CHAPTER XVII. A FRIEND IN NEED.

If Buffalo Bill’s face paled he showed no other mark of fear. He knew Boyd Bennett, and had every reason to believe that the man hated him desperately enough to carry out his awful threat.

It was no bluff on the outlaw’s part to frighten him into giving up the secret of the hidden government money. To a man like Bennett, whose temper was ungovernable, revenge was worth more than treasure. He did not even ask the scout where he had hidden the treasure-box.

“I haven’t forgotten, my handsome plainsman, that once you captured me and sent me to the guard-house. I swore to be revenged upon you then.”

“You deserved what you got--you dirty deserter!” exclaimed Buffalo Bill.

The outlaw leader shrugged his shoulders and turned to his men.

“All ready?”

“He’s hard and fast, captain.”

“Unfasten that splendid horse he was riding. I need just such an animal in my business.”

They untied Chief from the leaders.

“Buffalo Bill, straight for the Breakneck you go. And if these horses don’t carry you down fast enough to smash this old coach to atoms and break your cursed neck, I’ll give up this business and turn parson!”

“You’ll never have time to repent of your sins and turn parson, Bennett,” said the scout.

“Meaning I’ll die with my boots on?” asked the outlaw lightly.

“Meaning you’ll be hung,” returned Buffalo Bill.

“Don’t you put too much confidence in _that_, old man,” said Bennett. “At least, you won’t be to my hanging.”

“There’s many a slip, you know,” said the scout tauntingly.

“I presume you hope to be rescued even now, do you not?” cried Bennett.

But Buffalo Bill did not expect that. He had taunted the man, hoping to inspire him with such ungovernable fury that he would shoot him quickly and so save him the awful ride to death. Even the boldest man might shrink from that journey down Breakneck Hill!

“No, no, old man! You are mine this time. I tell you that you, the horses, and the old hearse, shall all go to the devil together. Here, boys! lead the horses to yonder fork of the roads and there turn them loose!”

The command was obeyed. Whether the other outlaws desired Buffalo Bill’s death as their leader did, he had such a hold upon them that not one objected to the mode of vengeance to be wreaked upon the scout. The horses were led to the brink of the steep hill. It had once been the stage-road; but a landslide, and various heavy rains, had made it impracticable. It was almost as steep as the side of a house in places, and the roadway was full of boulders and stumps, while the gulleys made by heavy rains cut through it in many spots. A careful pack-animal might pick its way from top to bottom safely; but no vehicle could exist in a passage down Breakneck Hill.

The hill was not a continuous decline. It pitched sharply at first; then there was nearly a quarter of a mile of easy going along a plateau until there came the final and impassable descent into the valley.

“Now, Buffalo Bill, your life ends here!” cried Bennett savagely.

“All right, Bennett! And the boys won’t forget how I died,” was the reckless response.

“Turn ’em loose!” shouted the bandit leader.

The men at the bits sprang aside. The horses, having stood so long, and “smelling their oats” ahead of them, were eager to be off. With a great tug the coach started, the harness clattering about the horses’ heels almost immediately as the coach pitched over the rise. This, and the shouts and yells of the outlaws, frightened the poor brutes. They felt no restraining hand on the lines; there was no foot on the brake. The coach was coming down behind them with all its weight.

Therefore the horses leaped away, frightened beyond reason. The old coach bumped and swayed. The rough, steep pitch was not long, but it looked as though the coach would not arrive at the bottom of this first incline without being smashed.

Down it thundered, the wheels bumping, the body swaying, and the bound figure, on the seat unable to retard it in the least. Behind thundered the big white horse, for, breaking away from its captors, Chief intended to follow his master to the death!

Not far away from the scene of the hold-up of the stage-coach by the outlaws, and near the time that the coach and horses were released upon this dangerous dash down Breakneck Hill, a horseman was crossing a table-land, one side of which was formed by the steep wall of the bluff down the face of which the old stage-road led.

Though alone upon the table-land, far in the rear other horsemen were visible upon his trail. At first glance one might have thought that it was a chase, the man in front being pursued by the score or so of men behind him; but a second scrutiny would have shown that it was merely the difference in horse-flesh and human endurance that caused the long space to separate the leader and his followers.

