Chapter IX: A Privateersman (2)

Taking in the situation at a glance, Lawson summoned his comrade with a gesture, and they quickly agreed upon their plan. The loophole in the north side of the tower, which commanded a view of the assaulting party, was about eighteen inches high and hardly more than two inches wide at the outside, but as it entered the wall it flared or opened to a width of nearly a foot in order to give the defenders a greater field of fire. To insure the greatest results, both were to fire together. Lawson, who was the taller of the two men, was to fire from the top of the loophole and was to bring down the Indian who had climbed the pole and had just succeeded in starting a little blaze in the dry tulle grass at the edge of the loosely thatched roof. Green, who was to give the signal, was to fire below Lawson, and was to wait until his sights covered the two Apaches who were steadying the pole. It seemed to Lawson, whose task was easy, as if the signal would never come. First one Indian would stoop to adjust his hold, then the other would move forward; then for an instant both would cross each other as they strove to keep the pole from turning. At last, after what seemed an age of waiting, the warrior at the top, satisfied with his incendiary endeavor, signalled to his comrades below to hold fast and make ready to descend. As the Indians at the bottom braced themselves squarely to steady the improvised ladder, the signal came, and two deafening reports rang out in the burning air, filling the narrow tower with smoke so dense as for a time to conceal the enemy from view. As the smoke slowly cleared away, the partners anxiously looked out. _The scaling party were nowhere to be seen!_ The climber and one of his supporters lay dead at the foot of the wall. Above them the thatch was beginning to crackle and burn. The other had disappeared from view, but the sounds of scurrying feet in front of the ranch, however, made it plain to the little garrison that he had not escaped scot-free. The partners silently shook hands, and for the first time since the investment began, renewed their chews of tobacco and made a general and deliberate readjustment of their clothing and cartridge-belts.

Assault number two had been repulsed, and the Apaches had had their first lesson in modern fortification. But they were apt pupils, and, as will presently be seen, were to apply their dearly bought knowledge in a manner most surprising to the closely besieged ranchmen. Now the besetting sin of all flanking arrangements is the "dead angle," well known to all military men, and studiously avoided by them in all defensive constructions. That the reader may rightly know what awful misfortune resulted to Lawson from his neglect in this particular, I will explain as best I may the mystery of the dead angle. Now a bastion or corner tower, or what device soever may be resorted to by those skilled in the art of fortification to bring a cross or raking fire along the exposed face of a fort or a field-work, _must itself be flanked_ in some way, else its defensive value is lost, and it becomes a source of weakness to the besieged, and gives a great and positive advantage to the besieger. For an enemy may approach its outer or unflanked side with impunity, and work there such havoc as he wills; and to this space, not swept by fire from any other part of the work, military men have given the name of dead angle.

So it chanced that when Lawson--who, as we have seen, had not been trained in the schools--was constructing his corner tower, he had cut loopholes close to the eastern and southern walls, through which those fronts might be raked along their entire length, but it had not occurred to him that, by omitting the loopholes in the outer circumference of his tower, he left a large dead angle against which an assault could be brought which the garrison would be utterly powerless to hinder or obstruct.

The Indians, after their second rebuff, seemed to have again gone into silent committee of the whole, and were now brewing another scheme of assault which should take into account the white man's new engine of destruction. The sun was beginning to cast slanting shadows from the west, but the heat and glare showed no sign of relenting, and the close corner tower glowed like a living furnace. As the Indians seemed to have given up all thought of an assault by the entrance, gate, the partners determined to abandon the general defence of the interior, and restrict their endeavors to the flanking tower. And so, panting with heat and tortured by thirst, the defenders stood at their posts, each watching from his loophole the angle of ground outside the walls that fell within the limits of his narrow view, and waited, stoically, for what the afternoon was to bring in the way of unwelcome or dangerous surprise. As we are about to see, the outcome of their waiting was not to be long delayed.

