J. W. Duffield - Bert Wilson in the Rockies

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BERT WILSON IN THE ROCKIES

BY J. W. DUFFIELD

Author of "Bert Wilson at the Wheel," "Wireless Operator," "Fadeaway
Ball," "Marathon Winner," "At Panama."

NEW YORK
GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1914, By
SULLY AND KLEINTEICH

Published and Printed, 1924 by
Western Printing & Lithographing Company
Racine, Wisconsin
Printed in U.S.A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. A Desperate Encounter

II. The Ranch in the Rockies

III. "Busting" a Broncho

IV. A Forest Terror

V. The Grizzly at Bay

VI. The "Ringer's" Downfall

VII. The Wolf Pack

VIII. With Teeth and Hoofs

IX. The Indian Outbreak

X. In Fearful Extremity

XI. Within an Ace

XII. Quick on the Draw

XIII. Trailing the Outlaws

XIV. The Race for Life

BERT WILSON IN THE ROCKIES

CHAPTER I

A Desperate Encounter

A shower of glass from the shattered windowpane fell over the floor and
seats, and a bullet embedded itself in the woodwork of an upper berth.
There was a shriek from the women passengers in the crowded Pullman, and
the men looked at each other in consternation. From the platform came the
sound of a scuffle, interspersed with oaths. Then, through the narrow
corridor that bordered the smoking-room, hurried two men, pushing the
terrified negro porter ahead of them. Each of the intruders wore a black
cloth tied over the lower part of his face, and before the bewildered
passengers knew what had happened they found themselves looking along the
blue-black barrels of two ugly revolvers.

It was a startling break in an uneventful day. For several hours the
Overland Limited had hummed along over the boundless prairies that
stretched away on either side with scarcely a break to the horizon. They
had time to make up, and on these open spaces the engineer had let it out
to the limit. So swiftly and smoothly had it sped along that the "click,
click" as it struck each separate rail had merged into one droning "song
of the road."

There had been no rain for a week past, and the dust lay thick on the
grass and cactus. The motion of the train drew it up in clouds that made
it impossible to keep the windows raised, and the sun, beating down
pitilessly from a brazen sky, added to the general discomfort. Cooling
drinks were at a premium, and the porters were kept busy making trips to
the buffet car, from which they returned with tinkling glasses and
cooling ices. Collars wilted and conversation languished. Women glanced
listlessly over the pages of the magazines. Men drew their traveling caps
over their eyes and settled down for a doze. Here and there a commercial
traveler jotted down some item or wondered how far he dared to "pad" his
expense account so that it would "get by" the lynx-eyed head of the firm.
In the smoking-room a languid game of cards was being played, in an
effort to beguile the tedious monotony of the trip. Over all there
brooded a spirit of somnolence and relaxation.

If there was life to be discerned anywhere, it was in a group of three
young fellows seated near the middle of the car. They would have drawn
more than a passing glance wherever seen. Tall, well set up, muscular,
they served as splendid types of young American manhood. None of them
were over twenty, and their lean, bronzed faces, as well as the lithe
alertness of their movements, spoke of a life spent largely in the open.
They were brimming with life and high spirits. Exuberant vitality shone
through their eyes and betrayed itself in every gesture. That they were
friends of long standing was evident from the utter absence of ceremony
and the free and easy comradeship with which they chaffed each other.

From the beginning of the trip they had been full of fun and merriment.
Their college year had just closed, and they were like frolicsome colts
turned out to pasture. There was hardly an incident of the journey that
did not furnish to their keen, unjaded senses something of interest and
amusement. Their cup of life was full and they drained it in great
draughts.

But just now even their effervescence was calmed somewhat by the heat and
spirit of drowsiness that hovered over the car.

"Gee," yawned the youngest of the three, stretching out lazily. "Isn't it
nearly twelve o'clock? I wonder when that dusky gentleman will come along
with the call to dinner."

"Always hungry," laughed one of the others. "The rest of us eat to live,
but Tom lives to eat."

"You've struck it there, Dick," assented the third. "You know they say
that no one has ever been able to eat a quail a day for thirty days hand
running, but I'd be willing to back Tom to do it."

"Well, I wouldn't quail at the prospect," began Tom complacently, and
then ducked as Dick made a pass at him.

