Do and Dare — a Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune

CHAPTER XXII. A MOUNTAIN STAGE

We pass over several days, and change the scene. We left Herbert and Melville in the Palmer House in Chicago, surrounded by stately edifices and surging crowds. Now everything is changed. They are in a mountainous district, where a man might ride twenty miles without seeing a house. They are, in fact, within the limits of what was then known as the Territory of Colorado. It is not generally known that Colorado contains over a hundred mountain summits over ten thousand feet above the sea level. It is perhaps on account of the general elevation that it is recommended by physicians as a good health resort for all who are troubled with lung complaints.

At the time of which I speak most of the traveling was done by stage. Now railroads unite the different portions with links of steel, and make traveling less cumbersome and laborious. There was one of the party, however, who did not complain, but rather enjoyed the jolting of the lumbering stage-coach.

Col. Warner was of the party. He professed to feel an extraordinary interest in George Melville, and was anxious to show him the country where he had himself regained his health.

“Lonely, sir!” repeated the colonel, in answer to a remark of George Melville. “Why, sir, it’s a populous city compared with what it was in ‘55, when I was out here. I built myself a cabin in the woods, and once for twelve months I didn’t see a white face.”

“Were there many Indians, Colonel?” asked Herbert.

“Indians? I should say so. Only twenty miles from my cabin was an Indian village.”

“Did they trouble you any?” asked Herbert, curiously.

“Well, they tried to,” answered the colonel. “One night as I lay awake I heard stealthy steps outside, and peeping through a crevice between the logs just above the head of my bed—by the way, my bed was the skin of a bear I had myself killed—I could see a string of Utes preparing to besiege me.”

“Were you afraid?” asked Herbert, a little mischievously, for he knew pretty well what the colonel would say.

“Afraid!” repeated the colonel, indignantly. “What do you take me for? I have plenty of faults,” continued Col. Warner, modestly, “but cowardice isn’t one of them. No, sir; I never yet saw the human being, white, black, or red, that I stood in fear of. But, as I was saying, the redskins collected around my cabin, and were preparing to break in the door, when I leveled my revolver and brought down their foremost man. This threw them into confusion. They retreated a little way, then advanced again with a horrible yell, and I gave myself up for lost. But I got in another shot, bringing down another warrior, this time the son of their chief. The same scene was repeated. Well, to make a long story short, I repulsed them at every advance, and finally when but three were left, they concluded that prudence was the better part of valor, and fled, leaving their dead and wounded behind them.”

“How many were there of them?” asked Herbert.

“Well, in the morning when I went out I found seven dead redskins, and two others lying at the point of death.”

“That was certainly a thrilling adventure, Colonel,” said George Melville, smiling.

“Egad, I should say so.”

“I confess I don’t care to meet with any such.”

“Oh, no danger, no danger!” said the colonel, airily. “That is, comparatively speaking. In fact, the chief danger is of a different sort.”

“Of the sleigh upsetting and tipping us out into some of the canyons, I suppose you mean?”

“No, I speak of the gentlemen of the road—road agents as they are generally called.”

“You mean highwaymen?”

“Yes.”

“Is there much danger of meeting them?” asked Melville.

“Well, there’s a chance. They are quite in the habit of attacking stage-coaches, and plundering the passengers. Sometimes they make rich hauls.”

“That must be rather inconvenient to the passengers.” said Melville. “Can’t the laws reach these outlaws?”

“They don’t seem to. Why, there are men who have been in the business for years, and have never been caught.”

“Very true,” said a fellow traveler. “There’s Jerry Lane, for instance. He has succeeded thus far in eluding the vigilance of the authorities.”

“Yes,” said the colonel, “I once saw Lane myself. Indeed he did me the honor of relieving me of five hundred dollars.”

“Couldn’t you help it?” asked Herbert.

“No; he covered me with his revolver, and if I had drawn mine I shouldn’t have lived to take aim at him.”

“Were you in a stage at the time?”

“No, I was riding on horseback.”

“Is this Lane a large man?” asked George Melville.

“Not larger than myself,” continued the colonel.

“Where does he live—in some secret haunt in the forest, I suppose?”