The declining shadows marked about the hour of four as Lawson drew back suddenly from his loophole and cast a searching glance upward at the low-hanging roof. In a moment a suspicious noise which had caught his ear was renewed. _It was the grating sound again_, as of crackling adobe, but nearer; and there could be no mistaking its ominous meaning. Suddenly Green touched his partner, and pointed up to the thatch, where a few fragments of adobe, dislodged by the jar outside, were falling over their very heads, showing that the enemy were at work in the dead angle where there were no loopholes. The Indians had discovered the weak point in their scheme of flank defence, and the garrison was now absolutely at their mercy. The exact purpose of the enemy was not yet quite plain. If it were another endeavor to burn the roof, there was still a shadow of hope. If the Indians were going to attempt to breach the walls, or, worse, moisten them with water from the creek and saw them down with a horsehair lariat, then the end was indeed near. Meantime the noise increased; there was a scraping of feet on the dry thatch on the top of the wall, then a shot, and Green, with a bullet through his brain, fell dead at his comrade's feet. Almost instantly Lawson fired upward at random, and a heavy thud on the ground outside evidenced the success of his endeavor to avenge his comrade, and the temporary failure of the enemy's new plan of assault.

Alone with his dead, Lawson now stoically awaited the end. The Indians were maddened at their losses; darkness was still some hours away, and death by torture or, at the last extremity, by his own hand seemed to the exhausted survivor a question of but a few moments' time. Having solved the mystery of the dead angle, a dozen warriors could now climb the tower, or if their next attempt were as original in its conception as the last, a single Apache, from the top of the pole, could hold his rifle over the roof and riddle the interior with perfect safety. To add to his peril, the afternoon breeze from the north had sprung up, and the gate was beginning to swing slowly back and forth; the least stiffening, and the gate would be blown open and the whole interior exposed to view.

Still the silence continued, and Lawson stood by his dead partner and mechanically turned the cylinder of his revolver as he speculated idly whether the last cartridge, which he had reserved for himself, would miss fire when the awful emergency came. They had missed so often--for it was in the early days of metallic ammunition, and pistol cartridges were notoriously unreliable. If it did fail, they would give him no chance to try again. He no longer hoped nor feared; his past was an eventless, uninteresting blank, which he had neither will nor power to recall. Dazed at the happenings of the day, his busy brain ceased to plan; he leaned on his rifle and strove to breathe in the stifling atmosphere, and waited for what the next instant was to bring. How long this continued he could never tell. He could only remember how his heart started to beat as he heard, through the northern loophole, the faint tinkling of a distant bell. Could it be so? Again he strained his ear to listen, and again came the harsh tinkling. There could be no doubt of it; it was relief at last, unexpected and unhoped-for, and seemed to have come to him from the blazing skies. A train of freight-wagons, heavily manned, which he had supposed to be still on the Yuma desert, had left Tucson at dawn of day, and was now slowly making its way through the swamp, intending to make camp at the Cienega ere the sun went down. The Indians had accurately measured its strength, and recognizing their utter inability to cope with twenty well armed teamsters, had decamped as quietly and silently as they had come, and the siege was over.

LUCK THAT FELL FROM THE SKIES.

BY ALBERT LEE.

It was an unusually cold Christmas eve, and the keen wind that had come close after the heavy snow-storm was blowing little white drifts up into every corner, and howling around the eaves of the tall houses in a way that made people turn their collars up high about their necks and thrust their hands deep into pockets and muffs. Nevertheless the streets were full of shoppers, and every one seemed to be loaded with bundles and packages that were surely full of all sorts of good things for old people and young children for the celebration of the morrow.

Just around the corner from one of the busiest of the shopping streets stood three boys stamping their feet over an iron grating, through which arose the warm air from an eating-house kitchen in the cellar below, bringing occasionally an odor which, to them at least, was savory. The three boys were all of about the same age, and all were engaged in the same enterprise of selling newspapers--an enterprise which had not proved particularly remunerative on this particular day, as the wayfarers seemed to be engrossed in matters more important to them than the reading of news. One of the lads had red hair, and was known to his companions as "Ratsey" Finnigan. The names of the other two were similarly characteristic of newsboy cognomens--"Swipes" Molloy, and "Tag" McTaggart. The boys were discussing the probability of their getting a Christmas dinner--a prospect which was apparently not very bright.

"Well, den," remarked Swipes, as he stood alternately on one foot, and then on the other, "I guess we're all t'ree up agin it."

"It looks dat way, sure," assented Ratsey; "except Tag goes to de mission."

