CHAPTER XIV
MEETING BLICK IN EARNEST
"ANY mail for Sarah J. Campbell?"
"I'll see, ma'am."
"Be quick, boy. I'm in a dreadful hurry."
Noll turned away from the window to consult a frame of boxes that were alphabetically arranged.
"Maria A. Bampole, did you say, ma'am?" sounded young Terry's voice, his face just out of sight.
"No; I didn't," snapped the woman. "Sarah J. Campbell, blockhead!"
"'Scuse me, ma'am," returned Noll politely, though heavily.
The impatient woman could hear him slowly sorting over letters.
"Nothing for Blockhead," he announced slowly, as though talking caused him pain.
The woman threw up her hands in huge disgust.
"Sarah J. Campbell!" she insisted snappishly.
"Oh, 'scuse me, ma'am. I thought you said Blockhead."
"So I did, dunce, but I was calling you that!"
"But, you see, ma'am," drawled Noll, exasperatingly, "I ain't looking for any mail."
"Then you'd better!" warned the woman angrily. "And look for Sarah J. Campbell. Be lively about it, too."
Noll ran through the letters and postcards in Box C with provoking deliberation. Then he announced, while the woman drummed impatiently on the window ledge:
"Here's a postal from the Mason City Laundry, stating that your wash, this week, will be delivered only on payment of your account."
"Gimme that card," screamed Miss Campbell. "I didn't ask you to read it, booby!"
"And here's another, from Medella, dealer in false hair at Denver, stating that your order will be shipped on the second of next month, and – "
People waiting in the line behind began to titter, while Miss Campbell's face turned scarlet.
"Gimme my mail, stupid!" commanded Miss Campbell irately. "And I'll complain to the postmaster about your impudence."
Noll Terry gazed at the woman with an expression of sadly wounded innocence.
"'Scuse me, marm, and please don't blab to the P. M. This is my first day here. I'm new and green, yes, marm, but I'm trying to be as obliging as I can."
"Humph!" muttered the woman. Gathering her post cards, she fled.
Lieutenant Prescott, holding one hand over his mouth, used the other to beckon as soon as he could catch Noll's eye.
Noll went over to him, saluting, out of sight of any one at the post office window.
"Cut out some of this comedy, Terry," begged the lieutenant in a whisper, "or I shall laugh outright and betray myself."
Noll once more saluted gravely, then returned to his post at the general delivery window.
All traces of the military had left Noll Terry's appearance. His khaki uniform was hidden under the jumper and overalls that Postmaster Dent had loaned him. Even his erect carriage had vanished. Noll now looked as though he had been round-shouldered from the cradle. His crisp speaking tone had given way to a drawl, and his look was stupid.
The three soldiers were alone in the general delivery room, Noll the only one of them at any time visible.
Toward the front of the room was a door opening out on the lobby of the post office. Behind this stood Lieutenant Prescott in uniform, but without his sword. Over the right hip dangled a holster in which lay a service revolver, ready for instant work.
Further down the general delivery room, on the other side of the window, was a door opening also into the lobby. Behind this Private Hal Overton, also in uniform, was stationed. He, too, wore a revolver in holster over his right hip, for the bunkies, when sent into town as orderlies, had been armed with revolvers, as is the custom in the case of officers' orderlies in the field.
Noll's revolver lay on a little shelf out of sight under the window ledge.
Over two hours had dragged by. There could be no telling, of course, at what time Blick would appear, even if he came at all.
It was not long ere Noll Terry forgot Lieutenant Prescott's warning, and again started in to have more fun with the people before the window.
This time, however, he took great pains not to let the young lieutenant catch his eye.
Then, of a sudden came a jolt that would have made a less self-possessed young man topple over.
A mild-eyed man of forty took his place before the window. Noll barely glanced at the fellow until the latter inquired in a soft voice that was almost effeminate:
"Any mail for Arthur Dade?"
But Private Terry never turned a hair.
This man was bearded and surely must be Jack Blick, he of the deadly habits.
"What name did you say?" queried Noll slowly.
Lieutenant Prescott and Hal Overton got out their revolvers in a jiffy, each standing with hand on the knob of a door.
"Arthur Dade," repeated the mild-voiced one.
"Bade?" blundered Noll purposely. "Will you please spell it?"
"D-a-d-e, Dade, Arthur Dade," said the man before the window.
"I'll see," nodded Noll coolly. He stepped back, running through the letters in the D box. There was a letter there, as Noll Terry knew well enough. It had come in the mail that morning, and was postmarked at San Francisco.
