CHAPTER XXII
The crash of the shattered lamp chimney brought Whistler broad awake, and the instinctive prick of danger sent him sprawling out of his bunk before ever his eyes could comprehend its nature. His stockinged feet plumped down upon the broken glass, even as Original had designed, and with an oath the big outlaw leaped clear.
"Hist 'em, Zang," came the cold voice out of the streaked shadows beyond the table. "An' not a peep from you or you 're a dead man."
Up went Whistler's hands. His face in the smoky light was a study in abysmal surprise. His mouth, opened to vent a yell, remained a swallow hole in the frozen stump of his countenance when the round eye of Original's .45 commanded silence.
A noise of scrabbling feet from the other side of the room. Without so much as turning his eyes thither, Original threw a warning over his shoulder:
"You, back there, cast your eyes to that window over by the door an' stay put in your bunk. This place isn't going to be healthy for to move round in."
A big hulk of a man, bearded like a chimpanzee, halted halfway out of his bunk and did as the strange voice bade. A face wearing a happy grin was pressed against the glass of the window; also the muzzle of a gun wickedly looking squarely at him. The face and the gun were Timberline Todd's. Now the door was suddenly pushed open and Hank Rogers entered.
"I call this pretty work, Original—pretty!" he caroled exultantly. "What li'l thing do you want me to do?"
"There's a reata over on that peg behind you," Original commanded. "Give that big woolly a tie." Then as he walked slowly over toward Zang. "I asks your pardon, Zang, for bustin' in this way on your beauty sleep. It ain't reg'lar nohow, but since you never did invite me to come an' see you an' I 've been mighty wishful for to make your closer acquaintance, I just natch'ly had to pick my own time. You can put 'em down now, Zang, so 's I can try out a little fit about your wrists."
The pair of steel wristlets that once before had linked the outlaw's hands that day of the fight in Hilma's cabin now glinted in Original's left hand. With his right he still kept Zang covered. The man's features now had clotted into deadly hate. He seemed almost on the point of throwing caution to the winds and leaping upon the little range inspector, who stood smiling and with the waiting handcuffs.
"I oughta 've let her kill you, Blunt, that last time we met up," the outlaw snarled. "She fought me because I took the gun from her when she was just about to put you out. I 'm dead sorry I did."
Original clicked the cuffs about Zang's wrists as he answered lightly:
"She 's a nice girl, Zang—leastways, I 've found her so. But rough—rough as a porcupine's back. I 'm beholden to you, Zang, for teachin' her good manners. Now you 'll excuse me, Zang, but I 'm not copperin' any bets right here and so" He finished by deftly gagging the man with a handkerchief and a small square of wood he fished from a pocket. Over the binding folds of the bandanna Whistler's eyes blazed like a cornered wolf's.
Hank Rogers had finished his job of binding the other outlaw's arms to his side with a handy loop left round the throat to be tightened for purposes of persuasion. Him Original also gagged. When both prisoners were at the door Original blew out the light. Timberline, chuckling softly, joined them at the door. The two helpless men were swiftly propelled across to the alder thicket where the horses waited. Zang and his bodyguard—for such the captors judged the second man to be—were, helped to saddles; Timber line and Rogers mounted behind them, and a wide circuit of the little settlement was made before the road to the valley door and Tisdale's beyond was resumed.
When they had ridden a mile from Bar C Ranch Original pushed his horse alongside of the one that was carrying Zang and released the gag from his mouth. The second prisoner was similarly freed. Whistler voiced no word, either of appreciation or of comment. The man was roweled by a burning question which his pride would not permit him to voice. What had Original done with Hilma; where was she now? Was this daring sally into the Spout—and Zang could not withhold secret admiration for his enemy's boldness—was this but a part with some plan of Blunt's which somehow involved the girl?
Zang Whistler rode through the night to an unknowable destiny with his whole spiritual being coiled back on itself like a cobra ready to strike.
Where the faint loom of the mountains ahead parted to mark the gate out of the Spout Original ordered a turn off the road and into the fringe of heavy pine woods that came down from the eastern slope of the valley. There in secure concealment he planned to await the coming of his reënforcements with the dawn. The prisoners were set with backs to tree trunks, the horses were tethered by their bridles, ready for instant mounting. Original and his companions settled themselves to endure the sharp mountain cold and the monotony of the dragging hours.
Stars paled over the tops of the pines above their heads, and the rosy banners of the dawn began to unfold against somber green. Original, growing restless, began looking at his watch at ten-minute intervals. The road was not fifty yards away from the covert where he had established the hiding place; momentarily he expected to hear the noise of hoofs which would be Andy Dorson's party swinging into the Spout for the early-morning attack. Finally he could contain his patience no longer. Bidding Timberline and Hank remain with the prisoners, he mounted Tige and pushed cautiously out of the pine thicket on to the road.
The sky was pulsing with a golden and crimson glory, telling that beyond the eastern rim of the valley the sun already was up. It was full time that his men, directed to move their wagons and remuda by night to a cache near Tisdale's and swing into the Spout by the Tisdale road before sunup, should be on hand. It was past time, in fact. Ere this, Original reflected, the kidnapping of Whistler and his bodyguard from the cabin at Bar C must have been discovered. Any sort of trailer among the outlaws could readily read the tale told by the hoofs of three strange horses and pursuit was inevitable if it were not already started.
Once again he read his watch; it said five-fifteen. He had just turned Tige down the road in the direction of the valley gate, a mile away, when the noise his ears had strained to hear came faintly to them—a beat-beat of hoofs.
But the pulse beat of the hoofs sounded from the direction of the outlaws' roost up the valley!
Original whirled Tige around on his haunches and dashed back into the thicket of pines. He spoke no word when he came to the circle of seated men, but the look on his face sent Timberline and Hank leaping for their saddles. Original dismounted before the big tree against which Zang and the other prisoner were backed. He spoke to them very quietly:
"Boys, I don't make it a habit to be careless with a gun"—his weapon now was in his hand—"but for the next five minutes any conversation—even so much as a sneeze from either of you—is goin' to drop this hammer."
Now the noise of the approaching horses came to all. Zang's face lightened and an eager light played in his eyes. He grinned wickedly at Original, who stood over him, but the mute round mouth of steel so near his made silence infectious.
A tense moment wherein the hearts of the three invaders of the Spout's outlaw territory raced riotously; another, and the pound-pound of many galloping hoofs passed the pine thicket and grew less as the pursuers swept on down the valley. Blindly they were riding, with no eyes to what the road could tell them, else already the covert would be smoking battle.
Hardly had Original and his companions caught their breath when sharp on the morning's stillness came a volley of shots from the direction of the outlaw settlement.
"Hark you!" Timberline exploded. "Dorson an' his pore yearlin' idjits took the wrong road—come over the east shoulder by the Bar C road 'stead of past Tisdale's."
"And where does that leave us?" Original added, his lips twisting in a wry smile. "Trapped I 'd say."