CHAPTER XVIII

The Outlaws’ Rendezvous

It was dangerous work, in those days of unspeakable atrocities committed by Espato’s gang of outlaws, to attempt to investigate a mysterious fire in the woods, especially alone.

Phil was fully alive to the dangers of his position, but the hope that he might discover something to the advantage of the Rangers, drove him on.

Frequently casting glances over his shoulders at the threatening shadows of the woodland, he made his way cautiously, step by step, as silent as a cat, toward the fire.

Twice a twig cracked under his foot with a noise that seemed to him like the report of a pistol shot and he stopped dead in his tracks tensely on the alert, ready to spring back toward the spot where he had tethered his horse, should the need of action arrive.

But he heard nothing except the gentle sounds of the woodland at dusk, the twittering of sleepy birds, the faint trickling of running water somewhere in the distance. And each time he crept on with greater caution than before, almost afraid to breathe for fear the sound might betray him.

Once he had the impression that he was being watched, that someone was close to him, keeping stealthy step with him.

Driven by the vividness of this impression he twice whirled suddenly about on his heels, hoping to trap the stalker, if he really were being followed. But nothing was visible in the deepening dusk of the woods. Chiding himself for the obsession, he straightened his shoulders and crept on doggedly toward the sinister mystery of the camp fire.

Yet, reason with himself as he might, he could not shake off that weird impression of an unseen adversary, stalking him, warily.

“Phil, old boy,” he muttered, as on hands and knees, he wormed and wriggled himself toward the illumined space, “guess you’d better go home and sit in a rocking chair with your hands folded—if you’re going to get many fool ideas like this.”

There came the sound of voices now but the owners of them, evidently realizing the need for caution, were speaking so guardedly that Phil knew he would have to get quite close to them before he could catch what they were saying.

There was a huge boulder just at the very outermost edge of the fire’s glare and Phil knew that if he could reach the cover of it he would be close enough to overhear the fellows’ conversation without running any risk of being observed.

But how to reach this coveted spot without being seen? This was indeed a problem for the trees were rather sparsely grouped at this point and he would be obliged to come almost into the open before he could reach the shelter of the rock. And still—the eerie sensation of that invisible enemy crouching at his elbow!

Only for a moment did Phil hesitate. Then, crouched almost double, he sprang across the cleared space and reached the safety of the boulder. So silent and quick was his action that the men grouped about the fire did not pause for a moment in their talk, did not even glance in his direction. Evidently they had no suspicion that they were being watched.

For a full moment Phil did not dare alter the cramped position in which he had landed behind the rock. Holding his breath, straining his ears to catch the first sound that might denote suspicion, he crouched there, every sense on the alert.

After awhile he began to distinguish something of what they were saying. And after his conviction that they were not aware of his presence had become a certainty, he finally shifted his position ever so slightly, so that he might peer around the edge of the rock.

What he saw caused him to start involuntarily—his foot, dislodging a small stone, sent it clattering noisily, for the man whose sullen, dissipated face first came within the range of his vision was “Rocks” Gurney. There could be no mistake about it—it was no other than the rascal himself.

Phil’s start of surprise almost proved his undoing. For at the sharp rattling of the dislodged stone several of the men about the fire jumped suspiciously to their feet.

“There’s someone listening in on this,” said Rocks Gurney, gruffly. “Better take a little look about, friends.”

Following his suggestion, they took a look about, while Phil crouched breathlessly in the shadow of his boulder and prayed that they might not detect him. As a matter of fact they did not, for Phil’s shadow fitted so closely into that of the rock that they overlooked him entirely.

After thrashing about among the bushes for awhile, one of them coming so close to Phil as almost to touch him, they straggled back to the fire again and resumed their conversation.

Phil, breathing freely once more and taking himself to task for the carelessness that had almost been his undoing, ventured to peer around the rock again, taking care this time that his foot touched no treacherous stone.

There were five of the rascals in all, big, hulking, villainous looking men and something tightened about Phil’s heart when he saw that the man who was evidently the leader—judging from his authoritative manner—bore a large, ugly scar across his face.

“The leader of the robber gang,” flashed across his mind, his nerves tingling with excitement. “Gee but I’m in luck,” he thought exultantly. “If I could get back the rest of that money, it would sure put the bank on its feet again.”

Then, tense in every muscle, determined to glean as much information as was possible, Phil listened to what “Rocks” Gurney was saying.

“It’s up to you to do something, Murray, and do it quick,” he was addressing the man with the scar, in his usual surly tones. “Them two guys are plumb scared out of their senses. They’ve a hunch they’re going to get a bundle of years out of this fracas and they’ve gone loco over the notion that all they need is money to buy a lawyer and they’ll get out of the whole thing scot free.”

No answer from the leader of the gang, save a deepening of the scowl upon his face. However, Phil noticed that the other outlaws glanced at each other uneasily and drew a little closer to the fire.

“What do they want of me?” asked the man with the scar, at last.

“Money,” answered Rocks, laconically. “Bunches of hard cash.”

“And if I refuse?” asked the leader in the same tone.

“Then it’s set the cops on your trail,” observed Gurney, and at this the man with the scar lost a little of his stolidity. There was a muttering from his followers like the threatening growl of some vicious animal.

“They will, will they?” muttered Murray, his fist clenching into what might be, Phil thought, a most formidable weapon in a hand to hand struggle. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

For a while he sat silent while his men watched him furtively and Rocks Gurney sat staring into the fire. Phil, cramping in his strained position, waited impatiently.

Murray was speaking and Phil held his breath to listen. If only he might learn of their plans—.

“Meet me here, day after tomorrow,” Murray was saying, adding with a growl for the men who were blackmailing him, “When they are free we will deal with them as one deals with a traitor. But now—they will get what they want.”

Phil was exultant. He had learned what he had wanted most to learn! Day after tomorrow Murray and his gang, Rocks Gurney and—the money would be here on this spot. But—the Rangers would be here too!

Silently, knowing that every minute he lingered made less likely his escape, Phil slipped from the shelter of the rock and crept back toward his horse.