It was just as Mark had suspected—Bull Harris had a plot.
The sunset gun was welcomed with relief. They spent the evening strolling about the grounds and discussing the effort they were going to make that night, also occasionally chuckling over the “success” of their attacks during the morning. And then tattoo sounded, and they knew that the time was nearer still.
Bull Harris and his three cronies waited until the sentry had called the hour of eleven. They thought the plebes had had time enough to get to sleep then, so they got up and dressed and sallied forth in the darkness. It was cloudy that night, and black, a circumstance which Bull considered particularly fortunate.
There was no hesitation, no delay to discuss what should be done. The four made straight for a certain A company tent; cadets sleep with their tent walls rolled up in hot weather, and so the yearlings could easily see what was inside. They made out three figures stretched out upon the blankets, all sound asleep; the fourth occupant—the farmer—was now diligently marching post.
The four crept up with stealthiness that would have done credit to Indians. A great deal depended on their not awakening Mallory. Bull, who was the biggest and strongest of the crowd, stole into the tent and placed himself at Mallory’s feet; Merry Vance and Murray calculated each upon managing one stalwart arm, while to Baby, as smallest, was intrusted the task of preventing outcry from the victim. Having placed themselves, the four precious rascals paused just one moment to gloat over their hated and unsuspecting enemy. And then Bull gave the signal, and as one man they pounced down.
Mallory, awakened out of a sound sleep, found himself as helpless as if he had been buried alive. Bull’s sinewy arms were wrapped about his limbs; his hands were crushed to the earth; and Baby was smothering him in a huge towel. They lifted him an instant later and bore him swiftly from the tent.
A whistle was the signal to the sentry, who faced about and let them cross his beat; the four clambered up the embankment and sprang down into Fort Clinton, chuckling to themselves for joy, having secured the hated plebe with perfect success and secrecy. And now he was theirs, theirs to do with as they saw fit. And how they did mean to “soak” him!
All this, of course, was Bull’s view of the matter. But there were some things, just a few, that that cunning young gentleman did not know of. The reader will remember that the yearlings had tried that trick on Mark just once before; ever since then Mark’s tent was protected by a very simple but effective burglar alarm. There was a thread tied about his foot. That thread the yearlings had not noticed. It broke when they carried off their victim, but it broke because it had tightened about the wrist of Texas, who sat up in alarm an instant later, just in time to observe the four disappearing in the darkness. By the time they had crossed the sentry beat the rest of the Banded Seven were up and dressing gleefully.
After that the result was never in doubt for a moment. The five all crossed the sentry’s post without trouble, because they had heard the signal the yearlings gave. And a moment later the triumphant kidnapers, who were off in a lonely corner of the deserted fort binding up their prisoner as if he were a mummy, were horrified to find themselves confronted by five stalwart plebes.
Bull and his gang were helpless. They did not dare make any outcry, in the first place, because they were more to blame than the plebes in case of discovery, and in the second, because they were “scared to death” of that wild cowboy, who had already made his name dreaded by riding out and holding up the whole artillery squadron. But, oh, how they did fairly grit their teeth in rage!