"Even at that, I haven't got anything on you fellows," he went on, in an
aggrieved tone. "When you disciples of 'plain living and high thinking'
get at the dinner table, I notice that it soon becomes a case of high
living and plain thinking."

"Such low-brow insinuations deserve no answer," said Dick severely.
"Anyway," consulting his watch, "it's only half-past eleven, so you'll
have to curb the promptings of your grosser nature."

"No later than that?" groaned Tom. "I don't know when a morning has
seemed so long in passing."

"It _is_ a little slow. I suppose it's this blistering heat and the long
distance between stations. It's about time something happened to break
the monotony."

"Don't raise false hopes, Bert," said Tom, cynically. "Nothing ever
happens nowadays."

"Oh, I don't know," laughed Bert. "How about the Mexican bandits and the
Chinese pirates? Something certainly happened when we ran up against
those rascals."

"They were lively scraps, all right," admitted Tom, "but we had to go
out of the country to get them. In the little old United States, we've
got too much civilization. Everything is cut and dried and pared and
polished, until there are no rough edges left. Think of the fellows that
made this trip across the continent sixty years ago in their prairie
schooners, getting cross-eyed from looking for buffalo with one eye and
Indians with the other, feeling their scalp every five minutes to make
sure they still had it. That was life."

"Or death," put in Dick skeptically.

"Then look at us," went on Tom, not deigning to notice the interruption,
"rolling along smoothly at fifty miles an hour in a car that's like a
palace, with its cushioned seats and electric lights and library and
bath and soft beds and rich food and servants to wait upon us. We're
pampered children of luxury, all right, but I'm willing to bet that those
'horny-handed sons of toil' had it on us when it came to the real joy of
living."

"Tom was born too late?" chaffed Bert. "He doesn't really belong in the
twentieth century. He ought to have lived in the time of Ivanhoe, or
Young Lochinvar, or the Three Musketeers, or Robin Hood. I can see him
bending a bow in Nottingham Forest or breaking a lance in a tournament or
storming a fortress by day, and at night twanging a guitar beneath a
castle window or writing a sonnet to his lady's eyebrow."

"Well, anyhow," defended Tom, "those fellows of the olden time had good
red blood in their veins."

"Yes," assented Dick drily, "but it didn't stay there long. There were
too many sword points ready to let it out."

And yet, despite their good-natured "joshing" of Tom, they, quite as much
as he, were eager for excitement and adventure. In the fullest sense they
were "birds of a feather." In earlier and ruder days they would have been
soldiers of fortune, cutting their ways through unknown forests, facing
without flinching savage beasts and equally savage men, looking ever for
new worlds to conquer. Even in these "piping days of peace" that they so
much deplored, they had shown an almost uncanny ability to get into
scrapes of various kinds, from which sometimes they had narrowly escaped
with a whole skin. Again and again their courage had been severely tried,
and had stood the test. At home and abroad, on land and sea, they had
come face to face with danger and death. But the fortune that "favors the
brave" had not deserted them, even in moments of deadliest peril. They
were accustomed to refer to themselves laughingly as "lucky," but those
who knew them best preferred to call them plucky. A stout heart and a
quick wit had "many a time and oft" extricated them from positions where
luck alone would have failed them.

And most of their adventures had been shared in company. The tie of
friendship that bound them together as closely as brothers was of long
standing. Beginning at a summer camp, five years earlier, where chance
had thrown them together, it had grown increasingly stronger with every
year that passed. A subtle free masonry had from the start made each
recognize the others as kindred spirits. Since this first meeting their
paths had seldom diverged. Together they had gone to college, where their
athletic prowess had put them in the first rank in sports and made them
popular among their comrades. On the baseball diamond they had played
their positions in brilliant fashion, and on the football gridiron they
had added to their laurels. When Bert had been chosen to go to the
Olympic games abroad, his "pals" had gone with him and exulted in his
glorious victory, when, in the Marathon race, he had beaten the crack
runners of the world. Nor were they to be denied, when his duty as
wireless operator had carried him over the Pacific to meet with thrilling
experiences among the yellow men of Asia. In every time of storm and
stress they had stood with him shoulder to shoulder, and faced life and
death with eyes wide open and unafraid. They were worthy lieutenants of
a brave and intrepid leader.

