Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926

“If you do find ’em,” snarled Lundsford, “better slip away without lettin’ ’em know it — they’re bad medicine!”

I

Where the Jonesboro, Lake City and Eastern Railroad spans Lake St. Francis, that body of water is a mile wide. The railway trestle describes a long curve, beginning immediately it leaves the west bank, and an eastbound train becomes invisible from Lake City, the village at the head of the trestle, almost at once. There is no town on the eastern bank of the lake. Nothing, for miles, but wilderness.

Lake St. Francis is something of a wilderness in appearance itself. The channel of the river from which it takes its name is but a narrow ribbon, flanked on the east by cypress trees, mud banks, flags and other growths — a paradise for fishermen. A stranger, however, would need a guide to find his way about in the eastern portion.

Just after dark, one September night, two long dugouts glided up the lake, crossing occasional areas of moonlit water, but invisible from the town because of the character of the place. Each craft held two men, and they were silent; even the dip of their paddles in the water made not the slightest ripple. Reaching a tree-clad mudbank a hundred yards below the juncture of railway trestle and shore, both boats found the shadowed side and laid against it. There was no conversation, no smoking — nothing, in fine, that might have betrayed a presence there.

After half an hour’s wait, a tall man in the first dugout, who appeared to be leading the expedition, silently nosed his boat away, and slipped through the growth to a landing on the east shore. The second craft followed as noiselessly.

Fifteen minutes later, the night train for Barfield’s Point left Lake City for the eastern terminus. It consisted of two coaches and a combination express, baggage and mail car, the latter having two men aboard. The engineer felt his way carefully over the long trestle, for the unstable foundations of the piers made caution imperative; until the low ground of the lake region should be left behind, he would proceed under close control, a sharp lookout for bad track.

The last coach had barely cleared the approach on the east side, and the engineer was cautiously giving his cylinders more steam, when a red lantern seemed to leap out of the night, ahead, describing frantic revolutions, as though the bearer were in a high state of excitement.

The engine driver applied the air, and the train slid to a screeching stop; then he stepped to the cab door and called out:

“What’s wrong? Track dropped down?”

That was the bit of roadbed nuisance causing the greater part of trouble on the line.

“No — but you’ll drop down, and out, if you don’t obey orders, and hustle about it, too!”

The voice came from directly below, and the engineman looked down into the muzzle of a revolver. A second later, a tall man, completely masked, swung up into the cab and another boarded the engine from the fireman’s side.

A shrill whistle sounded from the rear, and the tall man swung his gun on the engineer.

“Pull ahead until I tell you to stop — and give her steam!” he ordered.

The engineer, too astonished to use his tongue — for no such thing had ever before been perpetrated on the little road — obeyed.

When the train came to a stop, Morris Brake, the mail messenger, opened the door of the car and looked ahead — to find himself caught by the ankles and brought to the floor with a thud. An instant later two men crawled over his prostrate body into the car. They were armed, and wore masks. One seized the messenger and drew him inside, then closed the door. At that moment the car, cut loose from the rest of the train, began moving rapidly ahead.

“Open your safe!” came the command from one of the bandits, while his mate held the baggage man helpless under his gun.

Brake got to his feet, and turned to the safe. He was a man of high courage, and there was an unusually large sum of money in the safe — used jointly by the mail service and the express company. He manipulated the combination, swung the door open, seized a revolver which lay inside and wheeled — to meet instant death at the hands of the bandit.

The whistle of the locomotive sounded a short blast — evidently a signal to the men in the car. Paying no attention to the dead messenger, the bandit took a grain sack from beneath his coat and scooped the contents of the safe into it, then turned to the door as the train slowed to a stop.

“All right, Bud!” he exclaimed.

The man called Bud swung his clubbed gun, and the baggageman dropped heavily to the floor.

In the engine cab, both the driver and the fireman had been rendered unconscious in a like manner, and, ten minutes after the holdup began, the four thieves were racing to where their boats lay hidden. Racing for Lake St. Francis, to lose themselves in the great swamp to the south— trackless, wild, almost impenetrable save to those in the know.

In the sack carried by the bandit who had slain the mail messenger reposed the sum of ten thousand dollars — funds of the express company and the government.

