CHAPTER XX.

WHERE BARNEY SHEA WAS.

Yes, there was no mistake about the little affair; Barney Shea was missing.

Dwight and Frank Reade were much surprised; but their wondering did not throw any light upon the whereabouts of the rollicking Irishman.

Frank searched through his wagon, in the vain hope that Barney might be playing a trick upon them, but the jolly fellow was not hiding.

As Frank made his hasty examination, he uttered a cry of surprise.

“This is funny,” he said.

“What?” asked Jared.

“Barney’s fiddle is gone!”

“That is strange,” said Dwight. “Really, it does seem as though he walked off on his own hook.”

“But that he would not do,” said Frank. “He isn’t that sort of a sardine. It is impossible to find out anything now, so we must be content to wait for daylight to tell us something.”

And all this time the Irishman was riding away over the plains on the back of a galloping horse, his legs tied under his back, and his darling fiddle in his hands.

He had been pounced upon by three white men in the heat of the battle, and was unable to contend against such odds.

He was knocked down, kicked once or twice for falling, and then rushed up to the wagon and told to grab his fiddle.

Barney was much bewildered.

Half stunned and totally incapable of anything like connected thought, he grasped his dear old musical companion, and was marched away.

Then he was placed on the back of the horse, his legs tied under the animal’s belly, and trotted off from the scene of his capture at a lively pace.

His three captors kept sharp watch over him.

They were sharp, wide-awake white chaps, and any of them seemed quite a match for Barney, so the Irishman, when he got a little sensible, thought it would only be policy on his part to take the matter lightly, and not appear to be huffy, or to kick up any rumpus.

His brain cleared, and he didn’t very clearly understand how it was that he was riding along in the company of these cut-throats, although a confused notion of his capture kept running in his head.

“It sames that I’m united to this party be very strong toies,” he said to the man who was riding at his right hand.

“I guess yes,” was the laconic reply.

“And be the same token the toies extend to the very bottom o’ me feet,” said Barney.

The men laughed.

“Av coorse I don’t loike to be thought ongintlemonly and inquisitive, ye moind, but thin I’d loike to know be what manes I am here, so I would.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the man on his left hand. “Puzzles you, does it? Well, my jolly screamer from the Emerald Isle, we just knocked you down, picked you up, and trotted you away.”

“An’ the fiddle?”

“You picked that up yourself when we marched you up to the wagon,” said the man, who appeared inclined to be communicative with the good-natured Irishman.

“Well, now,” said Barney, “it’s meself that’s under great obligations to ye for yer kindness, so I am, but, av coorse, now that ye’ve tould me so much, maybe ye may tell phat in the name of all that’s wondherful caused ye to carry me off whin yez could have whacked me a belt on the sconce that would have put an ind to me ructions?”

“You want to know why we took you prisoner instead o’ wipin’ you out?

“Faith I do.”

“Because we want you.”

“And me fiddle, too?”

“You’re right.”

“What for, av I may be enlightened?” asked the puzzled Irishman.

“Ah, now yer comin’ to it,” said the man, with a short, chuckling laugh. “You see that sardine there?”

He pointed to one of his comrades, a very good-looking young fellow of perhaps five-and-twenty.

“Faith I have the use of me two eyes,” said Shea.

“Well, then, you see a ’tarnal galoot what’s picked up a woman and is going to get spliced,” chuckled the man.

“Draw it mild, Snorter,” said the party indicated.

“I’m drawing a straight bow,” said Snorter.

“Honestly, Irisher, he’s picked up a woman what ran away from some wagon train.”

“I moind.”

“And they’ve struck up a bargain to go into partnership yer see, and to-morrow they want to be hitched.”

“Before the praste you mane,” said Barney, a little doubtfully.

“Well, thar won’t be much priest business about it,” said Snorter. “But you’ve got the hang of it. They’ll strike hands and let folks see as how they’ve mutually ’greed to hitch hosses.”

“I moind,” said Barney.

“Well, then you see,” continued Snorter, “the young bridegroom thar he wanted to have a little blow out, acos he was never hitched afore in his life, so the cap’en has made over two barrels o’ whisky and a big lot o’ tobacker to him, sort o’ weddin’ present you know, and the young sardine has invited all his red and white friends to come to the blow-out, which will take place to-morrow at the little shanty he’s going to live in.”

“But what has all this to do with this gentleman from Clonakilty?” demanded Barney.

“Oh!” cried Snorter, “I thought as how you’d guessed it. Yer see he’s going to have company, lots of it, and plenty to eat an’ drink, but whar’s the band to come from, whar’s the band?”

“Eh, the band?”

“Certainly,” said Snorter; “what kind of a ceremony would it be if you didn’t dance, and how are you going to do it without music?”

“Howly Moses,” cried Barney. “And have I to furnish the music for this mane weddin’ party?”

“That’s the size of it,” said Snorter.

“I reckon,” said the bridegroom.

“And what’s the pay?” humorously asked the fearless Irishman.

The bridegroom turned to him with a jolly laugh.

“You’re a happy-minded sort o’ Irish galoot,” he said, “and I don’t mind a little favor if you try to make my little blow-out as bang-up as possible. You jest do your level best for me and the woman; grind out yer best music, and don’t cut out any of the figures to cut down on the ball, and when the thing is all over I’ll mount yer on a good hoss, gin yer two days’ provisions and a gun, and set yer free.”

“What’s yer name?” cried Barney.

“Cheeky Charley.”

“Thin by me soul, Cheeky Charley, it’s meself that will play ye chunes to make yer blood lape through the cockles of yer heart. Ye’re a dacint man, and ye know how to dale wid a distinguished prisoner of war, and I’ll do the square thing by ye.”

“You do and you’ll ride away a happy man,” said Cheeky Charley.

Then the conversation was interrupted by the flying members of the mixed band dashing up behind them, escaping from the death-dealing hoofs of the Steam-Horse.

They rode rapidly onward for a half a dozen miles, and then halted in a small clearing, and Barney and his fiddle were conducted to a bed of leaves in the darkness and left alone.

“It’s a quare counthry,” said Barney. “The idea of an Irish squire playing fiddle for a blackguard’s weddin’. Howly Moses!”