For, that he was their leader, they themselves would have been the first
to admit, although he would have modestly disclaimed it. He never
asserted leadership, but it sought him out of its own accord. He had the
instinct, the initiative, the quick decision, the magnetic personality
that marks the born captain. It was not merely that he was endowed with
strength of muscle and fleetness of foot and power of endurance that
placed him in a class by himself. He might have had all these, and still
been only a superb specimen of the "human animal." But, above and
controlling these qualities, was the indomitable will, the unflinching
courage, the gallant audacity that made him the idol of his comrades.

The college year just ended had been a notable one, marked by victories
on track and field. Together with the high rank he had reached and held
in his studies, with which, unlike many athletes, he never allowed sport
to interfere, it had taxed him heavily in mind and body. And it was with
unfeigned delight that he now looked forward to a long season of
recreation and adventure on the ranch in Montana, toward which he and
his friends were speeding.

Mr. Melton, the owner of the ranch, was a Western cattleman of the old
type, now rapidly disappearing. Bluff, rough and ready, generous and
courageous, his sterling qualities had won the admiration and affection
of the boys from the date of their first meeting the year before.

That meeting had taken place under extraordinary circumstances. The
"Three Guardsmen"--so called in joke, because they were always
together--journeying to the opening of the Panama Canal had found
themselves on the same train with Melton, as it wound its way through
Central Mexico. A broken trestle had made it necessary for the train to
halt for an hour or two, and during this enforced stop Dick had
carelessly wandered away on a stroll through the woods, tempted by the
beauty of the day and the novelty of his surroundings. At a turn in the
road he had suddenly found himself in the presence of twenty or more
guerillas, headed by the notorious El Tigre, whose name was spoken with a
shudder throughout Mexico. They had bound him and carried him off to
their mountain retreat. Bert and Tom, an hour later, discovered the cause
of his absence and immediately started in pursuit, determined to save
their comrade or die with him. But first they had disclosed the situation
to Melton, who had sworn in his rage to follow after them and aid them in
the rescue. How faithfully he had kept his word, how skillfully and
daringly he had led them on and rushed the camp just as Dick was steeling
himself to undergo the rattlesnake torture that the bandit chief had
planned for him, was engraven indelibly on the memories of the boys.
Until the day of their death they could never forget how the old war
horse, with everything to lose and nothing to gain, had come to their
assistance simply because they were Americans and in dire need of help.

And on Melton's part the feeling was equally warm. He had taken an
instantaneous liking to these young countrymen of his who had played
their part so gallantly. They recalled to him the days of his own stormy
youth, when he had ridden the range and when his life had depended on
his iron nerve and his quickness with the trigger. Though older than
they by forty years, they were all cut on the same pattern of sturdy,
self-reliant American manhood, and it was with the utmost cordiality that
he had crushed their hands in his strong grip and urged them to visit him
at his ranch in the Rockies. Since then he had been East on a business
trip and had been present on that memorable day when Bert, with the ball
tucked under his arm, had torn down the field in the great race for the
goal that won the game in the last minute of play. Then he had renewed
the invitation with redoubled earnestness, and promised them the time of
their lives. They needed no urging to do a thing that accorded so well
with their own inclinations, and from that time on until the opening of
the summer had shaped everything with that end in view. Now they were
actually launched upon their journey. That it held for them a new and
delightful experience they did not doubt. How much of danger and
excitement and hairbreadth escape it also held, they did not even dream.

"Bully old boy, Melton," commented Tom, playing lazily with a heavy
paperweight he had bought at a curio shop at their last stopping place.

"A diamond in the rough," assented Dick.

"All wool and a yard wide," declared Bert, emphatically. "I wonder if
he----Great Scott, what's that?" as a bullet whizzed through the window
of the Pullman.

The question was quickly answered when their eyes fell on the robbers,
who, with leveled pistols, dominated the car. And the threat of the
weapons themselves was not more sinister than the purpose that glinted in
the ferocious eyes above the improvised masks. There was no mere bluff
and bluster in that steady gaze. They were ready to shoot and shoot to
kill. Their lives were already forfeit to the law, anyway, and in that
rough country they would get "a short shrift and a long rope" if their
plans went astray. They might as well be hung for murder as robbery, and,
while they did not mean to kill unless driven to it, they were perfectly
ready to do so at the first hint of resistance.