Presently Noll came back into sight with the letter, holding it out with his left hand, while, with his right, he leaned over to replace the other letters in D box.
"Can you reach it?" invited Noll.
The man who had given the name of Dade made the effort to reach the letter, which was just what Noll was trying to make him do. That move would keep one of the desperate fellow's hands away from his weapons for a second or two.
Two doors opened like a flash. Lieutenant Prescott and Private Overton were darting on tip-toe into the expected fray.
"Blick, get your hands up – high! Get 'em up quick, or take lead!" ordered Lieutenant Prescott imperiously. "Don't try any tricks!"
Reaching his man at a bound, the young Army officer thrust his revolver squarely up against the fellow's breast.
"Great Scott, mister, don't shoot!" yelled the stranger in a quavering voice.
"Then up with your hands, Blick!"
As though in terror the stranger had sprung back two or three feet. This was done with the quickness of a wildcat.
As a part of the same movement the desperate man threw up one foot in a clever kick.
His heavy boot struck Lieutenant Prescott's right wrist with fearful force, sending the pistol flying and nearly breaking the young officer's wrist.
Private Hal Overton had started at the same instant, but he had further to go.
Blick's right hand dropped in a twinkling to the right side pocket of his top-coat.
Both hands now flashed into sight, each holding a revolver.
Coolly enough now, but with incredible swiftness, the stranger aimed his left-hand weapon at Lieutenant Prescott.
At the same instant Soldier Hal leaped from behind, wrapping both his arms around Blick's neck and dragging him swiftly backward.
Bang!
The revolver was discharged, but the bullet, owing to Blick's going over backward, struck a wall.
Surely Blick must have possessed all the strength and ferocity of the mountain lion.
Though Hal Overton thought he had his man headed for a crashing fall to the floor, the fellow managed to squirm out of that clutch as though by magic.
Then Soldier Hal found himself staring into both muzzles of the desperate fellow's pistols.
Hal knew it was time for him to shoot, but found he was not as swift at the game as was the justly dreaded Blick.
Bang-bang! sounded two loud reports. Two streams of fire flashed before Private Overton's eyes.
Two bullets all but grazed the soldier boy's head on either side.
He would have been killed instantly but for Lieutenant Prescott.
That young officer, afraid to fire for fear of hitting his own man, had jumped into the fray despite the fact that his right wrist was all but useless.
With one flashing movement Prescott had recovered his revolver with his left hand.
It was his sudden football tackle, learned on the gridiron at West Point, that had seized Blick and spoiled the latter's aim.
Now, all three went down in an ugly clinch. Officer and soldier were fighting to pin Blick's arms to his side and thus render him helpless.
Bang! bang!
Bang! bang! bang!
To Blick it was little concern whether he lived or died. If he must go under in the fight he intended at least to do all the mischief he could.
So he fired, even while Prescott and Hal were fighting desperately to pin his arms and spoil his aim.
Fortunately, none of these five bullets did any harm.
But the three locked together were fighting like panthers.
If Blick could but wriggle out of the clutch long enough to get either hand free, he would stand a very good chance to kill one or both of his assailants.
Neither the lieutenant or the soldier boy dared fire in this scrambling clinch.
Each feared to kill the other.
Then Blick briefly got an arm free.
Bang! bang!
CHAPTER XV
THE BATTLE OF THEIR LIVES
AT the first sign of trouble the few people in the post office lobby had devoted their entire energies to getting away.
Nor did any of the postal employés appear to offer aid.
They had little stomach for such a deadly affair as this was certain to be.
And Noll?
At the first note of Prescott's voice, as the lieutenant leaped at Blick, Private Terry had dropped below the level of the window ledge.
There his hand closed on his revolver.
With this in hand, he bounded for the door that the young Army officer had left open.
But all this took time, and what was going on in the post office lobby outside seemed to take place in split seconds.
Noll had just bounded out in sight of the scramble for life as Blick fired the last two shots.
Even as the wretch pressed the trigger, however, Hal Overton took another quick grip on the fellow's wrist.
Thus was the soldier boy's life saved for the instant.
But the weapons that Blick carried were automatic revolvers, each holding nine cartridges. The scoundrel therefore held several lives in his hands if he could only get a chance to free his wrists sufficiently.
Still the three fought, rolled and scrambled across the floor.
Now, Private Noll Terry was hovering over the combatants.
At first the strenuous trio moved with such bewildering speed and were so hopelessly mixed up that Noll actually wondered what he could do.
At last he saw his chance and tried for it.
Whack!