“Oh, no, he doesn’t confine himself to one place. He travels a good deal. Sometimes he goes to St. Louis. I have heard that he sometimes even visits New York.”

“And is he not recognized?”

“No; he looks like anything but an outlaw. If you should see him you might think him a prosperous merchant, or banker.”

“That’s curious!” said Herbert.

“The fact is,” said the colonel, “when you travel by stage-coaches in these solitudes you have to take the chances. Now I carry my money concealed in an inner pocket, where it isn’t very likely to be found. Of course I have another wallet, just for show, and I give that up when I have to.”

There was a stout, florid gentleman present, who listened to the above conversation with ill-disguised nervousness. He was a New York capitalist, of German birth, going out to inspect a mine in which he proposed purchasing an interest. His name was Conrad Stiefel.

“Good gracious!” said he, “I had no idea a man ran such a risk, or I would have stayed at home. I decidedly object to being robbed.”

“Men are robbed in a different way in New York,” said George Melville.

“How do you mean, Mr. Melville?”

“By defaulting clerks, absconding cashiers, swindlers of excellent social position.”

“Oh, we don’t mind those things,” said Mr. Stiefel. “We can look out for ourselves. But when a man points at you with a revolver, that is terrible!”

“I hope, my dear sir, you take good care of your money.”

“That I do,” said Stiefel, complacently. “I carry it in a belt around my waist. That’s a good place, hey?”

“I commend your prudence, sir,” said the colonel. “You are evidently a wise and judicious man.”

“They won’t think of looking there, hey?” laughed Stiefel.

“I should say not.”

“You may think what you like, Mr. Stiefel,” said a tall, thin passenger, who looked like a book peddler, “but I contend that my money is in a safer place than yours.”

“Indeed, Mr. Parker, I should like to know where you keep it,” said Col. Warner, pleasantly.

“You can’t get at it without taking off my stockings,” said the tall man, looking about him in a self-satisfied manner.

“Very good, ‘pon my soul!” said the colonel. “I really don’t know but I shall adopt your hiding place. I am an old traveler, but not too old to adopt new ideas when I meet with good ones.”

“I think you would find it to your interest, Colonel,” said Parker, looking flattered.

“Well, well,” said the colonel, genially, “suppose we change the subject. There isn’t much chance of our being called upon to produce our money, or part with it. Still, as I said a while since, it’s best to be cautious, and I see that you all are so. I begin to feel hungry, gentlemen. How is it with you?”

“Are we anywhere near the place for supper?” asked Stiefel. “I wish I could step into a good Broadway restaurant; I feel empty.”

“Only a mile hence, gentlemen, we shall reach Echo Gulch, where we halt for the night. There’s a rude cabin there, where they will provide us with supper and shelter.”

This announcement gave general satisfaction. The colonel proved to be right. The stage soon drew up in front of a long one-story building, which bore the pretentious name of the Echo Gulch Hotel.

CHAPTER XXIII. A STARTLING REVELATION

A stout, black-bearded man stood in front of the hotel to welcome the stage passengers. He took a clay pipe from his lips and nodded a welcome.

“Glad to see you, strangers,” he said. “Here, Peter, you black rascal, help the gentlemen with their baggage.”

The door was thrown open, and the party filed into a comfortless looking apartment, at one end of which was a rude bar.

One of the passengers, at least, seemed to know the landlord, for Col. Warner advanced to greet him, his face beaming with cordiality.

“How are you, John?” he said. “How does the world use you?”

The landlord growled something inaudible.

“Have a drink, colonel?” was the first audible remark.

“Don’t care if I do. It’s confounded dry traveling over these mountain roads. Walk up, gentlemen. Col. Warner doesn’t drink alone.”

With the exception of Herbert and George Melville, the passengers seemed inclined to accept the offer.

“Come along, Melville,” said the colonel; “you and your friend must join us.”

“Please excuse me, colonel,” answered Melville. “I would prefer not to drink.”

“Oh, nonsense! To oblige me, now.”

“Thank you; but I am traveling for my health, and it would not be prudent.”

“Just as you say, Melville; but a little whisky would warm you up and do you good, in my opinion.”