The paralyzing moment of surprise passed, there was a stir among the
passengers. The first instinct was to hide their valuables or drop them
on the floor. But this was checked instantly by the outlaws.

"Hands up," shouted one of them with an oath. "I'll kill the first man
that makes a move."

His pistol ranged over the car, flickering like the tongue of a snake,
seeming to cover every passenger at once. Beneath its deadly insistence,
hands were upraised one after the other. Resistance at that moment meant
instant death. The unwritten law of the West had to be obeyed. He "had
the drop" on them.

The leader grinned malignantly and spoke to his companion, without for an
instant turning his gaze.

"Now, Bill," he growled, "I've got these mavericks covered. Pass round
the hat. These gents--and ladies," he leered--"will hand over their coin
and jewelry, and God help the one who tries to renig. He won't never need
money no more."

Taking his old sombrero from his head, the one addressed as Bill started
in to collect from the front of the car.

"Only one hand down at a time to get your money," shouted his companion.
"And mind," he added ominously, "I'm watchin' that hand."

Pocket books and rings and watches dropped into the hat. Women were
sobbing hysterically and men were cursing under their breath.

"Stung," groaned Tom disgustedly.

"And our pistols in our bags," growled Dick.

Bert's mind had been working like lightning. He was always at his best
when danger threatened. Now his body grew taut and his eyes gleamed.

"Be ready, you fellows," he said in low tones, scarcely moving his lips.
"Dick, back me up when I make a move. Tom, got that paperweight handy?"

"Right alongside on the window ledge," muttered Tom.

Still keeping his eyes in an innocent stare on the outlaw captain, Bert
murmured a few words. They caught his meaning on the instant and were
ready.

The man with the hat was getting nearer. There had been no sign of
resistance and the leader relaxed his caution ever so slightly. This
was easier than they had dared to hope.

The sombrero was sagging now with the unwilling wealth poured into it,
and the collector, relying on the vigilance of his companion, was
compelled to use both hands to keep the contents from spilling on the
floor.

He held it out in front of Bert and Dick.

"Your turn now," he snarled. "Fork over."

They lowered their hands as though to get out their money. Then something
happened.

Like a flash, Dick grabbed the pistol hand of the collector, while Bert's
fist shot up in a tremendous smashing uppercut. The man staggered back,
and Bert and Dick were on him like a pair of wildcats.

At the same instant, with all the power of his trained baseball arm, Tom
had hurled the heavy paperweight straight at the outlaw captain. It
caught him full between the eyes. His pistol fell from his hand, going
off as it did so, and he crumpled up and went down to the floor in a
heap.

It was all over in a second. The whole thing had been so perfectly timed,
brain and hand had worked in such absolute unison that disaster had come
on the outlaws like a bolt from the blue. It was "team work" of the
finest kind.

The first surprise over, the other men in the car came crowding to the
assistance of the chief actors in the scrimmage. But the danger was past.
The leader was unconscious, and the other, badly beaten and cursing
horribly, was helpless in the grasp of the victors. Train men, rushing
in, took charge of the prisoners and trussed them up securely.

A posse was hastily organized among the passengers and, heavily armed,
swarmed from the train in quest of the two remaining members of the band,
who had been left to guard the engineer and fireman. The miscreants saw
them coming, however, and realized that the game was up. They emptied
their pistols and then flung themselves upon their horses and galloped
off, secure for the time from further pursuit.

The conductor, still pale and shaken from excitement, gave the signal.
There was a scramble to get aboard, the whistle tooted and the train
once more got under way.

In the Pullman there was a wild turmoil, as the relieved passengers
crowded around the boys and wrung their hands in congratulation. They
couldn't say enough in praise of the courage and presence of mind that
had turned the tables so swiftly and gallantly. The spoils were retrieved
and distributed among the rightful owners, and then, with a bow of mock
politeness, the old sombrero, empty now, was clapped on the head of the
baffled collector, who received it with a new string of blasphemies.

By this time the victim of Tom's unerring aim had gradually struggled
back to consciousness. His arms and feet had been securely tied and his
remaining revolver had been taken from his belt. Of a stronger mold than
his accomplice, he disdained to vent his rage in useless imprecations and
relapsed into silence as stoical as an Indian's. But, if looks could
kill, the boys would have been blasted by the brooding hate that shot
from under his jutting brows.