II

Jack Calhoun, United States Ranger stationed at Hell Hole, in the Sunken Land region of Arkansas, dropped the boot he was polishing and gave entire attention to the telegraph instrument clicking on a table in his cabin. His call had been sounded.

“Headquarters. Wheeler sending,” came the message. “Train number two, J. L. C. and E., held up at east end trestle on Lake St. Francis, last night. Four men, possibly more. Express safe robbed. Mail looted, and messenger killed. Possible aids in identification: Leader a tall, spare man. Two others medium height. Fourth, who shot Brake, short, heavy-set, red hair. All masked. Escaped by boat. Bloodhounds followed trail to lake. Blair, of Craighead, and posse combing lake country north of railway. Lundsford, of Poinsette, and posse of ten just passed here in motor boats to search south. Advise not joining them, but go on your own. Communicate when possible.”

“Got it,” was Calhoun’s reply.

He resumed polishing the boot. The hour was two in the afternoon of the day succeeding the robbery, and the ranger was putting a bit of spare time to good use by burnishing his equipment. He was in no great hurry even now, and for a very good reason.

Wheeler had said that Sheriff Lundsford was on his was upriver with a big posse. Therefore Calhoun would wait until they had come and gone, before taking to the wilderness.

“I’ll find out where they are going, and then go an entirely different way,” he was thinking. “Wheeler needn’t advise me not to join the sheriff’s gang. Man-hunting in a motor boat!”

There was scorn in the ranger’s voice, and a look of disgust on his face. His contacts with the sheriff from Poinsette County had been of a character calculated to arouse just such feelings.

“Lundsford never played a solo hand in his whole term of office,” Cal soliloquized. “Always has to have his posse. I actually believe he brings his armed gang into the swamp for his own protection, more than for any other reason. A good enough office sheriff — but worse than useless on a trail. No, Wheeler need not have told me to lay off him and his gang!”

The surface of the boot now shone like new copper, and Calhoun laid it aside. From a locked cupboard he took a roll of stiff blue print paper; spreading it out on a table, he fastened the corners down with thumb tacks and sat down to consider it.

The thing before the ranger was a map of the Sunken Land Country. Not the official one, but a comprehensive, painstaking plat made by Cal himself. On that paper, carefully traced, was the record of the ranger’s explorations in the district. Every creek, slough, bayou, no matter how small and unimportant; every island, lake and donnick was there in its proper place. Distances were faithfully recorded. Little dots here and there showed the exact locations of the cabins of tire natives — and the name of the occupant appeared in tiny letters below each cabin. With the map, Calhoun had the country before him as it really was, and not as it was rather vaguely depicted upon official plats of the region. He had more than once found it of inestimable value.

The scene of the train robbers’ operations was sixty miles north of Hell Hole, at the head of Lake St. Francis, which was eighteen miles from end to end, and as many as four miles wide in some places. The ranger considered the lay of the land in and around that portion of the district.

“They would not go north,” he reflected. “Two good reasons for not doing so. One, that way lies civilization. Secondly, they’d have a current to buck, after leaving the lake, and consequently make slow progress. No. They’d likely follow the lake down, get into the current of the river as soon as possible, and take advantage of that in their get-away. Blair, of Craighead, is a good man and a fine officer — but he’s wasting his time in the territory north. Now, where would they be liable to leave the lake?”

He followed the outline of the big body of water closely, noting the many small streams leading from it to the interior.

“None of those would likely attract them,” was his conclusion. “They lead nowhere.”

Near the foot of the lake, Big Bayou takes off in a southeasterly course for some fifteen miles, then straightens out due east for five miles and finally angles northeast to Reed Lake. The ranger gave that course very close attention.

Following the line of the bayou, Calhoun’s glance wavered and stopped at a point where an arm of the larger stream takes off nearly south and joins Little Bear River. Little Bear has its origin in Swan Lake, and runs a fifty mile course straight to the Mississippi.

“I wouldn’t be surprised, now, if that is the route they’ll take. It’s the logical one. I can’t imagine four crooks with ten thousand dollars cash split up among them, lingering in the swamp any longer than they have to. Nothing to spend money for here. The old Murel Route, part of the once used underground system used in running slaves South, would naturally be known to them.