“Thank you all the same, colonel; but I think you must count me out.”

The colonel shrugged his shoulders and beckoned Herbert.

“You can come, anyway; your health won’t prevent.”

Melville did not interfere, for he knew it would give offense, but he hoped his young clerk would refuse.

“Thank you,” said Herbert; “I won’t object to a glass of sarsaparilla.”

“Sarsaparilla!” repeated the colonel, in amazement. “What’s that?”

“We don’t keep no medicine,” growled the landlord.

“Have you root-beer?” asked Herbert.

“What do you take me for?” said the landlord, contemptuously. “I haven’t got no root-beer. Whisky’s good enough for any man.”

“I hope you’ll excuse me, then,” said Herbert. “I am not used to any strong drinks.”

“How old are you?” asked the colonel, rather contemptuously.

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen years old and don’t drink whisky! My young friend, your education has been sadly neglected.”

“I dare say it has,” answered Herbert, good-naturedly.

“Gentlemen,” said Col. Warner, apologetically, “the boy is a stranger, and isn’t used to our free Western ways. He’s got the makings of a man in him, and it won’t be long before he’ll get over his squeamishness, and walk up to the bar as quick as any one of us.”

Herbert and Melville stood apart, while the rest of the company emptied their glasses, apparently at a gulp. It was clear that their refusal had caused them to be regarded with dislike and suspicion.

The accommodations of the Echo Gulch Hotel were far from luxurious. The chambers were scarcely larger than a small closet, clap-boarded but not plastered, and merely contained a bedstead. Washing accommodations were provided downstairs.

Herbert and George Melville were assigned to a single room, to which they would not have objected had the room been larger. It was of no use to indulge in open complaints, however, since others had to fare in the same way.

“This isn’t luxury, Herbert,” said Melville.

“No,” answered the boy; “but I don’t mind it if you don’t.”

“I am afraid I may keep you awake by my coughing, Herbert.”

“Not if I once get to sleep. I sleep as sound as a top.”

“I wish I did; but I am one of the wakeful kind. Being an invalid, I am more easily annoyed by small inconveniences. You, with your sturdy health, are more easily suited.”

“Mr. Melville, I had just as lief sleep downstairs in a chair, and give you the whole of the bed.”

“Not on my account, Herbert. I congratulate myself on having you for a roommate. If I had been traveling alone I might have been packed away with the colonel, who, by this time, would be even less desirable as a bedfellow than usual.”

The worthy colonel had not been content with a single glass of whisky, but had followed it up several times, till his utterance had become thick, and his face glowed with a dull, brick-dust color.

Col. Warner had been assigned to the adjoining chamber, or closet, whichever it may be called. He did not retire early, however, while Herbert and George Melville did.

Strangely enough, Herbert, who was usually so good a sleeper, after a short nap woke up. He turned to look at his companion, for it was a moonlight night, and saw that he was sleeping quietly.

“I wonder what’s got into me?” he thought; “I thought I should sleep till morning.”

He tried to compose himself to sleep, but the more effort he made the broader awake he became. Sometimes it seems as if such unaccountable deviations from our ordinary habits were Heaven-sent. As Herbert lay awake he suddenly became aware of a conversation which was being carried on, in low tones, in the next room. The first voice he heard, he recognized as that of the colonel.

“Yes,” he said, “some of the passengers have got money. There’s that Stiefel probably carries a big sum in gold and notes. When I was speaking of the chance of the stage being robbed, he was uncommon nervous.”

“Who’s Stiefel?” was growled in another voice, which Herbert had no difficulty in recognizing as the landlord’s.

“Oh, he’s the fat, red-faced German. From his talk, I reckon he’s come out to buy mines somewhere in Colorado.”

“We’ll save him the trouble.”

“So we will—good joke, John. Oh, about this Stiefel, he carries his money in a belt round his waist. I infer that it is gold.”

“Good! What about the others?”

“There’s a tall, thin man—his name is Parker,” proceeded the colonel; “he’s smart, or thinks he is; you’ll have to pull his stockings off to get his money. Ha, ha!”