The lone horseman was dressed in a cavalry fatigue uniform with pants tucked in boots, a slouch-hat pinned up with a pair of crossed sabers, and a gold cord encircling the hat, while upon the shoulders of his jacket were straps showing his rank to be that of a first lieutenant in the United States Army.

His face was stern for so young a man, but there were humorous lines about his smoothly shaven lips, and fun danced in the corners of his eyes. Despite the hard brown of his countenance, that must have begun to be tanned by the Western sun and wind at an early age, there was a kindly appearance about the young lieutenant.

He was armed with a cavalry sword and a pair of service pistols. One gauntleted hand rested on his sword-hilt as his horse galloped along. He was several miles ahead of his men, who were now scarcely more than black specks against the horizon.

“Kinder risky to ride so far ahead, I suppose,” he was muttering. “Bill would tell me that. By thunder! if I’m attacked on this plateau I can fight--or run--I hope. There’s little cover hereabouts for either Indians or road-agents. And the latter gentry don’t usually care to tackle Uncle Sam’s cavalry.”

Suddenly the silence about him was shattered by distant yells and several rifle-shots. He glanced back. Nothing was happening to his men. The sound came from ahead. Again he heard shouts and shots, and after that the ring of horses’ hoofs and the rumble of heavy wheels.

“By thunder! a hold-up!” he gasped. “And those weren’t Indian yells. The stage-coach, I’ll bet! Yet the coach wouldn’t take the old road yonder. Why! It couldn’t come that way! It would be surely wrecked.”

Yet, although the shouts and rifle-shots died away, the sound of the wheels and the hammering of the horses’ hoofs increased. Some heavy vehicle, drawn by several horses, was coming down the Breakneck Hill road!

The lone horseman, who had halted at the first sound, now set spurs to his mount again. He headed directly across the plateau. The stage-road was just below the brink of the precipitous slant not many rods away, and toward this place the lieutenant hurried.

“It _is_ the stage!” he cried. “The miscreants have turned it down the old road. There’s a level bit below here for some rods; but if it crosses that and goes down the other descent--well! God help them if there is man, woman, or child aboard!”

He reached the brink of the steep descent to the level stretch of the old road. Down the first dip was tearing six frightened steeds with the old stage-coach swaying and bounding behind them. And in the rear a riderless white horse was racing after the coach!

That horse the lieutenant recognized.

“That’s Cody’s mount--it is, by thunder! What’s it doing here? And where’s Bill?”

There was not another horse like Chief on the frontier; but the stage was too far away for the young man to recognize the figure swaying on the coach seat.

“They’re running away, and the driver’s lost his nerve!” exclaimed the cavalryman.

Then he raised his voice, shouting in trumpet tones:

“Put on your brake! drag hard on your lines, man, or you are lost!”

The six horses, keeping their feet almost miraculously, bounded out upon the level stretch. They did not hold back in the least. They were maddened with fear now, and were headed straight for the second descent. On _that_ hill they would quickly come to grief. No power could save them.

Again the astonished cavalryman yelled his warning to the man on the driver’s seat of the coach. His words seemed to reach the man’s ears. He made no move to seize the lines or retard the mad course of the horses, but in clarion tones came back the answer:

“I am bound! I cannot stop them! Shoot!”

Perhaps the involuntary passenger on the doomed stage-coach meant for the young man to shoot _him_ and so let him escape a more awful death. But no such intention had the lieutenant. The coach was coming toward him rapidly, and he obtained a clearer view of the bound man.

“Buffalo Bill, by the nine gods of war!” he shouted suddenly, recognizing his friend. “What in Heaven’s name does this mean?”

There was nobody to answer the query; but he saw that the man was indeed bound to his seat, and that the reins were loosely swinging, bound to the lantern. The brake was not on at all!

At this discovery the lieutenant sank his spurs into the flanks of his thoroughbred, and, with a wild snort of pain and anger, the horse leaped down the sharp declivity toward the piece of rough, but level roadway, over which the coach must come.

Yet half-way down the incline the lieutenant was smitten with a sudden thought, and he pulled hard on the bit. The thoroughbred lay back on his haunches and slid. The rider seized one of his guns and cocked the weapon.

“Now, Dick Danforth, prove your fame as a dead shot,” he muttered. “For if ever true marksmanship was needed, it is now to save yonder brave man from death!”