“A direct outlet to the Big River — and never a foot upon the ground. Once on the Mississippi, it would be easy to mingle with the roustabouts of a steamboat at a small village or woodyard, and get away north or south with little chance of detection. Moreover, Little Bear traverses a wilderness — cane-brakes, flags, river-grass line its shores. Plenty of cover in case of pursuit. At any rate, I’m going to proceed on the theory that they would seek that particular outlet — and try and grab them there.”

He returned the map to its cupboard, and began leisurely gathering his kit for the trip. He was in no hurry. The bandits would be somewhere west of the junction of Beaver Creek and Little Bear, and there was ample time for him to travel down the river to the point where it absorbed the creek, before they could possibly reach it. Lundsford out of the way, he would start.

Two hours later the put-put-put of a pair of motor boats announced the coming of the sheriff and his posse.

“Noise enough to wake a graveyard full of dead people,” Cal commented as he went to the landing to meet the party. “Must be a dozen men all told,” he estimated, as the two motor boats came to anchor.

“Well, Cal, I guess you’ve heard the news?” Lundsford called, stepping ashore. “Why ain’t you out in the timber?”

“I’ve heard the news, yes,” Calhoun replied. “And I’m getting ready to strike out. What are you holding — a convention of some kind?” he queried, eying the escort.

Lundsford flashed him a hard look.

“I’m out to get those train robbers — and get ’em right!” he exclaimed heatedly. “Stopped at Oak Donnick and consulted with Wheeler — invited him to send some of his men along. What you reckon he said?”

Calhoun shook his head. “Haven’t any idea what the chief said,” he replied, a glint of humor in his eyes. “There are so many things he might have, you know. Suppose you tell me.”

“He put out the same old stuff!” Lundsford declared. “ ‘One good man,’ he said, ‘is worth more than a dozen, in such a search. The dozen are, by reason of the noise and confusion of their number, foredoomed to failure. Calhoun is at Hell Hole, and he’ll take care of any bandits who come his way!’ That’s the line of talk he handed me!”

Calhoun grinned. “The chief isn’t very strong on the gab,” he told Lundsford. “Reckon he must have believed the way he talked, else he wouldn’t have so expressed himself.”

“Believe it!” the sheriff exploded. “Why, hell, the man is plumb rotten with confidence. Thinks he’s got an unbeatable organization, and while I’ll admit you boys are doing very well, nobody is unbeatable! Here’s something else he handed me. I says to him: ‘What could Cal do by himself, if he was to run smack onto the four?’

“ ‘In the first place, Cal isn’t going to run smack onto them,’ he replied. ‘He’s too careful for that. But if he locates them, he’ll bring ’em in — dead or alive. One good man, working on the side of the law, is more than a match for half a dozen crooks.’

“Stuck on himself and his bunch? Well, I’ll say he is!”

Lundsford’s red face and angry eyes testified to his wrought up condition. Calhoun, secretly amused, changed the topic, directing the sheriff’s mind back to the business in hand.

“Where you headed for now, sheriff?” he wanted to know.

“To the most likely place in the swamp to catch that gang,” Lundsford told him. “Swan Lake. What better place in the whole region for them to hide out? A lake fourteen miles in circumference, and chock full of islands, big and little, and water growths of all kinds, couldn’t be beat for a hideout. We’re going to comb that lake from end to end — and we’re going to bring out our men! Want to come along and see us do it?”

“Well, no,” the ranger answered. “Thank you just the same. I’ll cover another part of the swamp. Got an idea they might not come down as far as Swan Lake — and I’m going to test it out.”

“One man stunt!” Lundsford exclaimed derisively, as he returned to his boat. “Well, take my advice, Cal, and if you do happen onto that gang, slip away without letting ’em know it. They’re bad medicine — take it from me! Bad!”

Calhoun watched them depart, then took to the river in his bateau.

It was exactly ten miles from Hell Hole Settlement to the foot of Swan Lake, and the ranger reached the place at five o’clock — a wilderness of water, studded thickly with trees and small islands, through which the St. Francis traces its course. The distant put-put-put of Lundsford’s motor boats advertised the presence of his party in the vicinity.

III

Cal followed the shore line on the east, and found his way to the source of Little Bear River. There he nosed his bateau onto a mudbank and considered his next move.

