Bert Wilson in the Rockies

A Desperate Encounter

A shower of glass from the shattered windowpane fell over the floor and seats, and a bullet embedded itself in the woodwork of an upper berth. There was a shriek from the women passengers in the crowded Pullman, and the men looked at each other in consternation. From the platform came the sound of a scuffle, interspersed with oaths. Then, through the narrow corridor that bordered the smoking-room, hurried two men, pushing the terrified negro porter ahead of them. Each of the intruders wore a black cloth tied over the lower part of his face, and before the bewildered passengers knew what had happened they found themselves looking along the blue-black barrels of two ugly revolvers.

It was a startling break in an uneventful day. For several hours the Overland Limited had hummed along over the boundless prairies that stretched away on either side with scarcely a break to the horizon. They had time to make up, and on these open spaces the engineer had let it out to the limit. So swiftly and smoothly had it sped along that the "click, click" as it struck each separate rail had merged into one droning "song of the road."

There had been no rain for a week past, and the dust lay thick on the grass and cactus. The motion of the train drew it up in clouds that made it impossible to keep the windows raised, and the sun, beating down pitilessly from a brazen sky, added to the general discomfort. Cooling drinks were at a premium, and the porters were kept busy making trips to the buffet car, from which they returned with tinkling glasses and cooling ices. Collars wilted and conversation languished. Women glanced listlessly over the pages of the magazines. Men drew their traveling caps over their eyes and settled down for a doze. Here and there a commercial traveler jotted down some item or wondered how far he dared to "pad" his expense account so that it would "get by" the lynx-eyed head of the firm. In the smoking-room a languid game of cards was being played, in an effort to beguile the tedious monotony of the trip. Over all there brooded a spirit of somnolence and relaxation.

If there was life to be discerned anywhere, it was in a group of three young fellows seated near the middle of the car. They would have drawn more than a passing glance wherever seen. Tall, well set up, muscular, they served as splendid types of young American manhood. None of them were over twenty, and their lean, bronzed faces, as well as the lithe alertness of their movements, spoke of a life spent largely in the open. They were brimming with life and high spirits. Exuberant vitality shone through their eyes and betrayed itself in every gesture. That they were friends of long standing was evident from the utter absence of ceremony and the free and easy comradeship with which they chaffed each other.

From the beginning of the trip they had been full of fun and merriment. Their college year had just closed, and they were like frolicsome colts turned out to pasture. There was hardly an incident of the journey that did not furnish to their keen, unjaded senses something of interest and amusement. Their cup of life was full and they drained it in great draughts.

But just now even their effervescence was calmed somewhat by the heat and spirit of drowsiness that hovered over the car.

"Gee," yawned the youngest of the three, stretching out lazily. "Isn't it nearly twelve o'clock? I wonder when that dusky gentleman will come along with the call to dinner."

"Always hungry," laughed one of the others. "The rest of us eat to live, but Tom lives to eat."

"You've struck it there, Dick," assented the third. "You know they say that no one has ever been able to eat a quail a day for thirty days hand running, but I'd be willing to back Tom to do it."

"Well, I wouldn't quail at the prospect," began Tom complacently, and then ducked as Dick made a pass at him.

"Even at that, I haven't got anything on you fellows," he went on, in an aggrieved tone. "When you disciples of 'plain living and high thinking' get at the dinner table, I notice that it soon becomes a case of high living and plain thinking."

"Such low-brow insinuations deserve no answer," said Dick severely. "Anyway," consulting his watch, "it's only half-past eleven, so you'll have to curb the promptings of your grosser nature."

"No later than that?" groaned Tom. "I don't know when a morning has seemed so long in passing."

"It is a little slow. I suppose it's this blistering heat and the long distance between stations. It's about time something happened to break the monotony."

"Don't raise false hopes, Bert," said Tom, cynically. "Nothing ever happens nowadays."

"Oh, I don't know," laughed Bert. "How about the Mexican bandits and the Chinese pirates? Something certainly happened when we ran up against those rascals."

"They were lively scraps, all right," admitted Tom, "but we had to go out of the country to get them. In the little old United States, we've got too much civilization. Everything is cut and dried and pared and polished, until there are no rough edges left. Think of the fellows that made this trip across the continent sixty years ago in their prairie schooners, getting cross-eyed from looking for buffalo with one eye and Indians with the other, feeling their scalp every five minutes to make sure they still had it. That was life."

"Or death," put in Dick skeptically.