Clubbing his revolver, Soldier Noll brought the butt of the weapon down with fearful force – on some one's head.
By sheer good luck it proved to be Blick's head.
Almost completely stunned, Blick rolled over on his back, Lieutenant Prescott bearing down on one of Blick's arms, while Hal Overton held the other.
Leaping around, Noll thrust the muzzle of his own revolver into Blick's mouth.
"Shall I pull the trigger, sir?" demanded Noll coolly.
"No," responded Lieutenant Prescott with equal coolness. "I think we have the rascal now."
Jack Blick came back to consciousness to see his weapons go spinning across the floor in different directions.
"Now, if he makes any further efforts at trouble, Terry, just pull the trigger," directed Lieutenant Prescott. "Blick, put your hands in front of you, over your stomach."
Sullenly the fellow obeyed. Lieutenant Prescott snapped a pair of handcuffs over the fellow's wrists.
"Now, you'll keep without spoiling," predicted the young Army officer, leaping to his feet. "Pull him up, men."
Though his right wrist was swelling, Prescott employed that hand to thrust his revolver back into the holster over his hip.
Hal and Noll dragged Blick to his feet.
Like a flash the scoundrel darted away from them. No one had told the Army people that Jack Blick was an expert at throwing off shackles. But now Blick squeezed his wrists and hands through the steel bracelets before his would-be captors could realize it.
As part of the same movement he raced to where one of his revolvers lay.
Stooping and picking it up, Blick wheeled like a streak of light on his knees.
But Soldier Hal had his own weapon up. He fired, coolly – for life.
The bullet drilled through Blick's wrist, forcing him to drop the revolver like hot iron.
The fellow's left hand, however, picked up the weapon.
Bang!
Once more Blick dropped his weapon, for Noll Terry had fired, shattering the fellow's left fore-arm.
Now, apparently, Jack Blick was out of the fighting game.
But Lieutenant Prescott, who had just snatched his pistol from its holster, dashed forward, holding the muzzle of his weapon almost in the fellow's face.
"Stop all nonsense, now, my man, or we'll kill you without a word of parley," warned the young officer in an even but deadly and convincing tone of voice.
Hal slipped a cord from his pocket, knotted a noose, and dropped it over the fellow's head, drawing the noose tight.
"I think we can hold him this way, sir," Hal suggested to the lieutenant.
"Yes; get behind him, Overton. Let him walk slowly, but don't stand for any bolt. You get behind Blick, too, Terry, and hold your revolver on his back. If he tries to bolt, or makes a single hostile sign, shoot to kill. We're through with anything like nonsense."
With his uninjured left hand Lieutenant Prescott helped the prisoner to the floor.
"Now march, my man," ordered the officer. "Out into the street. Don't try to hurry, either."
Thus they proceeded to the street, Lieutenant Prescott with drawn revolver in his left hand keeping just behind the soldier boys, and with ever an eye of watchfulness on the prisoner's steps.
Only six doors below stood the police station. Thither they conducted Blick, and the solitary day policeman of the little town, seeing the crowd that had formed and followed, came rushing to the scene.
"Get a doctor first," Lieutenant Prescott ordered, when they had Jack Blick safely inside the station house.
A physician was on hand inside of two minutes. He washed and dressed the rascal's wounds.
Then a blacksmith was sent for, and others brought portable forge and bellows. An "Oregon boot" was shaped and riveted to Blick's lower left leg, and a red-hot piece of iron welded on over the rivets.
This "Oregon boot" is a famous device in some western states. It is simply an extremely heavy cylinder of iron. The prisoner who wears it can barely draw his left foot along. Running would be out of the question. Nor, when the blacksmith's job was done, could Blick, even had he been provided with ordinary tools, have succeeded in getting that "boot" off his leg in less than four hours.
The day policeman of Mason City, who was also chief of the "force," swore in six armed citizens as special policemen. They were to watch the prisoner day and night until other officers arrived to take him away to stand trial.
"I guess you'll keep now, won't you, Blick?" asked Lieutenant Prescott, smiling in at the prisoner, who lay on a bench behind the barred door of a cell, his guards just outside.
"You think you got me, don't you?" jeered Jack Blick harshly.
"I think we did," the young Army officer agreed, smilingly. "Have you any doubts, my man?"
"It took three of you to do it, and if there'd been only two of you, I'd have gotten away," snarled the desperado.
"I'll admit that that is probably true," assented Prescott, as smiling as ever. "Blick, you're a nervy, deadly man. But fellows of your class always ought to bear in mind that the community is bigger than any one man can possibly be. You're caged now, and you have always been bound to be, sooner or later."