“If the thieves are not together,” he thought, “my chance of picking them up is almost nil. They may have split, of course, but such a thing is unlikely; they would, in all probability, stick together until out of the swamp. That, in case of pursuit and battle. According to my calculations, they should now be somewhere between the junction of Big Bayou and Beaver Creek, and the junction of Beaver and Little Bear. I’ll run the river to-night, and ought to get below the mouth of Beaver before they do.”

He swung his boat into Little Bear, and plied his paddle with strong, steady, distance-eating strokes. He did not waste any time planning what to do in case he should locate the thieves. To locate them was the paramount thing; after that, he’d consider ways and means of taking them.

Now that he was actually on the old Murel Route to the Mississippi, the conviction became stronger than ever that the bandits would make for that outlet to the river. They would have to travel by boat, since the vast wilderness spreading eastward to the Big River was so crisscrossed by sloughs and bayous, to say nothing of immense areas of treacherous marshland, as to render overland travel practically impossible. Furthermore, so long as they kept to the water, hounds could not trail them.

It was a thousand to one that they were following some stream in the swamp, and Calhoun was guessing at which one. He felt that, given his exhaustive knowledge of the country, his choice was something better than a guess. It was a well-based calculation.

The channel of Little Bear River is not more than one hundred feet at its widest; on each side the wilderness walls it in; having no banks, the stream spreads out through crane-brakes, cypress swamps and flats, sometimes for miles into the timber. The dead water back of the brakes can be navigated by boatmen who know the stream, and it is possible to travel the whole length of the river without ever showing up in the channel. Slow progress, certainly, but safe, since to find a craft in the tangle is virtually impossible. Whisky runners know the ins and outs of such trails well, and make good use of them.

When Calhoun reached the juncture of Beaver Creek and Little Bear he was, according to his calculations, at least six hours ahead of the quarry. He knew the distance they would have to cover to get there, and he knew the maximum speed they would be able to make in their boats. At the outside, he had six hours the advantage.

The hour was nine in the evening, and a late moon was silvering the water, showing up objects in the channel, but intensifying the darkness of the shore lines. Cal continued downstream for half an hour longer, then steered his bateau out of the channel and back of a screen of cane on the left hand side of the river. He took a spool of black sewing thread from his pocket, attached one end to a stalk of cane about three inches above tire surface of the water, then crossed in a straight line into the cover on the right hand side, unwinding the thread from the spool at he went. There he secured the free end of the thread to a second stalk of cane, anchored the bateau and spread his blankets in it. That done he untied the thread and fastened it around the thumb of his left hand.

“A boat can’t pass without striking the thread,” he said to himself as he stretched out, “and I’ve got a sensitive thumb.”

Two minutes later he was sleeping.

Whether it was the jerking of the thread or the rocking of the bateau that awakened him Cal did not know. Dawn was just breaking when he became dimly conscious that the weather had changed during the night, and a wind storm was brewing. He sat up, and at that instant the thread suddenly tightened about his thumb, then released suddenly as the bow of a boat clove it in two.

Calhoun was wide awake on the instant, peering through the opening in his screen at the stretch of water immediately within his vision.

A long dugout, carrying two paddlers, dipped by, followed by another a moment later. It also carried two men. Cal waited, scarcely breathing. There were no more.

“I guessed right!” he exclaimed mentally, a pleased grin on his face. “Now I know where they are, and their probable objective — what?”

“That was a matter demanding most careful consideration. Cal settled back in his bateau, and did some swift thinking. He could easily have picked off the bandits with his rifle, had that been his desire. At least he could have gotten the two in the first boat that way, and probably captured the remaining two. But Calhoun was never a man to shoot unless it became absolutely necessary. It was not his nature to do so. Furthermore, the Government wants its culprits taken alive. An officer who has to kill his man to get him does not last long in the service. He is dropped, and should be. Calhoun kept his gun in its holster, and used his head.

