CHAPTER II
The rest of my second Night at Track's End, and part of another: withsome Things which happen between.
I was too frightened at first to move, and stood at the window staringinto the darkness like a fool. I heard the men scramble over a fenceand run off. Then I ran out to where Allenham lay. He made no answerwhen I spoke to him. I went on and met two of the deputies coming intothe alley. I told them what I had seen.
"Wake up folks in the hotel," said one of the men; then they hurriedalong. I soon had everybody in the hotel down-stairs with my shouting.In a minute or two they brought in Allenham, and the doctor began towork over him. The whole town was soon on hand, and it was decided todescend on the graders' camp in force. Twenty or thirty menvolunteered. One of the deputies named Dawson was selected asleader.
"Are you certain you can pick out the man who fired the shot?" saidDawson to me.
"Yes," I answered. "It was Pike."
"If you just came, how do you happen to know Pike?" he asked.
"He pulled me up last night by the ear and looked at me with alantern," I said.
"Well," replied the man, "we'll take you down and you can look at himwith a lantern."
They formed into a solid body, four abreast, with Dawson ahead holdingme by the arm, as if he were afraid I would get away. To tell thetruth, I should have been glad enough to have got out of the thing,but there seemed to be no chance of it. I was glad my mother could notknow about me.
We soon came up to the camp, and the men lined out and held their gunsready for use. Not a sound was to be heard except the loud snoring ofthe men in the nearest tent, which seemed to me almost _too_ loud.There was a dying camp-fire, and the stars were bright and twinklingin a deep-blue sky; but I didn't look at them much.
"Come, you fellows, get up!" called Dawson. This brought no answer.
"Come!" he called louder, "roust up there, every one of you. There'sfifty of us, and we've got our boots on!"
A man put his head sleepily out of a tent and wanted to know what wasthe trouble. Dawson repeated his commands. One of our men tossed somewood on the fire, and it blazed up and threw the long shadows of thetents out across the prairie. One by one the men came out, as if theywere just roused from sleep. There was a great amount of loud talk andprofanity, but at last they were all out. Pike was one of the last.Dawson made them stand up in a row.
"Now, young man," said he to me, "pick out the man you saw fire theshot that killed Allenham."
At the word killed Pike started and shut his jaws tightly together inthe middle of an oath. I looked along the line, but saw that I couldnot be mistaken. Then I took a step forward, pointed to Pike, andsaid:
"That's the man."
He shot a look at me of the most deadly hatred; then he laughed; butit didn't sound to me like a good, cheerful laugh.
"Come on," said Dawson to him. Then he ordered the others back intotheir tents, left half the men to guard them, and with the rest of ourparty went a little ways down the track to where an empty box-car wasstanding on the siding. "Get in there!" he said to Pike, and the mandid it, and the door was locked. Three men were left to guard thisqueer jail, and the rest of us went back to the Headquarters House.Here we found that the doctor's report was that Allenham wouldprobably pull through.
The next morning a mass-meeting was held in the square beside therailroad station. After some talk, most of it pretty vigorous, it wasdecided to order all of the graders to leave town without delay,except Pike, who was to be kept in the car until the outcome ofAllenham's wound was known. It wasn't necessary even for me to guesstwice to hit on what would be the fate of Pike if Allenham shoulddie.
In two hours the graders left. They made a long line of covered wagonsand filed away to the east beside the railroad track. They were prettyfree with their threats, but that was all it amounted to.
For a week Track's End was very quiet. Allenham kept on gettingbetter, and by that time was out of danger. There was a good deal oftalk about what ought to be done with Pike. A few wanted to hang him,notwithstanding that Allenham was alive.
"When you get hold of a fellow like him," said one man, "you can't gofar wrong if you hang him up high by the neck and then sort o' go offand forget him."
Others proposed to let him go and warn him to leave the country. Ithappened on the day the question was being argued that the wind wasblowing from the southwest as hard a gale as I ever saw. It swept upgreat clouds of dust and blew down all of the tents and endangeredmany of the buildings. In the afternoon we heard a shout from thedirection of the railroad. We all ran out and met the guards. Theypointed down the track to the car containing Pike rolling off beforethe wind.
"How did it get away?" everybody asked.
