Good news from Washington
“Fainted, by Jove!”
So spoke Pawnee Brown as he sprang forward to Mortimer
Arbuckle’s aid.
The man was as pale as the driven
snow, and for the instant the great scout thought
his very heart had stopped beating.
He raised Mortimer Arbuckle up and
opened his collar and took off his tie, that he might
get some air.
“Wot’s the row here?”
It was the voice of Peter Day, the
backwoodsman who had agreed to take care of Arbuckle
during his illness. He had followed the man out
of the house to see that no harm might befall him.
“He has fainted,” answered
Pawnee Brown. “Fetch some water, and hold
that hang it, he’s gone!”
Pawnee Brown rushed to the barn door.
Far away he saw Powell Dike running as though the
old Nick was after him. A second later the rascal
disappeared from view. The boomer never saw or
heard of him again.
Between the great scout and Pawnee
Brown, Mortimer Arbuckle was once again taken to Day’s
home and made comfortable.
“He insisted on taking a walk
to-day,” explained the backwoodsman. “I
told him he couldn’t stand it. I reckon
he’s as bad now as he ever was.”
“Take good care of him, Day,
and beware of any men who may be prowling about,”
answered Pawnee Brown. “There is something
wrong in the air, but I’m satisfied that if
we help this poor fellow we’ll be on the right
side of the brush.”
Mortimer Arbuckle was now coming around,
but when he spoke he was quite out of his mind.
The doctor was hastily sent for, and he administered
a potion which speedily put the sufferer to sleep.
“It’s an odd case,”
said the medical man. “The fellow is suffering
more mentally than physically. He must have something
awful on his mind.”
“He is the victim of some plot I
am certain of it,” was the scout’s firm
answer.
Not long after this, Pawnee Brown
was returning to Arkansas City, certain that Mortimer
Arbuckle would now be well cared for and closely watched
until he and Dick could return to the sufferer.
“As soon as this booming business
is over I must try to clear things for that old gent,”
murmured the boomer to himself as he rode up to the
telegraph office. “I’d do a good deal
for him and that noble son of his.”
Another telegram had just come in,
by way of Wichita, which ran as follows:
“The Lower House of Congress
has passed the Oklahoma bill. Pawnee Brown has
woke the politicians up at last. Stand ready to
enter Oklahoma if an attempt is made to throw the
bill aside in the Senate, but don’t be rash,
as it may not be long before everything comes our way in
fact, it looks as if everything would come very soon.”
At this telegram the great scout was
inclined to throw up his hat and give a cheer.
His work in Kansas was having an effect. No longer
could the cattle kings stand up against the rights
of the people. He handed the message to a number
of his friends standing near.
“Hurrah fer Pawnee
Brown!” shouted one man, and standing on a soap
box read the telegram aloud.
“Score one fer the boomers!”
“An’ a big one fer Pawnee.”
“Don’t hurry now, Pawnee,
you’ve got ’em whar the hair ez good an’
long!”
“It would seem so, men,”
answered the great scout. “No, I’ll
be careful now since the tide has turned.
In less than sixty days I’ll wager all I am
worth we’ll march into Oklahoma without the first
sign of trouble.”
It did not take the news long to travel
to the boomers’ camp, and great was the rejoicing
upon every side.
“Dot’s der pest ding
I vos hear for a month,” said Humpendinck.
“Pawnee ought to haf a medal alreatty.”
“It’s a stattoo we will
put up fer him in Oklahomy,” said Delaney.
“A stattoo wid Pawnee a-ridin’ loike mad
to the new lands, wid the Homestead act in wan hand
an’ a bundle o’ sthakes in th’ other,
an’ under the stattoo we’ll put the wurruds,
’Pawnee Brown, the St. Patrick av Oklahomy!’”
“Ach! go on mit yer
St. Patrick!” howled Humpendinck. “He
vos noddings but a snake killer.”
“Oh, mon!” burst
in Rosy Delaney. “A snake killer, Moike,
do ye moind thot? Swat the Dootchman wan, quick!”
And Mike “swatted” with
an end of a fence rail he was chopping up for firewood.
But Humpendinck dodged, and Rosy caught the blow, and
there followed a lively row between her and Mike,
in the midst of which the German boomer sneaked away.
“Dot Irishmans vos so fiery
as der hair mit his head,” he
muttered to himself. “I dink I vos
keep out of sight bis he vos cool off, and
den Mine gracious, Bumpkin, var did
you come from? I dinks you vos left behind
py Arkansas City.”
For there had suddenly appeared before
Humpendinck the form of the dunce, hatless and with
his black hair tumbled over his face in all directions.
“Ha, ha! where have I been?”
cried Pumpkin. “Where haven’t I been
you had better ask. I’ve been everywhere among
the soldiers and the boomers and the Indians.”
He stopped short. “Where is Pawnee Brown?”
“Ofer py Clemmer’s vagón.
But he ton’t vont ter pother mit
you now.”
“He will bother with me,”
and so speaking Pumpkin ran off, to reach the great
scout’s side and pluck him by the coat sleeve.
“At your service, sir,”
he said, bowing low, for with all of his peculiarities
Pumpkin had a great respect for Pawnee Brown.
“What is it, lad?”
“I have to report, sir, that
your pard is captured Jack Rasco; he had
a fearful fight and the soldiers have him. Ha!
ha! they will shoot Jack if you let ’em,
but I know you won’t will you now?”
“You are certain Jack is captured?”
“Dead sure saw him
with my own eyes. Ha! ha! they tried to catch
Pumpkin, but they might as well try to catch a ghost.
Ha! ha! but I give ’em a fine run.”
It took a good deal of talking to
get a straight story from the half-witted youth, but
at last Pawnee Brown was in full possession of the
facts. Pumpkin had seen Rasco on the march just
before Dick was taken.
Immediately after this the boomer
held a short consultation with Clemmer.
“I feel it my duty to help Rasco
to escape, if it can be done,” he said.
“Besides, it is high time for me to return to
Dick Arbuckle and to find out, if possible, what has
become of Jack’s niece.”
“Shall I go along?” questioned
Clemmer, “I wouldn’t like anything better.”
“All right, come on,” answered the great
scout.
He had scarcely spoken when a loud
cry rang out, coming from the lower end of the camp.
“Buckley’s bull has broken
loose! Look out for yourself, the beast has gone
mad!”
“Buckley’s bull!”
muttered Pawnee Brown. “I ordered him to
slaughter that vicious beast. Why, he’s
as fierce as those the Mexicans use in their bull
fights!”
“He’s a terror,”
answered Clemmer. “If he By gum,
here he comes, Pawnee!”
As he spoke Clemmer turned to one
side and started to run. Looking forward the
great scout saw the bull bearing down upon him.
The eyes of the creature were bloodshot and the foam
was dripping from the corners of his mouth, showing
that he was clearly beyond control.
The bull, which was of extra large
size, had Clemmer in view, and made after the cowboy,
who happened to be unarmed. Away went man and
beast in something of a circle, to fetch up near Pawnee
Brown less than a minute later. As they came
close, Clemmer fell and went sprawling almost at the
scout’s feet.
“Save me!” he panted. “Save
me, Pawnee!”
Pawnee Brown did not answer.
Leaping over the cowboy’s prostrate form, he
pulled out his pistol and his hunting knife and stood
ready to receive the bull, who came tearing along,
with lowered horns, ready to charge the scout to the
death.