“They are making for the Mississippi,” he argued. “Of that I am certain, because there is nowhere else they could be headed. Now, if I follow them until the Big River is reached I will have the aid of the officers of the boat they select to escape on. That, if I have luck. On the other hand, they may give me the slip, since I will necessarily have to remain at least an hour behind them. A boat may be just in the act of clearing when they arrive. If so, good-by. They looked fresh enough this morning, so they probably slept a good part of last night, and will go far to-day. Half the distance, probably. So I’ve got to-day, to-night and to-morrow in which to think up a scheme that will work.” He looked off through the timber to where dry land showed. “A bit of breakfast will help the thinking along,” he decided, and struck out for the shore.

While he cooked and ate breakfast he continued to canvas the meager possibilities the situation presented. When he took to the river again the problem had narrowed down to this:

“I’ll follow an hour behind, then when the Mississippi is near I’ll crowd them as closely as I can with safety,” he decided. “I’ve got to get there right on their heels, that’s certain. Morgan’s wood yard will probably have a steamer or two taking on fuel, and a steamer is their only chance. If they get aboard and away before I can stop them I’ll follow in a motor boat — commandeer a steam boat if I have to. Anyhow, Wheeler has said that one good man working on the side of the law is more than a match for a dozen crooks — and I’m not going to be the one to make him eat his words!”

The storm, threatening since before daybreak, suddenly broke, and for the next hour the ranger had all he could do to make headway in the terrific wind, to say nothing of the necessity of bailing almost constantly. The rain fell in torrents, and Calhoun soon had evidence that the region about Swan Lake had suffered a deluge. Drift began to show on the river, logs from drifts disturbed by a sudden rise. That, he knew, would constitute a hazard for night traveling.

“If drifting logs delay me, they will also delay the quarry,” he argued. With that thought he was content.

The danger of rounding a bend and coming suddenly upon the quartette was ever present — a possibility fraught with disaster for the lone pursuer. Whether or not they would lie in frequent ambush depended upon how safe they felt against pursuit — depended, also, Calhoun’s life. He knew that, and took all turns with infinite caution, usually dropping into the cover of the backwater and returning to the current well below the bend. In that way he might easily become the pursued rather than the pursuer, but it was a chance he had to take.

The day wore on, the storm finally abated, but the drifting trees and logs increased in numbers. About five o’clock Cal, coming to a sharp bend, suddenly scented wood smoke, and took cover instantly.

“They’ve stopped to cook supper,” he reasoned. “Want to avoid a night fire. That looks as though they are going to run the river, logs and all, after dark.”

Tying up to the tallest tree he could find, the ranger climbed to the top and scanned the shore line below. At length a thin wisp of smoke, whirling above the tree tops, betrayed the location of the camp. It was less than a quarter of a mile distant.

Cal remained in the tree. The river channel was visible to a point several hundred yards beyond the camp’s location, and he meant to make sure that the campers were really the men he sought. A hunter might possibly be the builder of that fire, but there was not much likelihood of one being in that particular part of the forest. It was a bit too remote even for hunters.

Half an hour passed, and two dugouts crept out of the cane and headed downstream. Each was manned by two oarsmen — undoubtedly the same party Cal had seen at daybreak.

The ranger descended to his boat, waited three-quarters of an hour, then took up the trail again. Reaching the point where the camp had been, he paddled through the cane and stepped ashore beside the dying embers of a fire. Replenishing it, he boiled a pot of coffee, cooked supper, and fed heartily. While he ate he examined the ground about the fire. Tracks, a few burned matches, cigarette stubs, and the refuse from the meal of which the crooks had partaken was all he found.

After eating, it occurred to him that it might be well to scout among the bushes with which the ground was all but choked in the vicinity of the camp. Painstakingly he covered it and, just before nightfall, had his reward.

In the center of a clump of buckrush he located a small leather bag — such a one as mail messengers use for carrying registered matter. It had been gutted with a knife, and the contents removed.

“That argues that a divvy was made at this point,” Cal reflected. “Means, too, that they are going to split right away. Hell — suppose two go down the Mississippi and two go up? The question then will be: Which two shall I take first? The redhead, of course, since he is the man I’m after more than the others. He did the killing.”

Then another thought struck him.

“Suppose they mean to split before they reach the Mississippi. There are many small streams branching off from Little Bear, between here and its mouth. Against that, though, is this: They can’t get far, by boat, on any of those streams — and the going afoot is bad, gets worse the closer one comes to the Big River. No, I’m still betting they’re making for a get-away by steamboat, and that, for safety’s sake, they’ll stick together.”