"Perhaps you feel pretty big now?" sneered Jack Blick.
"I can't say that I do," rejoined Lieutenant Prescott coolly. "As nearly as I can judge, I feel just about as big as I did yesterday, or the day before. How about you, men?"
"I know very well that I felt a lot bigger the day I first stepped into the uniform than I do now," laughed Soldier Hal.
"I always feel largest on pay-day," smiled Private Noll Terry. "And this is a long way from pay-day."
"I've got friends in this town. Friends of my own kind," broke in Jack Blick harshly. "Don't forget that."
"Why?" queried Lieutenant Dick Prescott.
"Because," snarled Blick, showing his teeth, "you've been marked by my friends already. You won't get out of town and back to camp alive!"
CHAPTER XVI
CAPTAIN CORTLAND "MAKES A SPEECH"
"YOU heard Blick's declaration, didn't you?" questioned Lieutenant Prescott, with a smile.
He had halted on the sidewalk and was gazing at his soldier boys.
"That we wouldn't get out of town alive, sir?" asked Hal Overton.
"Yes. Well, men, we don't deserve to, either, if we leave our comrades out in camp deprived of fresh food much longer. It was Captain Cortland's expectation that we would start back by noon to-day, and now it's ten in the morning, with four hours or more of real work ahead of us, so we had better walk briskly to the market."
An officer does not, except in rare instances that call for it, walk with his men. He walks either ahead or behind them. This is not because of any contempt or lack of respect, even, for the men; it is a rule of discipline and is followed for discipline's sake.
There was soon an abundance of hard work to be done. Liberal supplies of fresh meat were bought, and a considerable variety of groceries and fresh and canned vegetables, for Uncle Sam's soldiers live well.
Hal and Noll soon discovered that they had not been brought along as ornaments. They had their hands full of work.
Then, at last, Lieutenant Prescott sent Hal as messenger to summon the drivers to bring the wagons over to pick up the supplies.
Hard as all hands worked, it was well after one o'clock when the heavily laden wagons were finally gotten into shape and headed out of town.
"Overton?" called the lieutenant, just before the start.
"Yes, sir," Hal saluted.
"Have you seen any assassins lurking about?"
"No, sir."
Brief as his reply was, Hal stared at the young officer in some astonishment.
"Have you seen any assassins dogging our tracks, Terry?" was Lieutenant Prescott's next question.
"No, sir," came from saluting Noll.
Then, continued the lieutenant, still speaking gravely, "I think that this small United States force may presume to start on its way. Of course, we may run into an ambush within the next thirteen minutes, but that would be a mean trick to play on a military party."
Though the young officer spoke with all gravity the soldier boys realized that he was wholly in jest. Reinforced now by the soldier drivers, who were also armed, this little party of trained men could put up a very ugly point at the first sign of need.
"And Prescott is just the sort of officer who'll always know how to lead men in a scrap," Hal thought admiringly.
"Shall we take our seats on one of the wagons, sir?" questioned Private Noll Terry.
"No; the wagons are too heavily laden as it is, and we've a rough road ahead. You'll march on foot. Take the road just ahead of the wagon train, but do not march under any restraint whatever. Walk just as much at ease as you can."
"Very good, sir."
Both soldier boys saluted and stepped ahead. The wagons followed at once. The first time that Hal and Noll glanced backward they saw that Lieutenant Prescott was also on foot, walking beside the second wagon.
"I don't believe Lieutenant Prescott ever gives an order that he wouldn't want to follow himself," murmured Hal.
"He's the real thing in the soldier line," responded Noll.
"I imagine that that other new West Pointer, Holmes, is just as fine a soldier and officer," Hal continued.
"Very likely," admitted Noll. "I hear that they both came from the same home town, and that Prescott and Holmes were chums even years before they went to West Point."
To healthy young soldiers the walk, though over rough roads for most of the way, was no hardship. The wagon train reached camp later in the afternoon, just as the hard-working regulars in camp were coming back from drill in constructing trenches with revetments. These revetments are frames of one kind of wood or another, so built into the trench as to increase its stability greatly.
"You found that your task took longer than you expected, didn't you, Mr. Prescott?" was Captain Cortland's greeting when the young officer, saluting, came over to report.
"We would have gotten through much earlier, captain, but some of our time was taken up otherwise."
"How was that?"
"We accomplished an arrest for the county, at the request of the local deputy sheriff, sir."
Captain Cortland frowned slightly.