“How did you find out, colonel?” asked the landlord, in admiration.

“Drew it out of him, sir. He didn’t know who he was confiding in. He’ll wonder how the deuce his hiding place was suspected.”

Other passengers were referred to who have not been mentioned, and in each case the colonel was able to tell precisely where their money was kept.

“How about that milksop that wouldn’t drink with us?” inquired the landlord, after a while.

“Melville? I couldn’t find out where he keeps his cash. Probably he keeps it in his pocket. He doesn’t look like a cautious man.”

“Who’s the boy?”

“Only a clerk or secretary of Melville’s. He hasn’t any money, and isn’t worth attention.”

“Very glad to hear it,” thought Herbert. “I don’t care to receive any attention from such gentry. But who would have thought the colonel was in league with stage robbers? I thought him a gentleman.”

Herbert began to understand why it was that Col. Warner, if that was his real name, had drawn the conversation to stage robbers, and artfully managed to discover where each of the passengers kept his supply of money. It was clear that he was in league with the landlord of the Echo Gulch Hotel, who, it was altogether probable, intended to waylay the stage the next day.

This was a serious condition of affairs. The time had been when, in reading stories of adventure, Herbert had wished that he, too, might have some experience of the kind. Now that the opportunity had come, our hero was disposed to regard the matter with different eyes.

“What can be done,” he asked himself, anxiously, “to escape the danger which threatens us to-morrow?”

CHAPTER XXIV. A MORNING WALK

Herbert found it difficult to sleep from anxiety. He felt that the burden was too great for him alone to bear, and he desired to speak on the subject to George Melville. But there was a difficulty about doing this undetected, on account of the thinness of the partitions between the rooms. If he could hear Col. Warner, the latter would also be able to hear him.

The stage was to start at seven o’clock the next morning, and before that time some decision must be made. The first question was, should they, or should they not, take passage, as they had anticipated?

At half-past five, Herbert, turning in bed, found his bedfellow awake.

“Mr. Melville,” he whispered, “I have something important to communicate, and cannot do so here on account of the danger of being heard in the next room. Are you willing to dress and take a little walk with me before breakfast?”

George Melville’s physical condition did not make him usually favorable to early rising, but he knew Herbert well enough to understand that he had a satisfactory reason for his request.

“Yes, Herbert,” he said, “I will get up.”

Not a word was exchanged, for Mr. Melville’s discretion prevailed over his curiosity. In ten minutes both were fully dressed and descended the stairs.

There was no one stirring except a woman, the landlord’s wife, who was lighting the fire in order to prepare breakfast.

She regarded the two with surprise, and perhaps a little distrust.

“You’re stirrin’ early, strangers,” she said.

“Yes,” answered Melville, courteously, “we are going to take a little walk before breakfast; it may sharpen our appetites.”

“Humph!” said the woman; “that’s curious. I wouldn’t get up so early if I wasn’t obliged. There ain’t much to see outdoors.”

“It is a new part of the country to us,” said Melville, “and we may not have another chance to see it.”

“When will breakfast be ready?” asked Herbert.

“Half an hour, more or less,” answered the woman, shortly.

“We will be back in time,” he said.

The landlady evidently thought their early-rising a singular proceeding, but her suspicions were not aroused. She resumed her work, and Herbert and his friend walked out through the open door.

When they had reached a spot a dozen rods or more distant, Melville turned to his young clerk and asked:

“Well, Herbert, what is it?”

“I have discovered, Mr. Melville, that our stage is to be stopped to-day and the passengers plundered.”

“How did you discover this?” asked Melville, startled.

“By a conversation which I overheard in the next chamber to us.”

“But that chamber is occupied by Col. Warner.”

“And he is one of the conspirators,” said Herbert, quietly.

“Is it possible?” ejaculated Melville. “Can we have been so deceived in him? Does he propose to waylay the stage?”

“No, I presume he will be one of the passengers.”

“Tell me all you know about this matter, Herbert. Who is engaged with him in this plot?”

“The landlord.”

“I am not much surprised at this,” said Melville, thoughtfully. “He is an ill-looking man, whose appearance fits the part of highwayman very well. Then you think the colonel is in league with him?”