"Then look at us," went on Tom, not deigning to notice the interruption, "rolling along smoothly at fifty miles an hour in a car that's like a palace, with its cushioned seats and electric lights and library and bath and soft beds and rich food and servants to wait upon us. We're pampered children of luxury, all right, but I'm willing to bet that those 'horny-handed sons of toil' had it on us when it came to the real joy of living."

"Tom was born too late?" chaffed Bert. "He doesn't really belong in the twentieth century. He ought to have lived in the time of Ivanhoe, or Young Lochinvar, or the Three Musketeers, or Robin Hood. I can see him bending a bow in Nottingham Forest or breaking a lance in a tournament or storming a fortress by day, and at night twanging a guitar beneath a castle window or writing a sonnet to his lady's eyebrow."

"Well, anyhow," defended Tom, "those fellows of the olden time had good red blood in their veins."

"Yes," assented Dick drily, "but it didn't stay there long. There were too many sword points ready to let it out."

And yet, despite their good-natured "joshing" of Tom, they, quite as much as he, were eager for excitement and adventure. In the fullest sense they were "birds of a feather." In earlier and ruder days they would have been soldiers of fortune, cutting their ways through unknown forests, facing without flinching savage beasts and equally savage men, looking ever for new worlds to conquer. Even in these "piping days of peace" that they so much deplored, they had shown an almost uncanny ability to get into scrapes of various kinds, from which sometimes they had narrowly escaped with a whole skin. Again and again their courage had been severely tried, and had stood the test. At home and abroad, on land and sea, they had come face to face with danger and death. But the fortune that "favors the brave" had not deserted them, even in moments of deadliest peril. They were accustomed to refer to themselves laughingly as "lucky," but those who knew them best preferred to call them plucky. A stout heart and a quick wit had "many a time and oft" extricated them from positions where luck alone would have failed them.

And most of their adventures had been shared in company. The tie of friendship that bound them together as closely as brothers was of long standing. Beginning at a summer camp, five years earlier, where chance had thrown them together, it had grown increasingly stronger with every year that passed. A subtle free masonry had from the start made each recognize the others as kindred spirits. Since this first meeting their paths had seldom diverged. Together they had gone to college, where their athletic prowess had put them in the first rank in sports and made them popular among their comrades. On the baseball diamond they had played their positions in brilliant fashion, and on the football gridiron they had added to their laurels. When Bert had been chosen to go to the Olympic games abroad, his "pals" had gone with him and exulted in his glorious victory, when, in the Marathon race, he had beaten the crack runners of the world. Nor were they to be denied, when his duty as wireless operator had carried him over the Pacific to meet with thrilling experiences among the yellow men of Asia. In every time of storm and stress they had stood with him shoulder to shoulder, and faced life and death with eyes wide open and unafraid. They were worthy lieutenants of a brave and intrepid leader.

For, that he was their leader, they themselves would have been the first to admit, although he would have modestly disclaimed it. He never asserted leadership, but it sought him out of its own accord. He had the instinct, the initiative, the quick decision, the magnetic personality that marks the born captain. It was not merely that he was endowed with strength of muscle and fleetness of foot and power of endurance that placed him in a class by himself. He might have had all these, and still been only a superb specimen of the "human animal." But, above and controlling these qualities, was the indomitable will, the unflinching courage, the gallant audacity that made him the idol of his comrades.

The college year just ended had been a notable one, marked by victories on track and field. Together with the high rank he had reached and held in his studies, with which, unlike many athletes, he never allowed sport to interfere, it had taxed him heavily in mind and body. And it was with unfeigned delight that he now looked forward to a long season of recreation and adventure on the ranch in Montana, toward which he and his friends were speeding.

Mr. Melton, the owner of the ranch, was a Western cattleman of the old type, now rapidly disappearing. Bluff, rough and ready, generous and courageous, his sterling qualities had won the admiration and affection of the boys from the date of their first meeting the year before.

That meeting had taken place under extraordinary circumstances. The "Three Guardsmen"-so called in joke, because they were always together-journeying to the opening of the Panama Canal had found themselves on the same train with Melton, as it wound its way through Central Mexico. A broken trestle had made it necessary for the train to halt for an hour or two, and during this enforced stop Dick had carelessly wandered away on a stroll through the woods, tempted by the beauty of the day and the novelty of his surroundings. At a turn in the road he had suddenly found himself in the presence of twenty or more guerillas, headed by the notorious El Tigre, whose name was spoken with a shudder throughout Mexico. They had bound him and carried him off to their mountain retreat. Bert and Tom, an hour later, discovered the cause of his absence and immediately started in pursuit, determined to save their comrade or die with him. But first they had disclosed the situation to Melton, who had sworn in his rage to follow after them and aid them in the rescue. How faithfully he had kept his word, how skillfully and daringly he had led them on and rushed the camp just as Dick was steeling himself to undergo the rattlesnake torture that the bandit chief had planned for him, was engraven indelibly on the memories of the boys. Until the day of their death they could never forget how the old war horse, with everything to lose and nothing to gain, had come to their assistance simply because they were Americans and in dire need of help.