"Ordinarily, Mr. Prescott, that is no part of a soldier's business. But I feel certain that you must have had excellent reasons for acting before you had explained to me the circumstances in the matter?"
"Under the circumstances, sir, as I had the use of the telegraph, I found it much easier to communicate with Colonel North at Fort Clowdry."
"Oh, you did that, Mr. Prescott?"
"Yes, sir. I trust that was not the wrong course to take. I wanted to save time, and so used the wire straight to regimental headquarters."
"That was perfectly proper, Mr. Prescott," nodded Captain Cortland. "So you had Colonel North's permission to aid the county authorities?"
"Yes, sir; on condition that we acted as volunteer county peace officers, and not as soldiers. I have preserved Colonel North's dispatch, sir. Here it is."
"Come over to the tent, Mr. Prescott. I am anxious to hear about the whole affair."
As Captain Cortland listened to the young officer's narration of what had taken place, he opened his eyes a bit wider.
"Mr. Prescott, Overton and Terry seem, in every way, to be proving themselves exceptionally fine young soldiers."
"They are all of that, sir," assented Lieutenant Prescott warmly.
"Sergeant Gray!" called the captain, thrusting his head outside the tent.
B Company's first sergeant stepped over, saluting.
"Sergeant, direct Overton and Terry to report here at once."
"Yes, sir."
Privates Hal and Noll appeared before the door of the tent, saluting respectfully.
"Come in, men," directed the captain, and the soldier boys entered the tent, standing at attention.
"Men, Lieutenant Prescott has just been telling me about the arrest in town. He speaks most highly of the conduct of both of you this morning."
Since this called for no reply, the two soldier boys merely continued to stand at attention.
"Now, I'm not going to commend you for the courage you displayed," went on B Company's captain. "It is a soldier's business to be brave, and he should never be commended for anything less than the most distinguished bravery. But what I am going to commend both of you for is in the way of qualities that not all soldiers show as successfully. The first is prompt obedience, and the second is good judgment under conditions of great danger and requiring the swiftest action. I do not know, men, that I can make my commendation duly emphatic in any other way than by telling you that I am fully satisfied with both of you as soldiers of real merit, and that Lieutenant Prescott's report strengthens my conviction. That is all. You may go."
Again Hal and Noll saluted, then wheeled and stepped from the tent.
"That's a good deal better than a speech, isn't it?" murmured Noll when the bunkies were some distance from the officers' tent.
"Why, as coming from a captain, in praise of his men, that was really a speech, wasn't it?" asked Hal.
As neither of the young bunkies told the story in camp, it got out only through the partial accounts of the wagon drivers, who were able to give only garbled and not at all accurate descriptions of the exciting business of the morning.
"I hear you kids have been in the hero business," grinned Private Hyman, coming over to the chums.
"You're a friend of ours, Hyman, aren't you?" asked Private Overton, flushing.
"I surely consider myself one," replied Hyman.
"Will you do us a great favor?"
"You know I will, if I can."
"Then drop the hero business and forget all about it," begged Hal.
"I reckon I like you better for that," nodded Hyman. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"
"Lovely air this afternoon," laughed Noll, sniffing. "Just smell the odors coming from the Army stoves."
"Now you're talking about your own exploits," teased Hyman. "You were on the detail that went in after the fresh grub that's going to make two hundred men, more or less, extremely happy to-night."
"Attention, B Company!" called out Lieutenant Prescott, stepping in among the groups of resting soldiers. "I am directed by Captain Cortland to state that, immediately after supper to-night, twenty men of B Company may have leave to visit Mason City. But they will be required to be back here punctually at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. Men who wish to avail themselves of the proffered leave will see Sergeant Gray without delay."
"Going in, Hyman?" asked Hal, as that soldier turned to walk away.
"If I'm fortunate enough to get leave," nodded Hyman. "There are several things I want to do in town."
The supper that night was as perfect and as hearty as the resources of camp permitted. Some of the soldiers ate so heartily that they were presently content to lie about camp for the evening, and were glad they had not applied for town leave.
Captain Freeman had allowed the same number of his men town leave.
Just before dark forty United States doughboys started down the trail, bent on pleasure and sight-seeing.
Being on leave, none of these men were allowed to carry their arms with them. Nothing, for that matter, could be much more awkward to a soldier than his rifle when on leave to visit town.
"Be careful, men, that none of you overstay your leave," Lieutenant Hampton called warningly, as the town party started down the trail.
"We won't, sir," came the chorused answer.
This is always the promise of men on leave. Sometimes, in the excitement of pleasures, the promise is forgotten, or ignored, and then trouble is sure to follow.