“I am sure of that. Don’t you remember how skillfully Col. Warner drew out of the passengers the hiding places of their money yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“He has told all to the landlord, and he will no doubt make use of the knowledge. That is all, Mr. Melville. I could not rest till I had told you, so that you might decide what to do.”

“It seems quite providential that you were kept awake last night, Herbert, otherwise this blow would have come upon us unprepared. Even with the knowledge that it impends, I hardly know what it is best for us to do.”

“We might decide not to go in the stage,” suggested Hebert.

“But we should have to go to-morrow. We cannot stay here, and there is no other way of traveling. As the colonel seems to think I have money, there would be another attack to-morrow. Besides, where could we stay except at this hotel, which is kept, as it appears, by the principal robber.”

“That is true,” said Herbert, puzzled; “I didn’t think of that.”

“I would quite as soon stand my chance of being robbed in the stage, as be attacked here. Besides, I cannot make up my mind to desert my fellow passengers. It seems cowardly to send them off to be plundered without giving them a hint of their danger.”

“Couldn’t we do that?”

“The result would be that they would not go, and there is no knowing how long we should be compelled to remain in this secluded spot.”

“Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, suddenly, “a thought has just struck me.”

“I hope it may show us a way out of our danger.”

“No, I am sorry to say that it won’t do that.”

“What is it, Herbert?”

“You remember that mention was made yesterday in the stage of a certain famous bandit named Jerry Lane?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Do you think it is possible that he and Col. Warner may be one and the same?”

“That is certainly a startling suggestion, Herbert. What reason have you for thinking so?”

“It was only a guess on my part; but you remember that the colonel said he was a man about his size.”

“That might be.”

“And he did not confine himself to the Western country, but might be met with in New York, or St. Louis. We met the colonel in Chicago.”

“It may be as you surmise, Herbert,” said George Melville, after a pause. “It did occur to me that our worthy landlord might be the famous outlaw in question, but the description to which you refer seems to fit the colonel better. There is one thing, however, that makes me a little incredulous.”

“What is that, Mr. Melville?”

“This Jerry Lane I take to be cool and courageous, while the colonel appears to be more of a boaster. He looks like one who can talk better than he can act. If I had ever seen a description of his appearance, I could judge better.”

The two had been walking slowly and thoughtfully, when they were startled by a rough voice.

“You’re out early, strangers?”

Turning swiftly, they saw the dark, forbidding face of the landlord, who had approached them unobserved.

“Did he hear anything?” thought Herbert, anxiously.

“Yes, we are taking a little walk,” said Melville, pleasantly.

“Breakfast will be ready soon. You’d better be back soon, if you’re goin’ by the stage this morning. You are goin’, I reckon?” said the landlord, eyeing them sharply.

“We intend to do so,” said Melville. “We will walk a little farther, and then return to the house.”

The landlord turned and retraced his steps to the Echo Gulch Hotel.

“Do you think he heard anything that we were saying?” asked Herbert.

“I think not.”

“I wonder what brought him out here?”

“Probably he wanted to make sure that we were going in the stage. He is laudably anxious to have as many victims and as much plunder as possible.”

“You told him you were going in the stage?”

“Yes, I have decided to do so.”

“Have you decided upon anything else, Mr. Melville?”

“Not positively; but there will be time to think of that. Did you hear where we were to be attacked?”

“At a point about five miles from here,” said Herbert.

This he had gathered from the conversation he had overheard.

When the two friends reached the hotel, they found Col. Warner already downstairs.

“Good-morning, gentlemen!” he said. “So you have taken a walk? I never walk before breakfast, for my part.”

“Nor do I often,” said Melville. “In this case I was persuaded by my young friend. I am repaid by a good appetite.”

“Can’t I persuade you to try a glass of bitters, Mr. Melville?” asked the colonel.

“Thank you, colonel. You will have to excuse me.”

“Breakfast’s ready!” announced the landlady, and the stage passengers sat down at a long, unpainted, wooden table, where the food was of the plainest. In spite of the impending peril of which they, only, had knowledge, Herbert ate heartily, but Melville seemed preoccupied.