Caitiff Baffles Ogre
Another rush of horses’ feet behind us.
What?
Elder Sizzum!
And that pale, gray shadow of a man, whose pony the Elder drags by the bridle, and lashes cruelly forward, — who?
Mr. Clitheroe.
Sizzum rode straight up to Brent.
The two men faced each other, — the big, hulking, bullying saint; the slight, graceful, self-possessed gentile. Sizzum quailed a little when he saw the other did not quail. He seemed to change his intended form of address.
“Brother Clitheroe wants his daughter,” said Sizzum.
“Yes, yes, gentlemen,” said Mr. Clitheroe in feeble echo, “I want my daughter.”
Brent ignored the Mormon. He turned to the father, and questioned eagerly.
“What is this, dear sir? Is Miss Ellen missing? She is not here. Speak, sir! Tell us at once how she was lost. We must be on her track instantly. Wade, shift the saddles to Fulano and Pumps, while I make up our packs. Speak, sir! Speak!”
Brent’s manner carried conviction, even to Sizzum.
“I did not like to suspect you, gentlemen,” said Mr. Clitheroe, “after our pleasant evening and your kindness; but Brother Sizzum said it could not be any one else.”
“Get the facts. Wade,” said Brent, “I cannot trust myself to ask.”
Sizzum smiled a base, triumphant smile over the agony of my friend.
“Tell us quick,” said I, taking Mr. Clitheroe firmly by the arm, and fixing his eye.
“In the night, an hour or more after you left us, I was waked up by two men creeping into the wagon. They whispered they would shoot, if I breathed. They passed behind the curtain. My daughter had sunk on the floor, tired out, poor child! without undressing. They threw a blanket over her head, and stifled her so that she could not utter a sound. They tied me and gagged me. Then they dragged her off. God forgive me, gentlemen, for suspecting you of such brutality! I lay in the wagon almost strangled to death until the teamster came to put to the oxen for our journey. That is all I know.”
“The two gamblers, murderers, have carried her off,” said I; “but we’ll save her yet, please God!”
“O,” said Sizzum, “ef them devils has got her, that’s the end of her. I haint got no more interest in her case. I believe I’ll go. I’ve wasted too much time now from the Lord’s business.”
He moved to go.
“What am I to do?” said Mr. Clitheroe.
Forlorn, bereaved, perplexed old man! Any but a brute would have hesitated to strike him another blow. Sizzum did not hesitate.
“You may go to the devil across lots, on that runt pony of yourn, with your new friends, for all I care. I’ve had enough of your daughter’s airs, as if she was too good to be teched by one of the Lord’s chosen. But she’ll get the Lord’s vengeance now, because she wouldn’t see what was her place and privileges. And you’re no better than a backslider. You’ve been grumblin’ and settin’ yourself up for somebody. I would cuss you now with the wrath to come if such a poor-spirited granny was wuth cussin’.”
The base wretch lashed his horse and galloped off.
Even his own people of the mail party looked and muttered contempt.
Mr. Clitheroe seemed utterly stunned. Guide, Faith, Daughter, all gone! What was he to do, indeed!
“Never mind, Mr. Clitheroe,” said Brent, tenderly, “I hope you have not lost a daughter. I know you have gained a son, — yes, two of them. Here, Jake Shamberlain!”
“Here, sir! Up to time! Ready to pull my pound!”
“Wade and I are going after the lady. Do you take this gentleman, and deliver him safe and sound to Captain Ruby at Fort Laramie. Tell Ruby to keep him till we come, and treat him as he would General Scott. Drive our mules and the mustangs to Laramie, and leave them there. We trust the whole to you. There’s no time to talk. Tell me what money you want for the work, and I’ll pay you now in advance, whatever you ask.”
“I’ll be switched round creation ef you do. Not the first red! You think, bekase I’m a Mormon, as you call it, I haint got no nat’ral feelin’s. Why, boys, I’d go with you myself after the gal, and let Uncle Sam’s mail lie there and wait till every letter answered itself, ef I had a kettrypid what could range with yourn. No, no, Jake Shamberlain ain’t a hog, and his mail boys ain’t of the pork kind. I’ll take keer of the old gentleman, and put him through jest ’z if he was my own father, and wuth a million slugs. And ef that ain’t talkin’ fair, I dunno what is.”
We both griped Jake Shamberlain’s friendly fist.
Mr. Clitheroe, weary with his morning’s ride, faint and sick after his bonds of the night, and now crushed in spirit and utterly bewildered with these sudden changes, was handed over to his new protector.