"Ah-h, de mission!" exclaimed Tag, scornfully. "Don't youse fellers know dey won't let me into de mission no more?"

"Didn't youse go fer T'anksgivin'?" asked Ratsey.

"Sure, I did; an' didn't I get fired out?"

"What fer?" inquired the red-haired lad, eagerly.

"Scrappin'," was the laconic reply. And then, as his companions seemed to require fuller explanation, he continued: "Dat blue-faced Mike sat nex' to me at de table, an' he took me pie off o' me. So I handed him one in the face, and he yelled like he was hurted, but he was not hurted a bit, and he falls down on de table an' makes a big bluff--wid me pie in his pockut all de time. Well, Pink-whiskers, de super, he seen me hit Mike, and he rushes up ter me, and grabs me, and turns me out, and says as how I'll never come inside de mission to grub again." There was a brief silence, then Tag continued, "But I got square wid Mike de nex' day."

"Did youse do him?" asked Ratsey.

"Did I _do_ him?" repeated Tag. "Have youse _seen_ him?" Neither of his listeners had seen the unfortunate Mike. "Well," added Tag, "I guess his mudder 'ain't got t'rough pickin' up de pieces yet. I 'ain't been down to Hester Street to see, neider."

"Den, if youse is fruz outen de mission," said Swipes, "sure, we'll all have to hustle fer a Christmas feed."

"'Less it drops from der sky," put in the hopeful Ratsey; and then all three danced vigorously on the grating.

By the time they had reached this conclusion it had grown dark--or as dark as it ever gets in the shopping district of the great city, where the hundreds of electric lights blink and twinkle over the sidewalks. There seemed now to be a lull in the rush of people that had been surging up and down the thoroughfare all the afternoon, and when one of the boys looked up at a big clock a block away, he saw that it was past six o'clock.

"Let's go over to de dago's an' touch him," suggested Tag, when the hour had been announced; "we won't sell no more papes now till de late extrys is out."

"Dat's what," returned Swipes. "We touch de dago! If we gets grub ter-night, we calls it a Christmas-eve dinner!"

And so the three youngsters, with their hands deep in the pockets of their scant trousers, started off westward toward "the dago's." The "dago" was a good-hearted Italian who ran a cheap restaurant on Tenth Avenue, and he was always generous with what came away from the tables, especially to the newsboys. But it was not often that Tag and Swipes and Ratsey would call upon him, for their hunting-grounds were usually too far away; on this occasion, however, the boys had invaded the shopping district, hoping to dispose more rapidly of their wares.

They whistled as they trudged along the slippery sidewalks, but wasted few words in conversation. They crossed Sixth Avenue, and by the time they had reached Seventh Avenue they had left the Christmas shoppers behind them. Only an occasional woman passed them, hurrying homeward; and if she carried a bundle, it was a very small one. When they came to Ninth Avenue they turned up one block in order to come out nearer to the "dago's." The thoroughfare was dark and almost deserted, and the snow deadened every sound but the roaring of the elevated cars. As the three boys passed under the iron structure a train went tearing uptownward with a clatter that made Ratsey exclaim:

"Golly, dat's a express, sure! I wish't I was in it; de cars is warm!" He had hardly spoken these words, and the noise of the wheels was already lessening in the distance, when something struck him on the head with a soft thud, and rolled him headlong into the slush underfoot. "Gee!" he exclaimed, as he scrambled to his feet. But before he could say anything more Swipes and Tag had shouted, "Hi-yi!" and "Shut up!" and had turned to gather up what looked to Ratsey like a hundred bundles scattered about in the snow.

"Swipe 'em and run," whispered Tag; and Ratsey, with an inborn instinct to get all he could out of this world, grabbed all he saw, and started on a run after his two companions toward Tenth Avenue. A butcher who had seen the bundles fall from the elevated train as it rushed by came out of his shop and shouted at the boys, but they heeded no calls, and were well out of sight before the man had thought of pursuit.