And on Melton's part the feeling was equally warm. He had taken an instantaneous liking to these young countrymen of his who had played their part so gallantly. They recalled to him the days of his own stormy youth, when he had ridden the range and when his life had depended on his iron nerve and his quickness with the trigger. Though older than they by forty years, they were all cut on the same pattern of sturdy, self-reliant American manhood, and it was with the utmost cordiality that he had crushed their hands in his strong grip and urged them to visit him at his ranch in the Rockies. Since then he had been East on a business trip and had been present on that memorable day when Bert, with the ball tucked under his arm, had torn down the field in the great race for the goal that won the game in the last minute of play. Then he had renewed the invitation with redoubled earnestness, and promised them the time of their lives. They needed no urging to do a thing that accorded so well with their own inclinations, and from that time on until the opening of the summer had shaped everything with that end in view. Now they were actually launched upon their journey. That it held for them a new and delightful experience they did not doubt. How much of danger and excitement and hairbreadth escape it also held, they did not even dream.

"Bully old boy, Melton," commented Tom, playing lazily with a heavy paperweight he had bought at a curio shop at their last stopping place.

"A diamond in the rough," assented Dick.

"All wool and a yard wide," declared Bert, emphatically. "I wonder if he--Great Scott, what's that?" as a bullet whizzed through the window of the Pullman.

The question was quickly answered when their eyes fell on the robbers, who, with leveled pistols, dominated the car. And the threat of the weapons themselves was not more sinister than the purpose that glinted in the ferocious eyes above the improvised masks. There was no mere bluff and bluster in that steady gaze. They were ready to shoot and shoot to kill. Their lives were already forfeit to the law, anyway, and in that rough country they would get "a short shrift and a long rope" if their plans went astray. They might as well be hung for murder as robbery, and, while they did not mean to kill unless driven to it, they were perfectly ready to do so at the first hint of resistance.

The paralyzing moment of surprise passed, there was a stir among the passengers. The first instinct was to hide their valuables or drop them on the floor. But this was checked instantly by the outlaws.

"Hands up," shouted one of them with an oath. "I'll kill the first man that makes a move."

His pistol ranged over the car, flickering like the tongue of a snake, seeming to cover every passenger at once. Beneath its deadly insistence, hands were upraised one after the other. Resistance at that moment meant instant death. The unwritten law of the West had to be obeyed. He "had the drop" on them.

The leader grinned malignantly and spoke to his companion, without for an instant turning his gaze.

"Now, Bill," he growled, "I've got these mavericks covered. Pass round the hat. These gents-and ladies," he leered-"will hand over their coin and jewelry, and God help the one who tries to renig. He won't never need money no more."

Taking his old sombrero from his head, the one addressed as Bill started in to collect from the front of the car.

"Only one hand down at a time to get your money," shouted his companion. "And mind," he added ominously, "I'm watchin' that hand."

Pocket books and rings and watches dropped into the hat. Women were sobbing hysterically and men were cursing under their breath.

"Stung," groaned Tom disgustedly.

"And our pistols in our bags," growled Dick.

Bert's mind had been working like lightning. He was always at his best when danger threatened. Now his body grew taut and his eyes gleamed.

"Be ready, you fellows," he said in low tones, scarcely moving his lips. "Dick, back me up when I make a move. Tom, got that paperweight handy?"

"Right alongside on the window ledge," muttered Tom.

Still keeping his eyes in an innocent stare on the outlaw captain, Bert murmured a few words. They caught his meaning on the instant and were ready.

The man with the hat was getting nearer. There had been no sign of resistance and the leader relaxed his caution ever so slightly. This was easier than they had dared to hope.

The sombrero was sagging now with the unwilling wealth poured into it, and the collector, relying on the vigilance of his companion, was compelled to use both hands to keep the contents from spilling on the floor.

He held it out in front of Bert and Dick.

"Your turn now," he snarled. "Fork over."