"I'm glad it didn't kill him, anyway," said Tom, as, after the tumult had
somewhat subsided, they once more were seated and the train was flying
along at full speed.

"It's a wonder it didn't," responded Dick. "It was a fearful crack."

"Tom hasn't forgotten the way he used to shoot them down from third base
to first," laughed Bert. "That right wing of his is certainly a dandy."

"It's lucky it is," said the conductor, who had just returned from giving
directions concerning the prisoners; "and talking about wings," he added,
turning to Bert, "there's no discount on yours. That fist hit like a
sledgehammer. The way you fellows piled into him was a crime. I never saw
a prettier bit of rough house.

"But the beauty of it all," he went on, "was the way you worked together.
If any one of you hadn't 'come through' at the same second, the jig would
have been up. Who figured it out?"

"Here's the slow thinker that did it," said Dick, clapping Bert on the
shoulder.

"That's the bonehead, sure enough," echoed Tom.

"Oh, come off," growled Bert, flushing a little and fidgeting uneasily in
his seat. "There was a whole lot of luck about it, anyway. If we hadn't
had the paperweight, all the thinking in the world wouldn't have done us
a bit of good."

"If you hadn't had the thinking, all the paperweights in the world
wouldn't have done us a bit of good," corrected Tom.

"Well, there's glory enough for all," smiled the conductor. "The main
point is that you fellows have put me and the company under a load of
gratitude and obligation that we can never repay. Call it quick thinking,
quick acting, or both--you turned the trick."

"It had to be a case of 'the quick or the dead,'" grinned Tom.

"Sure thing," assented the conductor. "You were the quick and those two
rascals are the dead. Or will be before long," he added grimly. "I'll
turn them over to the sheriff at the next station. There's a hand bill
in the baggage car describing a band of outlaws that the authorities of
three States have been after for a long time for robbery and murder, and
two of the descriptions fit these fellows to a dot. There's a price on
their heads, dead or alive, and I guess they've reached the end of their
rope in more senses than one."

He passed on and the boys relaxed in their seats. They were still under
the nervous strain of the stirring scene in which they had been the chief
actors. Tom's breath was coming fast and his eyes were shining.

Bert looked at him for a moment and then nudged Dick.

"Didn't I hear some one say a little while ago," he asked slyly, "that in
this little old United States there was too much civilization?"

"Yes," replied Dick, still quoting, "nothing ever happens nowadays."

CHAPTER II

The Ranch in the Rockies

With a great roar and rattle and clangor of bells, the train drew up at
the little station where the boys were to descend. Their long rail
journey of nearly three thousand miles was over, but they still had a
forty-mile drive before they would reach the ranch.

For a half hour previous they had been gathering their traps together and
saying good-by to their friends on the train. These last included all of
the travelers, who, since the capture of the robbers, had insisted on
making heroes of the boys. In vain they had protested that the thanks
were out of all proportion to the service rendered. The passengers
themselves knew better. And it was amid a chorus of the friendliest
farewells and good wishes that they had stepped to the rude platform of
the station.

"Not much of a metropolis about this," said Tom as they looked around.

"Hardly," agreed Dick. "The principal thing here is space. You can cross
the street without the help of a traffic cop."

"And only one street to cross, at that," added Bert.

It was the typical small town of the Western plains. The one crooked
street parallel with the track stretched on either side of the station
for perhaps half a mile, lined with houses at irregular intervals. There
was no pretence of a sidewalk and even fences were conspicuous by their
absence. The business part of the town consisted of a general store that
served also as a post office, a blacksmith shop and three saloons, to one
of which a dance hall was attached. Business seemed brisk in these,
judging from the many mustangs that were tied to rails outside, patiently
waiting for their masters who were "tanking up" within and accumulating
their daily quota of "nose paint." A Mexican in a tattered serape was
sitting on the steps of the store rolling a cigarette, while an Indian,
huddled in a greasy blanket and evidently much the worse for fire water,
sat crouched against the shack that served as baggage-room at the left
end of the station.

Down the platform came hustling a big burly form that they recognized in
an instant.

"Mr. Melton," they cried in chorus as they rushed with extended hands to
meet him.

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