CHAPTER XX
"I PIPED AND YE DANCED"
Gerald Buxton was boiling over with indignation when he parted companywith Mike Murphy and realized how he had been tricked. He had allowed thereal burglar to get away while he held up his innocent pursuer.
"All I ask is one sight of that villain!" he muttered, striking into alope which carried him rapidly over the ground. Since the fugitive haddisappeared several minutes before and there was no telling what coursehe had taken, it would seem there was not one chance in a hundred ofBuxton ever seeing him again.
But, although the citizen had been cleverly hoodwinked, he usedshrewdness in wrestling with the problem. As he viewed it, the fellow waslikely to make for the stretch of woods between Beartown and the river,that he might screen himself as quickly as possible. He would lose notime in getting away from the village as soon as he could. It was quiteprobable that he and his gang had come up or down the river and had alaunch awaiting them. To avoid going astray, he would use the highwaywhich joined Beartown and the landing.
Mr. Buxton had to climb three fences before he reached an open field ofslight extent, beyond which lay the woods. He knew the chances ofovertaking the criminal were meagre, but with a thrill of delight hecaught sight of his man only a little way in front and walking in thesame direction with himself. He seemed to have sprung from the ground,and it was clear that he had no thought of further pursuit. His followertried to get nearer to him before he reached the woods, but the fellowheard him and glancing over his shoulder broke into a run.
"Stop or I'll fire!" shouted Buxton.
After the young man's experience with his first pursuer and hisSpringfield, he could not be blamed for refusing to heed the command. Heran the faster and the next minute would have whisked beyond reach, hadnot Buxton come to an abrupt halt, and taking a quick aim, fired.
He got his man too. With a cry of pain he leaped several feet in the airand fell. Terrified by what he had done, Buxton ran forward, gun in hand,and called out while several paces distant:
"Are you hurt bad?"
"I'm done for," was the reply as the wounded fellow laboriously climbedto his feet.
With anger turned into sympathy, the captor asked:
"Where did I hit you?"
"You shattered my right leg," was the reply, accompanied by groans as thefellow with excruciating effort tried to support himself on the otherlimb.
Buxton laid down his weapon and knelt to examine the wound. He saw nowthat the lower part of the trousers leg was shredded by the charge ofshot and that, doubtless, the hurt was a very grievous one.
"I'm sorry I gave it to you so bad, but you can't deny you desarved it.If you're able to walk back to my house, with my help, I'll get a doctorand we'll soon----"
At that instant the young man sprang back a couple of paces, and thestartled Buxton looking up saw that he stood firmly on both feet, withthe shotgun pointed at him. He had snatched up the weapon while the ownerwas stooping over to inspect the wound.
"Now it's _my_ turn!" he said, with a chuckle. "It isn't your fault thatyou didn't kill me, and it will be my fault if I don't even matters upwith you!"
Poor Buxton slowly came to the upright position, with jaws dropping andeyes staring. He could only mumble:
"W-w-what's the matter?"
"Nothing with me; it's _you_ that's in a hole."
Believing it was all up with him, the terrified victim stood mute.
"I ought to shoot you down and I'll do so if you don't obey me."
"W-w-what do you want?" Buxton managed to stammer out.
"Dance!" was the crisp command.
The citizen stared, not comprehending the order.
"We cowboys in the West when we want a little fun make a tenderfoot dancewhile we fire our revolvers at his feet. BEGIN!"
The victim lowered the point of the gun so as to point it at the shoes ofMr. Buxton.
"I--I--can't dance; never done it in my life," he stuttered.
"Can't begin earlier. Start up!"
Knowing what was ordered, the victim obeyed. He leaped up and down,shuffled his feet and made such comical antics that the gun wabbled inthe hands of the laughing master of the situation.
"I have one loaded barrel left and I'm aching to let you have it! Keep itup!"
Now that he had started, Mr. Buxton threw more vigor into his steps. Hebounded in the air, side-stepped, kicked out his feet, tried a number offancy movements of which he knew nothing, and acted like an energeticyouth taking his first lessons in that branch of the terpsichorean artcalled buck dancing.
"Turn your back toward me and dance all the way home! If you let up forone minute or look around I'll blaze away, and you won't get the chargein your _feet_! Remember that!"
Mr. Buxton reflected that having left home so jauntily with loaded weaponover his shoulder, it would be anything but a dignified return to danceback again without it. If he jig-stepped down the main street someneighbor was likely to see him and make remarks. A waltz through thegate, up the steps of the porch and into the hall, by which time it wouldprobably be safe for him to cease his exhausting performance, wouldundoubtedly cause annoying inquiries on the part of his wife and family.
