CHAPTER XIII.
CAPTURED THE WRONG BOY.
As the boys listened voices came distinctly to their ears. It wasevident that the men who were talking had only recently arrived at thespot where they stood, for all had been quiet a short time before.
The boys crept closer and saw a party of rough-looking natives gatheredabout an evil-looking man, who appeared to be an Englishman, and aslender figure which Jimmie had no difficulty in recognizing as that ofGeorge Fremont. The sinister Englishman, undoubtedly the leader of theparty, was a giant of a fellow.
As the boys looked, he reached forth a great hand and, seizing Fremontby one shoulder, shook him fiercely. Then it was seen that Fremont'shands were tied behind his back. Jimmie started forward,involuntarily, at sight of the brutality of the act, but the drummerdrew him back.
"You'll have to remain quiet," the latter said, "if you want to helpyour friend. We can't fight the whole party. Have you a gun with you?"
Jimmie nodded and laid a hand on his hip.
"I am unarmed," the other said, in a minute, "and so couldn't do muchin a fight; so, perhaps I'd better go down and bring up the guards."
"Just the thing," whispered Jimmie. "I'll remain with this gang ofbandits and manage to leave a trail that can be followed if they leavethe place. Go on down an' bring the guards. And," he added, a halfsmile on his anxious face, "don't forget to bring your drum."
"My drum!" repeated the other, in amazement. "What is the good ofbringing a drum, I'd like to know?"
"Bring it, anyway," directed Jimmie. "If you hear a shot up here, playit to beat a band. Beat it for keeps. Rattle off a charge, and make anoise like a regiment of cavalry. And if you can't make good timeclimbing down, slip on a rock an' roll down. Somethin' must be donequick!"
"I don't believe they will shoot him," the drummer said, tentatively,hesitating for an instant.
"If that big lobster gives the order to do it," Jimmie said, his eyesflashing, "I'll get him before the order can be obeyed. They may getme after that, but I'll have the satisfaction of knowin' that I got tohim first. Now, run!"
The dawn was strong in the east when the drummer disappeared down theside of the mountain. It had been an eventful night, a long one to theboy standing there watching for an opportunity of making his presenceknown to the prisoner. There was a deal of talking going on in thegroup about the prisoner, but Jimmie could catch only part of what wassaid.
The soldiers--if the ragged, sullen-looking natives might so betermed--talked fast and in a villainous tongue which did not seem to beSpanish. They appeared to be greatly excited, and it was only when theheavy voice of the leader boomed forth that they reverted to silence.
Jimmie could not understand what the prisoner had been brought therefor. If the idea of his captors was to restore him to his friends,that would be the work of only a minute. They would only have to cutthe bonds and Fremont would do the rest. If the idea was to murderhim, why the delay? It had been hours since his capture, and it wouldhave taken only a minute to discover that the wrong boy had been taken.
If, as Jimmie considered gravely, the big man should prove to be acivil officer from Texas, a a man with a warrant for Fremont, then itseemed that he would be getting him across the border as quickly aspossible, taking no chances with slow Mexican criminal procedure. Thislast view of the case was the one which Jimmie feared most. He might beable to get his friend away from Mexican bandits, but not from a Texassheriff.
The next words of the leader settled every doubt on the question theboy was puzzling over. Although they showed that Fremont was inimmediate peril of his life, the watcher was in a measure relieved atthe knowledge they brought him. So long as Fremont was held a prisonerby those who were breaking and not enforcing the law in doing so, therewas hope of rescue.
"Nestor," the Englishman said, thrusting his bewhiskered face into thatof Fremont, "tell me where the papers are, and I'll set you free in aninstant."
"I know nothing about the papers you speak of," was the reply. "I havenever had them in my possession."
The renegade whispered with his companions for a moment. Jimmie couldnot hear what was being said, but the soldiers seemed to be insistingon some point which the leader was not quite certain of. Then thelatter asked:
"You are certain you made no mistake?"
The others nodded and pointed at Fremont.
"It is as you commanded," one of them said, in fair English.
Then the big man turned back to the prisoner, an ugly frown on hisrepulsive face.
"You are not telling me the truth," he said. "You know well enoughwhere the papers are. It is useless for you to deny."
The leader believed the prisoner to be Nestor. That was plain now.And Fremont had been captured by these brigands in the absence of theleader, and he was taking their word that they had abducted the rightboy. This might account for the delay. The leader might have joinedhis men only now.
"I don't know anything about the papers," insisted Fremont.
"Huh!" muttered Jimmie, from his hiding place. "Why don't he tell hisnobbs who he is? Then he might be released."
