[Adelaide Soulé, Helping the Highwayman, Sunset, November 1910]

 

Helping the Highwayman

By ADELAIDE SOULÉ

            IT was well up on the California side of the Sierra. The host, a brown-faced, loose-jointed mountaineer, who wore overalls, a pistol and a stiff straw hat as respectively indicative of his varied occupations—Dan Hawkins, agriculturist, cowboy and hotel-keeper--sat on the lowest step of the veranda. A humorous smile twisted his mouth now and then, as he listened to the chatter of his guests, but his eyes were upon the road. Presently he rose and lounged over to the barn. A horseman had ridden into the upper end of the pass.

            Dan met the rider behind the barn.

            "Got your message this morning," he said. He put out a sudden arm as the dismounting man staggered and clutched at the saddle. "Ye ain't wounded, are ye?"

            "No. Been in the saddle twenty-one hours."

            "Horse seems fresher'n you do," observed Dan.

            "Got him at Whelan's place this morning. Dan, I've got to have some sleep. Will you watch for an hour?" He dropped heavily in the shade of the barn. Dan flung the bridle over his arm and stood looking reflectively at the exhausted man.

            "Ben rather expectin' ye ever sence I got news of the jail-break," he said. "Bud'd be likely to make for this pass."

            The man on the ground nodded. "His folks still living down Placerville way?" he asked drowsily.

            "Yep, the two boys are. The old woman died last winter. The boys was through here last week."

            The man raised himself on his elbow. The tired eyes quickened with interest.

            "Going which way?"     .

            "Comin' back from Carson way, I guess." The two men exchanged meaning glances. Dan walked to the corner of the barn and peered at the idlers on the veranda. Then he came back and sat on the ground, close to the prostrate man's head.

            "They cached some food down near the bridge," he said in a low tone. "I found it by accident. It was still there at five this mornin'."

            "Then he hasn't got through," said the other, with keen satisfaction. "That was all I was afraid of. Didn't see how he could, coming cross country on foot, while I took the road, with change of horses. You never can tell, though."

            "Guess ye didn't waste any time," grinned the hotel-keeper, as he scanned the dust-grimed face.

            "Get out, Dan," muttered the other in the grip of sleep. "Keep an eye on the road an' the river."

            "Lord, man," said Dan, scrambling to his feet, "don't ye s'pose Bud's jest as dead for sleep as ye are? He'll try to git through by the river-bed after dark—if he's here."

            "He's here," said the other. "But he won't sleep—too hungry—" his voice trailed off and his head dropped to his arm. Dan sauntered down the road to the hotel.

            It was near sunset. High on the rocky ridge, four thousand feet above the little mountain resort, sunlight still lingered; but at its base all was dusky shadow. Back of the house, a few scattered pines and a vegetable patch ran down to the river. Across the leaping, brawling water, another line of cliff curved to meet the opposite wall at each end of the little valley. In reality, there was room for road and river, both narrowed, to enter and leave the cul-de-sac.

            "They re-captured two of them at the summit," said someone as Dan reached the veranda. "The other slipped through their fingers."

            "I'm so disappointed," pouted a pretty girl in white, with an elaborate fishing-pole across her lap. "I just counted on their coming through here."

            Dan took the pole and examined its complicated mechanism with amused scorn.

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            "The fish?" he said. "Expect 'em to come up and tap on your winder?"

            The pretty girl laughed. Her innocent eyes showed her delight in Dan.

            "The highwaymen, of course. I hoped they'd come this way."

            "Oh, the Carson jail-breakers? Well, they ain't exactly seekin' polite society, ye know. What they want is fresh air an' exercise, an' there's plenty of room fer that on the Nevada side."

            "But only a few passes to get through," persisted the girl, "and this one is easiest to reach."

            "Goodness, I hope they'll not take this road," said a nervous guest. "Why, they might murder us."

            "There's only one of them left," Sighed

            Patty, resting a dimpled chin in a pink palm;

            "I wish he'd come. I'd help him to escape."

            "Patty!" Mamma's tone was stern.

            Mamma's lifted brows, as she noted Dan's proximity, emphasized social distinctions. "These men are coarse, common convicts—murderers, perhaps."

            "No, mamma, only highwaymen—just as romantic as can be. I'm certain they're young and handsome. Aren't they, Dan?"

            "I ain't much of a judge of beauty," said Dan gravely. "Leastways, not of the masculine brand." He winked brazenly at Patty, and the girl gurgled her appreciation. He laid the pole down.

            "Tell ye, a fish ought to be gratified that's caught with that piece of machinery. Get many to-day?"