Concealing the bag under his pack, he set out again. Night had come, and extreme precaution would be necessary until the moon rose, which was due to occur about nine thirty. The storm clouds of the day had dispersed, and the sky was studded with stars. There would be a moon.

The hour passed slowly, and slowly also went Cal’s bateau — barely moving at times. At length there was a sudden stir in the forest — as palpable as a gust of wind, but hardly as easily defined. An owl screeched weirdly off in the timber, and was answered from half a dozen leafy hiding places. The plop-plop-plop of a ’coon’s feet, splashing through shallow water; the startled leap of a larger animal — a deer, probably — which, disturbed by the ranger, went crashing off into silence; the high-keyed wail of a panther, somewhere close at hand on the left — all told Cal that the moon was up, and that presently it would rise above the tree line and whiten the waters of the river. The denizens of the forest were astir.

IV

Something else was astir, too. Cal rounded a bend just as the moon thrust itself above the trees and spilled its rays over the river. It revealed a moving object on shore in the bend, a quarter mile away, and glinted upon the polished metal of a rifle barrel. The revelation was kaleidoscopic, passing almost before Cal’s eyes had caught and identified the impression.

It was enough, however. The ranger slipped silently into cover, and cast his painter around a cypress tree.

“They’ve made a night camp,” he told himself. “Three sleeping, while one guards. Thanks to whoever it is that hangs out the moon, I’m still alive! Five minutes later — but why speculate? I’m here, and they’re there. Question is, does that fact mean anything, or doesn’t it?”

He knew the utter impossibility of sneaking up on that camp from the shore. Too much brush, and the exact location of the bit of high ground they occupied unknown. It was really as impossible to gain the camp from the river. The man on guard would shoot him the moment he nosed his bateau into the moonlight. That was certain.

“Yet they are there — and three of them no doubt asleep,” the ranger argued. “Now, if I can’t take four men, while three are dead to the world, what becomes of the chief’s boast about one good man? Hell—”

A big log drifted along in the current just outside the cover Cal was in, and an idea came to him. A possible method of gathering in the whole party — but one entailing immeasurable risk. A hundred-to-one shot it was. But, Cal argued, hundred-to-one shots sometimes win.

He removed his boots and, standing up, stripped to the skin. Then he buckled his gun-belt about his neck, allowing his six-shooter, in its waterproof holster, to swing between his shoulders. To that he attached his hunting knife, and four pairs of hand-cuffs, then, crouching in the bateau, he glued his eyes to the river.

Logs floated along occasionally, but none were to his liking. After a bit a big cottonwood drifted slowly into view, and Cal slipped overside into the water, making no more splash than a swimming fish would have done. The log came abreast of him and he let it pass, then swam silently until he over took it, and was covered by it from view of the man on shore. At the log’s stern he clung with one hand, his face barely above water.

The current carried the floater slowly downriver, Calhoun keeping its bow pointed not too directly toward the spot where he had caught a flash of the guard. Presently the outlines of two dugouts showed indistinctly along shore, and he steered the log closer in.

A movement at the water’s edge told him that the guard had seen the object in the water and was examining it. There was no challenge, however, and Cal rightly concluded that the log had been recognized for what it was — a harmless drifter. Treading water, he held it motionless while he eased it gently, inch by inch, now toward the nearest dugout, then he let it drift again.

Another movement on shore, this time accompanied by a low oath, as the guard, concerned for the safety of the bateau which the floater menaced, stepped into the shallow water and prepared to shove it off.

Cal, peering from behind the log’s stem, saw him set his boot upon its bow and thrust outward. It eased off a bit, then, manipulated by the ranger, it perversely sloughed about and crept toward the dugout.

Again the guard raised a foot and set it upon the log — this time at the stern, for the bow was almost against the boat.

Cal released his hold, seized the man by the ankle in a powerful grasp, and jerked him down into the water — his attempted cry of alarm cut short by a sudden and complete immersion. The log drifted on, and the ranger, astride the guard, brought all the terrific pressure of his sinewy fingers to bear upon his windpipe. When his captive became limp beneath him, Cal took him in his arms and crept ashore.

