It was a dark night, very dark, and the two frightened rascals could distinguish little. But one thing they did see; that was the grinning countenance of the “son o’ the Hon. Scrap Powers, o’ Hurricane County, Texas,” at the present moment peering over the barrel of a luminous and voluminous revolver.
There never was a hold up more sudden and complete than that, at least not in the experience of our cowboy friend. Chandler had a revolver in his pocket (the one that Texas had dropped), but he did not dare to make a move to touch it. He was too well aware of Jeremiah Powers’ reputation among the cadets. Chandler and Bull could do nothing but stare and gasp.
It was not part of the programme of the six to keep them in suspense for any time. Texas kept his gun leveled, reinforced by another in his other hand, while Mark and his companions, smiling cheerfully, stepped out and proceeded to take possession in genuine Dick Turpin style.
In the first place, there were the prisoners to be attended to. They were too much confounded and frightened to resist, and they speedily found themselves lying flat as pancakes on the ground, tied hand and foot, with handkerchiefs in their mouths for an extra precaution. Then, and then only, Texas shoved his revolvers back where they came from; and the others laid hold of the wheelbarrow and the whole crowd strolled merrily away, whistling meanwhile.
For which please score one for the Banded Seven.
Unfortunately, their triumph was destined to be a very transitory one. I blush to record it of my most cautious and wary friend from Texas, but it is true, and truth must be told. Texas actually forgot to search his man when he held him up! The result was that the revolver, a terrible bit of evidence, was still in Chandler’s pocket. But that was not all. So sure were the six plebes of their complete triumph, that they even failed to tie their prisoners apart.
The last of the party had scarcely turned away before Bull, glancing about him with his cunning, catlike eyes, rolled swiftly over until he was at his cousin’s side. He bit at the rope that tied the latter’s hands; he could not have chewed more savagely if he had hold of Mallory’s flesh. Chandler’s hands were free in a moment, and it was the work of but a few moments more to whip out his knife and loosen Bull. The sound of the plebes’ merry laughter had not died away in the woods before the two were on the trail, creeping stealthily up behind their unsuspecting victims with their load of gold. And Chandler had the revolver in his hand now by way of a precaution.
Not so very far back in the woods on the way to Highland Falls stood an old and dilapidated icehouse. Some may remember that icehouse; it figured rather prominently in one of Mark’s adventures. Mark had not been in West Point a week before his cheerful friend Bull had tried to lock him up in that place so as to have him absent from réveille. Bull had failed, fortunately, and Mark had turned the tables on him. Bull had had unpleasant recollections of that icehouse ever since.
It was toward that building the six happy and triumphant plebes were heading; Mark had chanced to think of it, and of the fact that its soft sawdust would make a most excellent hiding place for the wonderful treasure. The plebes could hardly realize that they had that treasure safe. After all the vicissitudes it had been through, all the disappointments and anxiety it had caused them, it seemed to be too good to be true. And they ran their fingers through the chinking contents of the old chest; it was too dark to see it, but they could feel it, and that was enough to make them chuckle for joy.
They were in a particularly jolly humor as they hurried through the woods. Dewey was as lively as a kitten, and was being reminded of jokes enough to take up the rest of this story; and he kept it up until the building they were looking for loomed up in front of them.