            "Not one. But I saw an awfully big trout down under the bridge."

            Dan glanced at her with quickened interest.

            "Ben fishin' near the bridge to-day?"

            "Yes, all the afternoon. I thought maybe I'd see the highwaymen pass." She cast a look of naughty defiance at her mother.

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568      Helping the Highwayman

            Dan laughed. "Guess the fish saw ye. That white dress of yours'd show quite a distance if anybuddy was watchin'." He chuckled again and started toward the barn. The girl ran after him.

            "Dan," she coaxed, "can't we have a big camp-fire down by the bridge to-night?"

            "What fer?" He stopped to stare at her. She balanced on one foot and wooed him with laughing, half-shut eyes. "Oh, just for fun. We could sit on the bridge and sing songs, you know."

            A slight smile crept around the corners of Dan's mouth. "All right," he said. "I'll have the wood carted down." The supper bell sounded and the girl ran back to the hotel.

            The bonfire, piled high in the middle of the road, left barely room for the circle of guests, who, with rugs, cushions and wraps, gathered close around it. The cliffs and the few scattered pines in the talus seemed to close in behind the human circle, forming an impenetrable barrier to the river-threaded canon beyond. Save by the river, there was no escape from the valley at this end. The mountain torrent ran fierce and deep in its narrow gorge, adding its roar to the crackling of the flames and the sough of the wind among the treetops. The fire flared high. Sometimes a long reach of the stream was illumined, again dark shadows lurked beneath the banks, or ran across until they merged in the middle. Under the bridge was complete darkness.

            Someone began to play on a mandolin. Dan, unnoticed, lounged out of the circle of light. He stretched himself on the riverbank and peered across the water.

                                    Oh, ho for bold Dick Turpin,

                                                Who rides the road at night,

                                    To take his toll from shaven poll,

                                                Or rob some luckless wight.

                                                            Oh-ho, ho-ho, ho-ho!

            The gay voices rang out to the strumming of banjos and the tinkle of the mandolin. Dan crouched closer to the ground. Something had dropped into the river with a slight splash. It might have been a falling pine-cone. It might have been a clod displaced by an unwary foot. Flat as a panther against the earth, he strained forward to watch. Something was moving on the farther bank of the stream, making its way with infinite care toward the bridge. Dan came slowly to his knees.

                                    He'll take his purse, he'll take his coat,

                                                He'll take his sword and knife.

                                    He'll find his hidden money-bags,

                                                And kiss his lady wife.

                                                            Oh-ho, ho-ho, ho-ho!

            There was a burst of laughter, followed by a sudden upleap of flames. For an instant, the river was as bright as day. Dan jumped to his feet with a smothered cry. The next instant he whirled, pistol in hand. Someone had touched him on the shoulder.

            The light flamed again and he saw Patty. His tense arm dropped.

            "Dan," she whispered excitedly, "there's something moving over there—down by the water's edge."

            "Nothin' there," said Dan distinctly: He caught the girl by the wrist and drew her hastily toward the fire. She resisted, looking back over her shoulder at the dark, swiftly-flowing stream.

            "Dan, I did see something."

            "A bobcat or. a mountain lion. Don't scare the others."

            "What's that?" shrieked Patty. She stopped, clutching his hand. Dan, too, listened, his head thrust forward, his grasp insistent upon Patty's arm. A sound had come from beneath the bridge. Then the mandolin trilled.

                                    Oh, ho for the bold highwayman

                                                Who rides so far and fast,

                                    For all he knows that he must grace

                                                The gallows-tree at last.

                                                            Oh-ho, ho-ho, ho-ho-o!

            In the midst of the singing there was another sound—two of them, sharp, almost simultaneous, distinctly audible to Dan's trained ear. He looked at the girl to see if she had heard—understood. She clung to him.

            "Listen," she gasped. "There is something—something splashing."

            Dan stared fixedly at the dark gulf under the bridge."

            "I don't hear it, Miss Patty," he said. at last. "Mebbe it was that big trout of yours leapin' at a fly."

            "Flies—at night!" said Patty incredulously.

            "Sure. The light on the water sets 'em whirling."       

            "Dan," cried a voice from the circle around the camp-fire. "Can't we have more wood? The fire's nearly out."

Adelaide Soulé            569

            "It's most midnight," suggested Dan. Cries of consternation from the older folk drowned the pleas of the younger and slowly the merrymakers struggled back to the hotel.

            "Do you think there was anything, Dan?" whispered Patty, tremulously excited.

            "Not a thing," said Dan reassuringly. "Go to bed, little girl." He smiled almost tenderly as she passed into the house. Then he sat down on the porch to wait until the last idler should have disappeared. He noted that the light lingered in Patty's window.