As soon as they had reached a dark spot in the side street, they dodged into an area to see if they were being chased, and upon making certain that no one was after them, they set out again and made rapidly toward the "dago's." On the way they made up a story to tell to the Italian, and upon entering the place, Tag accounted for the large number of packages they had by announcing that they were delivering Christmas purchases. He also asked the "dago" if they might lay their bundles out on a table in his place, and go over them for easier distribution. There were few customers on hand, and the good-natured Italian let the boys into one of the dozen "parlors" that his restaurant consisted of--stalls, curtained off, and lighted with an oil-lamp that hung down from the ceiling. In some of the other stalls were Italian laborers eating and smoking and talking loud.

The boys drew their curtain carefully, and amid much excitement placed eleven bundles on the little table between them. These packages were from a number of different shops, but had evidently all been done up into one large bundle by the owner for convenience in carrying. The fall of the greater package, however, had reduced it again to its elements.

"Now we all opens one package at a time," whispered Swipes, eagerly, at the same time grabbing the largest of the lot. The other boys likewise seized two promising-looking parcels, and snapped the twine. Then followed exclamations, subdued "ohs!" and "ahs!"--and cries of delight were restrained with the greatest difficulty. The pangs of hunger were entirely forgotten. Tag's package proved to be a good-sized box full of Christmas-tree decorations--candles, globes, glass balls, tinsel, stars, cornucopias, miniature toys of various kinds, bells, and any number of other things. These were all taken out and passed around.

Swipes had drawn three dolls, and was somewhat disgusted (although he asked Tag what he thought they would "sell for"); but Ratsey was wild with delight, for he had opened a box of soldiers. This, of course, brought the others to his side at once, and the soldiers were taken out of the box and lined up on the table, and a battle was about to be inaugurated, when Tag suggested that all the other bundles be opened to see if there were not more troops available for the slaughter.

Then followed the breaking of every string and the unwrapping of every parcel on the table, but no more soldiers were forth-coming. There were a Noah's ark, and some picture-books, a train of cars, blocks, puzzles, a horn (which Ratsey almost blew before Tag throttled him), a box of writing-paper, a pocket-book, and a set of garden tools. When these treasures lay heaped upon the table, the boys very nearly had spasms, for such a wealth of playthings they had never seen before (having always been chased out of toy-shops by officious and unfeeling salesmen).

"Findin's is keepin's, I suppose," remarked Swipes, presently.

So engrossed had they all been in the examination of the toys that this feature of the situation had not entered the minds of Tag and Ratsey.

"Say, it's an awful lot to keep," began Tag, hesitatingly.

"We can give some uv it to oder kids," ventured Swipes.

"Really, dough," put in Ratsey, fondling one of the soldiers, "it ain't really ourn."

"Well, whose is it?" inquired Swipes.

This, of course, was a staggerer, and Ratsey had no reply to make.

"Sure, it's de bloke's what dropped it offen de train," said Tag, presently.

"An' who's he?" asked Swipes.

"Dun'no'."

"You'd 'a' found out if youse hadn't runned!" said Ratsey.

"Didn't youse run wid us?" retorted Swipes.

"Sure, I did," admitted Ratsey, "an' who wouldn't? But these ain't ourn, and we ought ter take 'em back. Dey's fer some rich kid's Christmas tree."

"How'll you find out what kid?" continued Swipes, who really harbored no evil intentions, but was extremely desirous of finding it impossible to make restitution. "Dere ain't no names on de papers."

Whereupon the three boys carefully examined every piece of wrapping-paper, but the name of a purchaser was to be found on none.

"If dere wasn't so much," stammered Tag, "I wouldn't mind. But dem t'ings must 'a' cost a hunnerd dollars!"

"Ah-h," sneered Swipes, "a hunnerd dollars! Youse never bought no toys; what d'ye know about it?" A remark which precipitated a lively discussion concerning the probable price of the toys; and when it finally ended, each boy had his own idea as to what money had been paid for them, and no two agreed. The investigation into the ownership was then resumed, but no clew was found until Ratsey opened the box of writing-paper, which had not interested the boys until then, and discovered an address engraved upon each sheet--144 WEST 134TH STREET. Whereupon he said:

"De people what lives in dat house would know about dese t'ings."

"A-hunnerd-and-t'irty-fourt' Street!" exclaimed Tag.

"Gee, dat must be goats livin' dere!" added Swipes.