When the prisoner finally gasped and opened his eyes, it was to find himself stripped to his underwear, his hands shackled, ankles bound with his own belt, and his captor dressed in the clothing he had worn.

Cal’s left hand instantly closed about the prisoner’s throat, while his right, armed with a long knife, menaced him.

“Make the slightest unnecessary noise and I’ll drive this into your gullet!” he whispered grimly. “When I give you air enough to do so, I want you to answer my questions — truthfully, understand. If you make a mistake, unintentional or otherwise, you are going to die, and die quick! Get it?”

He released the pressure on the guard’s windpipe, and the man gurgled and nodded.

“Where is your camp — how far ashore?” Cal demanded.

The answer was wheezed out with difficulty, but it came:

“About three hundred yards inland — straight up from here.”

“Were you to be relieved?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“About half an hour from now.”

“Who is to relieve you?”

“Bud.”

“Bud’s asleep, eh — along with the rest?”

“Of course.”

“How was he to know when to relieve you?”

“I was to slip up and wake him.”

“Sure of that? Remember, any mistake you make will spell the end for you. Sure about it?”

“How you reckon he’d know when to come?” demanded the prisoner. “Think we carry an alarm clock?”

Cal laughed softly. “Good enough.” he replied. “Guess an alarm clock would be excess baggage on a trip like this. Where is Bud lying; in what position, with reference to the others?”

“Well, he’s the nearest one — the others are beyond him.”

“You’re just to wake him quietly, tell him to come on, then turn in his place? That the racket?”

“Yeah.” The answer was delayed — came hesitantly.

Cal’s knife pricked the tender skin at the base of the prone man’s throat.

“Take that blade away!” came in a fierce growl.

“Listen,” Cal told him, increasing the pressure until the needlelike point pricked the skin, “I’m going to gag you, roll you into the brush, where you’ll be hidden from all but me. If I make a mistake, due to you, I’m going to break for you — and kill you. No matter what happens to me later, I’m going to see to it that you don’t benefit. Get that?”

“Yeah,” was the surly reply.

“Now — tell me the truth.”

“Well, I’m to wake Bud, then come back here until he has a chance to heat some coffee — we’ve got a bit of fire farther back in the brush, hid by logs. I’m to watch here until he comes down. And now, damn you, take that knife off my gullet!”

Cal took the knife away, and with it cut off the tail of the shirt he wore. Then, before the prisoner realized what was taking place, he stuffed the cloth into his mouth.

“That’ll keep you quiet, I reckon,” Cal told him, as he lifted the guard and carried him twenty feet down the bank, depositing him where the river grass made an excellent screen. “I’m taking a chance — but you’re taking a longer one than I am!”

He returned to the point where the dugouts lay, got into one and paddled across the stream, towing the other and his own bateau. When he returned, he came in his own boat, leaving the others.

“If anything starts that I can’t handle,” he reflected, “I may be able to get away — and leave them marooned.”

He anchored in the shadows near where the prisoner lay, then crept inland toward the camp — almost as noiselessly as a water-moccasin would have crawled. Every few feet he paused, held his breath and listened. At the fourth or fifth pause, he caught the sound of some one snoring lightly — and knew the camp was at hand.

V

With his six-gun in hand he crept onward, and halted beside a blanketed form on the ground. A moment he hesitated, then reached out and caught the sleeper by a shoulder.

“Bud!” he said gruffly, under his breath. “Bud!”

The sleeper stirred. “Huh?” came drowsily from the blanket.

“Come on! It’s your turn!” Cal whispered.

“Hell!” The man called Bud yawned. “All right, Becker. Soon’s I git some coffee inside me. All quiet?”

“Sure! Nothin’ stirrin’!” Cal answered. “Hurry — I’m dead for sleep!”

He faded away toward the river — breathing heavily from the strain. Reaching the shore, he sought a place to hide, and found it behind a big gum which grew beside the path Bud would have to follow when he came down.

The relief was not long in coming. He reached the shadow of the tree — and did not pass out of it. He dropped without a groan, as Calhoun’s clubbed gun crashed against his skull.

To bind and gag Bud required perhaps five minutes, and he was still unconscious when the ranger slipped back toward the camp — and the most dangerous part of the job he had set for himself.