"Well," said one of the guards, "we don't just exactly know. We reckonthe brake got off somehow. Mebby a dog run agin the car with his noseand started it, or something like that," and the man rolled up hiseyes. There was a loud laugh at this, as everybody understood that theguards had loosened the brake and given the car a start, and they allsaw that it was a good way to get rid of the man inside. Tom Carr, thestation agent, said that, if the wind held, the car would not stopshort of the grade beyond Siding No. 15.
"My experience with the country," said Sours, "is that the wind alwaysholds and don't do much else. It wouldn't surprise me if it carriedhim clean through to Chicago."
I went back to the barn and sat down in the office. To tell the truth,I felt easier that Pike was gone. I well knew that he had no love forme. I sat a long time thinking over what had happened since I had cometo Track's End. It seemed, as if things had crowded one another somuch that I had scarcely had time to think at all. I little guessedall the time for thinking that I was going to have before I got awayfrom the place.
While I was sitting there on the bench an old gentleman came in andasked something about getting a team with which to drive into thecountry. There was a livery stable in town kept by a man named Mungerand a partner whose name I have forgotten; but their horses were allout. The Headquarters barn was mainly for the teams of people who putup at the hotel, but Sours had two horses which we sometimes let folkshave. After the old gentleman had finished his business he asked me myname, and then said:
"Well, Judson, you did the right thing in pointing out that desperadothe other night. I'm pleased to know you."
My reply was that I couldn't very well have done otherwise than I didafter what I saw.
"But there's many that wouldn't have done it, just the same," answeredthe old gentleman. "Knowing the kind of a man he is, it was very braveof you. My name is Clerkinwell. I run the Bank of Track's End,opposite the Headquarters House. I hope to hear further good reportsof you."
He was a very courtly old gentleman, and waved his hand with aflourish as he went out. You may be sure I was tickled at getting suchwords of praise from no less a man than a banker. I hurried and tookthe team around to the bank, and had a good look at it. It was asmall, square, two-story wooden building, like many of the others,with large glass windows in the front, through which I could see acounter, and behind it a big iron safe.
I had given up sleeping in the house, with its squirrel-cage rooms,preferring the soft prairie hay of the barn. But when bedtime camethis night Mr. Clerkinwell had not returned, so I sat up to wait forthe team. He had told me that he might be late. It was past midnightwhen he drove up to the barn.
"Good-evening, Judson," said he. "So you waited for me."
"Yes, sir," I answered.
"Do you know if Allenham or any one is on watch about town to-night?"
"I think not, sir," I said. "I haven't seen nor heard anybody for overan hour."
"Very careless, very careless," muttered the old gentleman. Then hewent out, and in a moment I heard his footsteps as he went up theoutside stairs to his rooms in the second story of his bank building.I put the horses in their stalls, and fed and watered them, andstarted up the ladder to the loft. What Mr. Clerkinwell had said wasstill runnin
g in my mind. I stopped and thought a moment, andconcluded that I was not sleepy, and decided to take a turn abouttown.
I left my lantern and went out to the one street. There was not asound to be heard except the rush of the wind around the houses. Themoon was almost down, and the buildings of the town and Frenchman'sButte made long shadows on the prairie. There was a dull spot of lighton the sky to the southeast which I knew was the reflection of aprairie fire a long ways off; but there was a good, wide fire-brake aquarter of a mile out around the town, so there was no danger fromthat, even if it should come up.
I went along down toward the railroad, walking in the middle of thestreet so as not to make any noise. The big windmill on the water-tankswung a little in the wind and creaked; and the last light from themoon gleamed on its tail and then was gone. I turned out across wherethe graders had had their camp. Here the wind was hissing through thedry grass sharp enough. I stood gaping at the stars with the windblowing squarely in my face, and wondering how I ever came so farfrom home, when all at once I saw straight ahead of me a little blazeof fire.
My first thought was that it was the camp-fire of some mover on thefire-brake. It blazed up higher, and lapped to the right and left. Itwas the grass that was afire. Through the flames I caught a glimpse ofa man. A gust of wind beat down the blaze, and I saw the man, bentover and moving along with a great torch of grass in his hand, leavinga trail of fire. Then I saw that he was inside the fire-brake.
In another moment I was running up the middle of the street yelling"Fire!" so that to this day it is a wonder to me that I did not burstboth of my lungs.