They lowered their hands as though to get out their money. Then something happened.

Like a flash, Dick grabbed the pistol hand of the collector, while Bert's fist shot up in a tremendous smashing uppercut. The man staggered back, and Bert and Dick were on him like a pair of wildcats.

At the same instant, with all the power of his trained baseball arm, Tom had hurled the heavy paperweight straight at the outlaw captain. It caught him full between the eyes. His pistol fell from his hand, going off as it did so, and he crumpled up and went down to the floor in a heap.

It was all over in a second. The whole thing had been so perfectly timed, brain and hand had worked in such absolute unison that disaster had come on the outlaws like a bolt from the blue. It was "team work" of the finest kind.

The first surprise over, the other men in the car came crowding to the assistance of the chief actors in the scrimmage. But the danger was past. The leader was unconscious, and the other, badly beaten and cursing horribly, was helpless in the grasp of the victors. Train men, rushing in, took charge of the prisoners and trussed them up securely.

A posse was hastily organized among the passengers and, heavily armed, swarmed from the train in quest of the two remaining members of the band, who had been left to guard the engineer and fireman. The miscreants saw them coming, however, and realized that the game was up. They emptied their pistols and then flung themselves upon their horses and galloped off, secure for the time from further pursuit.

The conductor, still pale and shaken from excitement, gave the signal. There was a scramble to get aboard, the whistle tooted and the train once more got under way.

In the Pullman there was a wild turmoil, as the relieved passengers crowded around the boys and wrung their hands in congratulation. They couldn't say enough in praise of the courage and presence of mind that had turned the tables so swiftly and gallantly. The spoils were retrieved and distributed among the rightful owners, and then, with a bow of mock politeness, the old sombrero, empty now, was clapped on the head of the baffled collector, who received it with a new string of blasphemies.

By this time the victim of Tom's unerring aim had gradually struggled back to consciousness. His arms and feet had been securely tied and his remaining revolver had been taken from his belt. Of a stronger mold than his accomplice, he disdained to vent his rage in useless imprecations and relapsed into silence as stoical as an Indian's. But, if looks could kill, the boys would have been blasted by the brooding hate that shot from under his jutting brows.

"I'm glad it didn't kill him, anyway," said Tom, as, after the tumult had somewhat subsided, they once more were seated and the train was flying along at full speed.

"It's a wonder it didn't," responded Dick. "It was a fearful crack."

"Tom hasn't forgotten the way he used to shoot them down from third base to first," laughed Bert. "That right wing of his is certainly a dandy."

"It's lucky it is," said the conductor, who had just returned from giving directions concerning the prisoners; "and talking about wings," he added, turning to Bert, "there's no discount on yours. That fist hit like a sledgehammer. The way you fellows piled into him was a crime. I never saw a prettier bit of rough house.

"But the beauty of it all," he went on, "was the way you worked together. If any one of you hadn't 'come through' at the same second, the jig would have been up. Who figured it out?"

"Here's the slow thinker that did it," said Dick, clapping Bert on the shoulder.

"That's the bonehead, sure enough," echoed Tom.

"Oh, come off," growled Bert, flushing a little and fidgeting uneasily in his seat. "There was a whole lot of luck about it, anyway. If we hadn't had the paperweight, all the thinking in the world wouldn't have done us a bit of good."

"If you hadn't had the thinking, all the paperweights in the world wouldn't have done us a bit of good," corrected Tom.

"Well, there's glory enough for all," smiled the conductor. "The main point is that you fellows have put me and the company under a load of gratitude and obligation that we can never repay. Call it quick thinking, quick acting, or both-you turned the trick."

"It had to be a case of 'the quick or the dead,'" grinned Tom.

"Sure thing," assented the conductor. "You were the quick and those two rascals are the dead. Or will be before long," he added grimly. "I'll turn them over to the sheriff at the next station. There's a hand bill in the baggage car describing a band of outlaws that the authorities of three States have been after for a long time for robbery and murder, and two of the descriptions fit these fellows to a dot. There's a price on their heads, dead or alive, and I guess they've reached the end of their rope in more senses than one."

He passed on and the boys relaxed in their seats. They were still under the nervous strain of the stirring scene in which they had been the chief actors. Tom's breath was coming fast and his eyes were shining.

Bert looked at him for a moment and then nudged Dick.

"Didn't I hear some one say a little while ago," he asked slyly, "that in this little old United States there was too much civilization?"

"Yes," replied Dick, still quoting, "nothing ever happens nowadays."

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