Inch by inch, pausing frequently to listen for the slightest sound which might warn him that his men were awake, he crept upon the camp, until he found himself beside a long figure, tightly rolled in a blanket. Calhoun was not squeamish — besides, his own life hung by a hair. He clubbed his gun.

Suddenly the sleeper stirred, opened his eyes; his jaw dropped in consternation, then snapped shut, and he made a wild scramble to sit up.

Cal swung swiftly, putting power behind the blow, and the blanketed figure dropped back and lay still.

The noise of the scuffle, however, was sufficient to wake the second man, who threw aside his blanket and called out:

“Rhodes! I say, Rhodes, what’s going on?”

Then his glance fell upon Calhoun, who crouched ready to leap. His hand flashed down and came up with a gun, as he got to his knees.

Cal’s weapon spurted fire, there was an oath of agony from the man on the blanket, and the next instant his shattered right wrist was bound to his left with steel.

The man called Rhodes was stirring, and Cal took the precaution of rendering him harmless with the remaining pair of cuffs. Then he turned to the man he had shot.

“Well, Red,” he remarked quietly, “I ought to let you bleed to death, but since the Government prefers to have you die by the rope, I’ll patch you up temporarily. Hold out your hands!”

In late afternoon of the day after the storm, Sheriff Lundsford and his bedraggled, disgruntled posse returned to Hell Hole. They were a wornout crew. Cal was still absent, but they made themselves at home in his cabin; fed themselves and, night coming on, occupied the bunks with which the ranger’s quarters was plentifully equipped. It was Lundsford’s intention to use Hell Hole as a base, and work out of that place until all the surrounding territory had been covered.

“Cal will come moseying in about tomorrow,” he told his men. “And maybe he’ll have some information of value. A good man, Cal — but awfully stuck on himself, just as Wheeler is. Still, he does have good luck getting his man when he starts out for him; no doubt about that. These grandstanders generally do have luck — else they’d soon cease to be in position to grandstand!”

Having thus delivered himself, Lundsford turned in. Shortly after daylight he awoke, stretched himself, wincing at the soreness in his limbs, and looked out the window at the head of the bunk. He sat up suddenly — then, a minute later, though only partly dressed, was streaking it for the landing.

Three craft — two dugouts and a bateau, were there ahead of him. In the bow of the first dugout to land sat a short, redheaded man, his right arm in a sling; manning the stern paddle was a tall, spare man, his head enveloped in a bloody bandage. The second canoe held two men, one of whom had seemingly rammed his head into something solid, for he, too, displayed a blood-stained bandage.

In the bateau, watchful as a hawk, sat Calhoun.

Lundsford’s eyes dropped to the feet of the prisoners, and noted that each man was secured by a pair of handcuffs about his ankles.

“Make yourself useful, Lundsford,” Cal called out, tossing a bunch of keys ashore. “They’ve been on a forced march, and are too tired to run!”

Members of the posse now came upon the scene. Cal made no answer to their inquiries until the last prisoner was ashore and stretching his legs leisurely, then he spoke:

“I ran onto them in a night camp,” he stated, “and brought ’em in. That’s all.”

The crowd fell silent. Then Lundsford spoke:

“I know you done just that, Cal,” he said dazedly, “because they’re here! And now you’ve fetched ’em this far, I’ll just relieve you of them and take ’em along with me.”

Cal eyed the sheriff for a long moment.

“Ever observe the conduct of buzzards, Lundsford?” he asked. “They hang around until some other bird makes a kill, then try to hog it. Some birds, though, won’t stand for it. I’m that kind of bird.”

He turned to his prisoners.

“Get over to my cabin, men,” he ordered.

In silence they obeyed, leaving Lundsford more disgruntled than ever, wondering just what the ranger had meant by his reference to buzzards, and whether or not it called for a reply.

Inside, Cal replaced the handcuffs on the prisoners, then made his report to Wheeler.

“Calhoun sending. Found the train bandits in a night camp on Little Bear, a day’s journey from the Mississippi. Brought them to Hell Hole this morning. Had to bung three of them up, and they should have medical attention soon. The loot is in my possession. Am holding them here, pending your arrival.”

He signed off, then cocked an ear for the chief’s reply. After a moment it came — a laconic:

“O. K.”