            "Sittin' up to see the highwaymen come ridin' by," chuckled Dan. "Miss Patty knows most as much about holdup men as she does about fish."

            He watched until the light went out. Then he walked softly down to the bridge. He crossed it and from the other bank made his way over rocks and fallen trees through a stinging underbrush to the water's edge. He crouched behind a boulder and listened. There was no sound but the rush and roar of the river. At last he spoke.

            "This is Dan Hawkins," he said. "Is anybuddy there?"

            Still no sound but the 'tumult of water. Dan, behind the rock, lighted a lantern and turned a shaft of light into the blackness under the bridge. From the dark foam-flecked stream it traveled upward, over the litter of rocks and driftwood, wavered among the bridge beams, dropped again to the ground, and there stopped. It showed two motionless human forms.

            On hands and knees, Dan crept toward them. At arm's length, he sat back on his heels, and turned the light on their faces. Neither stirred.

            "The sheriff an' Bud," he muttered under his breath—"both"—he bent closer and a grin drove the horror from his face.

            "If they ain't asleep," he chuckled—"in each other's arms, like two darned babes in the woods!"

            He prodded the sheriff in the ribs and let the light play ups in the upturned faces. It was the outlaw who first sprang convulsively into consciousness—to be thrown backward by the strap that bound him to the other man's body. His ironed hands clanked as they struck the ground and he turned his head to look into the sheriff's revolver. He fell back, scowling and sullen.

            Dan, his lantern held high, looked from one to the other.

            "Well, here ye are," he said impersonally.

            "Yes," said the sheriff, letting the revolver fall to his knee, "I thought Bud would try to get through as soon as it was dark, and I just naturally slid down here and watched for him."

            "Watched," sneered the outlaw. "You was fast asleep. I'd a got past, if some damned woman up in the road there hadn't yelled out an' waked you."

            "Well," said the sheriff pacifically, "I got you, anyway, Buddy."

            "Thanks to her! I wish I had a knife in her!"

            The two men looked in silence at the desperado. When Dan spoke, it was to the sheriff.

            "What ye goin' to do?"

            "The posse'll be along toward morning. Then we'll have a bite and start for Carson before your guests are up."

            "Better come up to the barn an' snooze a bit, hadn't ye?" suggested Dan. He looked at the two haggard, sleep-starved men, and they glanced at one another, all else merged in mutual longing for sleep.

            "It's pretty good here," yawned the sheriff, "and Bud has a bullet in his ankle. Guess he don't want to walk any more."

            The outlaw swore and rolled the length of his tether. His head fell upon his manacled arms. The sheriff lay down beside him with an arm across his shoulders. In a moment both slept.

            Dan met Patty on the bridge next morning, her fish-pole on her shoulder.

            "There have been horsemen here," she said, pointing to the scattered embers of the camp-fire.

            "Cattlemen," said Dan, innocent-eyed, "huntin' fer a stray. Prob'bly you heard 'em."

            She shook her head. "I wonder if the highwayman escaped. Oh, I hope he did."

            "Goin' to have a try fer the big trout?" asked Dan. She followed him to the rail and sent the line over her head in a long spiral, as Dan had taught her. The fly dropped far upstream and bobbed toward the cool dusk under the bridge. Suddenly the line tautened. the girl gave an exultant cry and jerked the pole. There was a flash of silver in the pale sunlight, then with a mighty wrench of his shining body the great trout freed himself and dropped back into the river.

570      Night

            "Well, the hardened old sinner," gasped Dan. "I've seen him many a time, but I never knew him to take the fly before. You can boast of that, Miss Patty."

            "But I lost him," she wailed. "Oh, why did I let him escape?"

            She hung, disconsolate, over the rail, looking down into the rushing, foaming stream. Dan gazed at her curiously.

            "Yet you wanted the holdup man to escape."

            "Oh—that was romantic. There's nothing romantic about that old trout."

            "He's a sight better character than Bud Dempsey," said Dan, "an' a sight better lookin', too."

            She turned, interested. "Wasn't the highwayman handsome?"

            "Well, no," said Dan reflectively, "not the last time I seen him, he wasn't."

            Her face showed disappointment. She let hand and fish-pole droop over the bridge rail until the line floated far downstream. "Anyway," she said, after a pause, "I wanted him to get away. It was so terrible to think of a human being over there against the cliff, hungry, hunted, in fear of his life. That was why I wanted the camp-fire—to make things more cheerful—to let him see how to get away, if he was there. I thought it might help, in some way."

            "It helped," said Dan.