Jimmie did not know that Fremont had long been considering this verypoint, and finally decided that the correct course for him to pursuewould be to permit his captor to remain in ignorance of his identity.The instant he knew that his brigands had made a mistake, the fellowwould be out after Nestor with a larger force, and that would make itdangerous for the boy, would hamper him in the work he was there to do.Besides, he believed that the course he proposed would gain time, andthat Nestor would certainly come to his rescue.
"You are making a mistake," the big man threatened, as Fremont againdenied knowledge of the papers. "You are known to have been in theCameron building that night. You are known to have taken the papersaway from there, and to have made use of them. I won't say whattreacherous use now. If the papers are not on your person, they arehidden somewhere."
Fremont only shook his head. In the growing light Jimmie could seethat he was very pale, that he seemed tired out, as if he had beentraveling all night. However, the white face he saw had a determinedlook, and Jimmie marveled at the mental processes which should soobstinately defend a wrong idea, which, of course, he only guessed.
"Everything you have done since you left the building that night isknown to me," the big man went on. "You deserve death for the marplotthat you are, but I will release you if you will restore the papers."
Fremont made no reply whatever to this. As a matter of fact, he didnot even know the nature of the papers which were so in demand, Nestorhaving told him little of his real mission to Mexico. In the meantimeJimmie way trying in every way he could think of, without revealing hispresence, to catch Fremont's eye and make him understand that help wasat hand, and that he ought to reveal his identity and so create delay,as well as escape whatever cruelty the big fellow had in store for theboy he was being mistaken for.
"I'll give you three minutes, Nestor," the leader finally said, "totell me where the papers are. At the end of that time, if you remainobstinate, I'll order you shot. Decide!"
Jimmie twisted and wiggled about until he became fearful that the noisehe was making must disclose his presence, but Fremont did not cast alook in his direction. The leader stood grimly in the foreground withwatch in hand. The seconds seemed to Jimmie to be running by like amill-race.
"Two minutes."
Fremont's face did not change, except for a slight tightening of thelips. Jimmie listened intently for the sound of a drum on the mountainside below. It now was quite light, and the watcher could see everymovement made by the men he believed to be brigands and their prisoner.A chill of terror ran through his veins as he saw the ragged squadexamining their guns as if they expected to use them at the expirationof two more minutes.
"One minute."
The leader snapped out the words viciously; his evil eyes sparred foran instant with those of his captive and were then lowe
red to theground. Jimmie took his revolver from his pocket and held it ready foraction. As he had declared to the drummer, it was his deliberateintention to shoot the leader an instant before he gave the order tofire. He knew that the discharge would point out his place ofconcealment, and did not doubt that the volley intended for Fremontwould be turned upon himself, but the knowledge did not swerve him fromhis purpose.
He counted the next seconds by his own fierce heart-beats. Thirty-four.Thirty-five. Thirty-six. It seemed to him that a second was never soshort before. At sixty he would fire if he saw no evidence ofweakening in Fremont. And he did not believe that Fremont wouldweaken. He was coming to understand that Fremont was obsessed with theidea that he was protecting Nestor by the course he was taking. Thisbeing true, he would remain loyal to the very end.
Thirty-nine. The leader seemed about to lift his hand as a signal forthe squad to level their guns, when a shout came from up the slope, anda figure every whit as ragged and disreputable in appearance as the mengathered about the prisoner swung into sight, leaping over ledges andlifting voice and hand in warning as he advanced.
The men, now swinging their guns into position, paused and held themmotionless while they gazed at the intruder. The leader shifted aboutuneasily and muttered something under his breath. Released, for themoment at least, from the strain he had been under, Jimmie dropped backin his hiding place, his weapon clattering to the ground. It was notthe fact of his own peril that had wrought him up to the point ofbreaking, but the thought that it might be necessary for him to take ahuman life.
It seemed to the boy that there was displeasure half hidden in theleader's manner as he conferred with the messenger. He did not appearto approve of the interruption.
"Why didn't you tell me that you had made a mistake and taken the wrongboy?" he demanded, then turning to the men. "Why didn't you tell methis was not Nestor?"
The men made no reply except that one of them grumbled that they hadcaptured the boy whose description they had been given, and the leaderturned to Fremont.
"Why didn't you declare your identity?" he demanded.
"I had no reason to believe that anything I could say would becredited," was the cool reply. "You saw fit to disbelieve what I saidabout the papers."
"What is your name?" the other asked, laying a hand on the boy's arm.
Fremont remained silent, but the messenger stepped forward and declaredthat he knew the fellow well by sight, and that his name was GeorgeFremont.
"Is that true?" demanded the renegade, and Fremont nodded.
Somehow it seemed to Jimmie that the renegade expected the answer thathe had received, and that he way angry with the messenger for bringingout the boy's name. At any rate he glanced furtively at his men as thename was mentioned.
"And so," he said, then, "you are the boy wanted in New York forattempted murder and robbery? The boy with a reward of $10,000 on hishead."