and flanks. He staggered forward to save himself from falling on his face; and before that initial stagger was completed another well-timed and well-placed thrust sent him staggering again; and then another—and thus the journey was continued.

Vane found walking, even with tied hands and bandaged eyes, pleasanter than being carried like a sack of oats. But this did not improve his temper. The gag hurt him, and that nerve-racking experience of advancing blindly against underbrush without any protection for the face maddened him more and more desperately at every step. And to be forced to it! To be thumped and thrust along from behind! An unusually violent poke with something exceedingly hard—the butt of a rifle, most likely—put the last straw on the over-strained back of his discretion. He turned with his right leg drawn up and shot out his right foot with every ounce that was in him, snowshoe and all. The blind blow landed. A yowl went up and someone went down. He jumped and landed on his mark, stamped twice with all his weight, then turned and jumped away. He missed his objective, the other Dangler, by a few inches that time, and received a bang on the ear for his trouble. But he tried again—and again—and once more. He fought furiously. He was blindfolded and his hands were tied behind him, but he came within an ace of victory. Despite the odds against him, four minutes transpired between his first jump and his last.

When he recovered consciousness he was again being carried and dragged. After a long time and many drops he was stood on his feet again and hustled along. After as much of that as he could stand up to, he fell and refused to arise. From that to the finish he was dragged, with an occasional lift over a blow-down or some other natural obstruction too high to take in an straight pull. He lost consciousness again before the end of that desperate and humiliating journey.

When he came to himself the second time it was to find the gag gone from his mouth, the bandage gone from his eyes, and his hands tied before him instead of behind him. He was on a floor of poles beneath a broken roof of poles and bark. Flashing snowflakes and a flood of desolate gray light fell through the hole in the roof. There was a hillock of snow beneath the rent, and there were little drifts of it elsewhere blown under and past the warped door. The door was shut; and nothing was to be seen of the men who had brought him here, and he could catch no sound of them from without, and there was no sign of them within except the tracks of rackets on the snowy floor. He wondered dully at the meaning of these things. He was dizzy, faint, and parched with thirst. He sat up painfully and rested his shoulders against the wall.

The door opened and a snow-whitened figure entered on snow-weighted rackets. He halted and peered around at the gloomy corners of the hut. It was Joe Hinch, but Vane didn’t believe his eyes. So he closed his eyes and made an effort of will toward the clearing and steadying of his brain, and wrenched desperately at the cords with which his wrists were bound. The cords loosened easily. His right hand came free and then his left. But still he kept his eyes closed.

His idea was that what he had seen was either a vision created by his own battered head or a reality transformed by his aching eyes. If it were nothing but a vision, well and good. If it should prove to be a reality, then the chances were that it was one of his enemies, in which case he would sit perfectly motionless until the last moment, and then—well, his hands were free now! He didn’t feel up to a fight—but, by the Lord, he would put up a fight! So he kept his eyes closed and his ears open.

He heard a low cry, a sob, a quick pad and clatter of rackets on the snow-streaked floor, a movement close beside him and quick, half-choked breathing. He felt a hand on his face, light and searching and tender. It was a small hand. An arm slipped behind him and his head was drawn to the hollow of a snowy shoulder. But it was a soft shoulder. Then he opened his eyes. His eyes had been right the first time. He could not see her face now, for it was pressed against his cheek. He could see only a strand of dark, snow-powdered hair like a veil close across his vision. He no longer doubted.

She was praying—whispering a prayer against his cheek.