But there was hope. He might gain a start that would make it safe toresume his natural gait. He did his best. Facing the boundary fence lessthan two hundred yards away he kicked up his heels, swung his arms inunison, and steadily drew away from that fearful form standing with gunlevelled at him. He yearned to break into a run, but dared not. Hebelieved his tormentor was following so as to keep him in range.
It was hardly to be expected that he should go over the fence with adance step, but he reflected that he could resume his labors immediatelyhe dropped to the ground on the other side and faithfully maintain it tothe next boundary. But there was risk and he was afraid to incur it.While still shifting his feet with an energy that caused him to breathefast, he approached the obstruction. Partly turning his head whiletoiling as hard as ever, he called:
"I'll have to stop a minute till I climb over, but I'll resoom dancing assoon as I hit the ground on the other side agin. Is that all right?"
There was no reply and he repeated the question in a louder voice. Stillhearing nothing, he ventured to look back. The young man was nowhere insight. Truth to tell, no sooner had Mr. Buxton begun his humorousexhibition than the youth, vainly trying to suppress his mirth, flungdown the gun, turned about and entered the wood toward which he wasrunning when so abruptly checked by his pursuer.
"Wal, I'll be hanged!" was the disgusted exclamation of the pantingBuxton. "That's the meanest trick I ever had played on me. The scand'lousvillain oughter be hung. What a sight I made! I'm mighty glad no one seenme."
In his relief, he did not notice a vague form which flitted along theedge of the wood, so close to the trees that the shadow screened it fromclear view. Had Mr. Buxton noted it he might not have felt certain thatno one witnessed his unrivalled performance.
He was so tired out from his tremendous efforts that he stood awhilemopping his moist forehead with his handkerchief while he regained hiswind.
"It's lucky he didn't foller and make me dance all the way home. Nevercould have done it. Would have dropped dead, I am that blamed tired."
He leaned against the fence while recovering from his unwonted exercise.Naturally he believed the young man who had used him so ill had carriedaway his weapon beyond possibility of recovery.
"And I paid twenty-five dollars for it in Portland," he bitterly mused."It looks to me that as a hunter of post office robbers I ain't of muchaccount."
He resumed his walk homeward, going slowly, carefully climbing theobstructions in his path and studying what explanation to make to hisfriends for the loss of his valuable piece. He might manage it with allexcept his wife and son. It would not do to tell them he had dropped itsomewhere along the road without noticing the accident. A boy might losehis pocketknife (I know of a youngster who lost a wheelbarrow and neverfound it aga
in), but a double barreled shotgun manifestly could notdisappear in that fashion so much out of the ordinary way of things.
"I think I'll have a look at the post office and larn what mischief thevillain done there."
He veered in his course and came to the back window, where a light showedthat some persons were gathered. He found mother, daughter and the threeboys, who gave him warm greeting.
"Was that your gun we heard a little while ago?" asked the woman.
"I reckon it must have been," replied Mr. Buxton, who declined theinvitation to enter and remained standing outside the window.
"Did you hit the burglar?" asked Alvin.
"Young man," said Mr. Buxton loftily, "when I fire at anything I _always_hit it."
"You didn't kill him, Gerald!" exclaimed the horrified mother.
"No; I just winged him so he won't forget it if he lives a thousandyears; don't like to kill a scamp even if he is a burglar."
"Where's your gun?" continued Alvin.
The man glanced around as if it were hidden somewhere about his garments.
"Now isn't that a fine go?" he exclaimed disgustedly. "I set it downwhile I went forward to see how bad that feller was hit, and plumbforgot."
"O dad, here's your gun!"
It was the son Jim who called this greeting as he straddled forward withthe heavy piece resting on his shoulder. All stared in amazement, and thefather in his confusion was imprudent enough to ask:
"Where did you get it?"
"I seen that feller that took it away from you and made you dance all theway across the field. He throwed it down and went into the woods. When Iseen you hopping and dancing and kicking up your heels I nearly dieda-larfing. But I didn't forgit the gun, and run along the edge of thewoods and picked it up. Gee! it's heavy! But, dad, I didn't know youcould dance like that. Say----"
"You young rascal, didn't I tell you to stay home? I'll larn you!"
The parent made a dive at his son, who, with the gun still over hisshoulder, scooted across the yard and over the fence, with his iratefather in fierce pursuit.