Then there was another pause, during which Ratsey replaced the soldiers neatly in the box with his little grimy fingers, and wrapped the parcel again in the paper it had come in.

"What yer doin'?" asked Swipes.

"I dun'no' what youse two is agoin' to do," replied Ratsey, "but I'se goin' to take de bundles what I found, an' lug 'em up to A-hunnerd-and-t'irty-fourt' Street."

"Say," broke in Tag, "youse is on de square ter-night, Finnigan! But, by ginger, Swipes, de kid's right! Dese ain't ourn. I say we takes de hull swag up town--hey?"

"Perhaps dey'll give us a quarter apiece fer bringin' it back," cried Swipes. "Let's wrap up de stuff;" and they all set to work tying up the bundles they had undone. They made a sorry job of it, and the knots that held the gifts together were bewildering. As they worked they discussed the probable reward they would receive from the owner of the goods, and each boy announced what he would spend his money for, if he got any.

With the good resolutions to return the lost property came back the pangs of hunger that had originally led the trio into their adventure. Ratsey, as the smallest of the company, was deputed to go and beg something of the "dago," and in this mission he was successful, for he returned presently with a plate heaped with bread, cold potatoes, and assorted morsels of meat.

"But de dago says we must git out," announced Ratsey, with his mouth full of victuals. "He says we's been here a hour."

Indeed time had fled in the stall that had for a few moments been transformed into a very fairyland for those three boys; and it is probable that the Italian had forgotten their presence, so quiet had they been the while, or they would have been dislodged long before. It required but a few minutes to dispose of the booty Ratsey had brought in, and then the boys gathered up their sorry-looking packages, and, having presented their host with a set of evening papers, departed. The journey to 134th Street was a long one to look forward to, and as they trudged eastward toward Ninth Avenue, they debated as to how it should best be made. The simplest method seemed to be to steal rides on trucks as often as possible, and this scheme they adopted. In this manner they finally reached their destination, after an hour and a half of zigzagging from one side of town to the other on various wagons, the trip being enlivened by whip-slashes and hard words from more than one driver whose hospitality they had courted. So it was well on toward half past nine when they dropped from the step of an ice-cart and made their way through 134th Street toward No. 144.

This proved to be a large double house with the windows all lighted up and decorated with holly wreaths. The boys hesitated for some moments about ascending the broad brownstone steps, but finally rallied to the emergency, and Ratsey, for having suggested the return of the packages, was pressed into acting as the spokesman of the party.

The bell sounded with a loud twang in the basement, and a few moments later a maid, in spotless cap and apron, opened the heavy door. Her surprise at seeing the three urchins shivering in the cold on the snowy stoop was in no degree assumed, and she half closed the door again before Ratsey had found his voice.

"Please, m'm," he began, "is dis de place where de gent lives as dropped dese packages offen de elevated road?"

Instead of replying to the boy, the maid turned and pulled back the heavy curtain that hung between the hall and the front room. The boys caught a glimpse of a tall Christmas tree and heard the sound of many voices.

"Mrs. Raymond," said the maid, excitedly, "here are some little boys with Mr. Raymond's lost bundles!"

In a moment the hallway was full of people--or rather it seemed so to the boys--and a young man in his shirt sleeves, with his clothes and hair all covered with tinsel, was dragging them into the house. They huddled in a corner, and held firmly to their burdens.

"Where did you find those things, kids?" asked the young man, smiling.

"Dey fell on us in Nint' Av'noo," replied Ratsey, very much embarrassed. "Is dey yourn?"

"You bet they are," answered the young man, looking over the packages. "That is, they belong to the gentleman who lives in this house, and they are for his Christmas tree. He was standing on the crowded platform of a train, and the wind blew the package and his hat away from him."

"We 'ain't got de hat," put in Swipes--and everybody laughed.

"Poor papa!" said one of the ladies, "he's been tramping around for the last two hours trying to duplicate the things."

Just then there was the sound of a key in the lock of the front door, and when it was opened, there entered a fat gentleman loaded with packages. It is hardly necessary to state here what the fat gentleman said when the situation was explained to him, nor to repeat the marvellous account of the rescue of the toys as given by Ratsey. It seems enough to relate that the three boys were taken down into the kitchen and filled full of warm coffee and bread and butter, and eventually placed upon an elevated train and sent down to their own district, each with a silver half-dollar in his pocket. And furthermore, on the following night, Christmas, the same three boys were again in the basement of the big house--this time by invitation--and the tidy maid was furnishing them with such a dinner as they had never even dreamed of. And at the plate of each one was a present--out of the duplicates Mr. Raymond had purchased--Ratsey's being a brass horn of even greater proportions than the one he had found the previous evening. Tag and Swipes likewise received gifts, and the talking those three lads did that night would fill a thick book.

"Sure," said Ratsey, as they finally started down town again, "Harlem beats a mission all holler, eh, Tag?" And the other two agreed with him.

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A STARTLING ADVENTURE

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN

AN EPISODE

By THOMAS HARDY

THE RINGGOLD ARCHERS

By FRANK R. STOCKTON

THE FIRST ENGLISH FLAG IN THE TRANSVAAL

By H. RIDER HAGGARD

THE SOLEDAD GIRLS

By FREDERIC REMINGTON

THE RED SHOES

By MARGARET DELAND

JOHN HENRY

By MARY E. WILKINS

THOUGHTS OF A LITTLE GIRL

By RUTH MCENERY STUART

* * * * *

HISTORIC CAVALRY CHARGES

THE BATTLE OF OPEQUAN. THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG.
AT BEVERLEY FORD. AT CEDAR CREEK.
THE BATTLE OF TREVILLIAN. COOK AT GAINES'S MILL.

By RICHARD BARRY

* * * * *

TWO ESSAYISTS

AMERICANISM

By BRANDER MATTHEWS

STANDARDS IN MODERN LITERATURE

By EDMUND GOSSE

* * * * *

DEPARTMENTS

STAMP COLLECTING.

By F. A. NAST

AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHY

By E. F. WADE

INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT

By THE GRADUATE

* * * * *

THE MODERN ANGLER

HOME FISHING

By Doctor LEROY M. YALE

TROUT FISHING. BASS FISHING

By E. C. KENT

_Special attention will be given, as heretofore, to descriptive articles on current and timely topics which manifestly cannot be announced in advance. Subscription price, $2.00 a year. Address HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York._

A FIFTY-TWO-WEEK FEAST

THE BEST OF MENAGERIES.

My pa's the best menagerie
That ever any one did see;
I need no pets when he is by
To make the days and hours fly,
For any bird or beast or fish
I want he'll be whene'er I wish.
For instance, if I chance to want
A safe and gentle elephant,
He'll fasten on his own big nose
One of my long black woollen hose,
And on his hands and bended knees
Is elephantine as you please,
And truly seems to like the sport
Of eating peanuts by the quart.
Then, when I want the lion's roar,
He'll go behind my bedroom door
And growl until I sometimes fear
The King of Beasts is really near;
But when he finds my courage dim
He peeps out, and I know it's him.
And he can meow just like a cat--
No Tom can beat my pa at that--
And when he yowls and dabs and spits,
It sends us all off into fits,
So like it seems that every mouse
Packs up his things and leaves the house.
Then, when he barks, the passers-by
Look all about with fearsome eye,
And hurry off with scurrying feet
To walk upon some other street,
Because they think some dog is there
To rush out at 'em from his lair.
And oh, 'twould make you children laugh
When daddy plays the big giraffe.
He'll take his collar off, you know,
And stretch his neck an inch or so,
And look down on you from above,
His eyes so soft and full of love,
That, as you watched them, you would think
From a giraffe he'd learned to blink.
'Tis as a dolphin though that he
Is strongest as it seems to me,
And I don't know much finer fun
Than sitting in the noonday sun
Upon the beach and watching pop,
As in the ocean he goes flop,
And makes us children think that he's
A porpoise from across the seas.
And when he takes a tin tube out,
And blows up water through the spout,
The stupidest can hardly fail
To think they see a great big whale!
And that is why I say to you
My pa's a perfect dandy zoo,
The very best menagerie
That ever you or I did see,
And what is finest, let me say,
_There never is a cent of pay!_

GASTON V. DRAKE.

THE BOY WRECKERS.

BY W. O. STODDARD.