Chapter IX: The Prisoner’s Escape

The red-shirted prisoner, who had confessed to the name of Jim Benton, lay on the ground, bound hand and foot, and watched with curious eyes the transformation taking place in the appearance of Buffalo Bill.

The scout had produced the wig and the beard worn by Klamath John, and had put them on. He did not need the false imperial and mustache, for his own resembled them in a marked degree; but the Dundreary side whiskers made a great change in his looks.

When Buffalo Bill had effected these alterations, he untied the prisoner and made him surrender his red shirt and hat, his boots, and his muddy trousers, giving him in lieu of them a pair of blankets in which to wrap himself. When the scout had put these on he would not have been recognized by his most intimate friend.

“I’m going into your camp,” he said to the prisoner. “Perhaps I can make the gang there believe I’m one of them, or at least one of their kind. If Klamath Jack and Red Reynard are away my chances are all the better. Perhaps you think I look somewhat like Klamath Jack now?”

“The dead image of him.”

But again the scout detected the false note.

“Thanks for the hint that the disguise isn’t as good as I thought it. Maybe it wouldn’t be healthy for me to try to make them think I am Klamath Jack. You will be kept close here, and if you do not make trouble you will have none. My friends will guard you, and they have orders to shoot you if you try to get away.”

Buffalo Bill departed in the boat which had brought the prisoner to the island, dropping down the river in the darkness. He was hardly out of sight before Benton, under cover of the blankets that had been thrown over him, was twisting at the cords which held his wrists together behind his back. As he did so he felt the cold touch of a rock, and against its jagged edge he began to saw the cords that were around his wrists.

The darky was roosting well back from the shore, under the trees, with his eyes fixed on the dark water, where momentarily he expected to see the “’gator.”

Flynn was crouched on the ground but a few paces from the prisoner, smoking his pipe reflectively. Mickey was following Buffalo Bill in imagination, wondering what the outcome would be, and he was denouncing, with Irish vehemence, the fate that kept him on the island when so daring an adventure was to be carried out.

For these reasons, and also because he fancied the prisoner was tied securely, Flynn was giving little attention to aught save his own thoughts.

Benton made no noticeable sound as he sawed the cords to and fro against the jagged edge of the rock. He, too, was thinking of Buffalo Bill, but he was thinking much more of himself and his chance of escape.

“Marse Flynn,” he heard the darky say, “if dat fing comes up dar ag’in hit’s gwine tuh be monst’ous close to yo’ laigs, hit might bite um off. ’Gators is got pow’ful sharp teeth.”

“I wish it was gnawin’ at these strings, then!” thought the prisoner, with a grim sense of humor. “I don’t seem to be doin’ anything, and I reckon that infernal scout will be back here before I cut through ’em.”

“Divil take the ’gator!” said Flynn, unmoved by the darky’s warning. “Alligators was niver known to ate annything but nagurs an’ dogs.”

“Den yo’ ain’t safe dar at all, Marse Flynn!”

Flynn turned toward Cudjo, who seemed to be showing his ivories in a grin.

“Call me a dog, will yez?” he said. “Take that!”

A stick whistled through the air, aimed at the darky’s head, but Cudjo dodged it, and laughed.

The sounds caused by this altercation and the crash of the stick in the bushes Jim Benton took advantage of. Sawing furiously, he felt one of the strands of cord fall away. This so encouraged him that he continued his work, with a hope that became buoyant as he felt the cords loosen more and more.

Finally his wrists were free. He rolled over on his side, and stretched his arms, working his fingers to relieve the stiffness occasioned by the cords.

“Now, if I had my feet loose!” was his thought.

To accomplish that promised not to be so easy.

Making a pretense of restlessness, he twisted about until he had his ankles against the rock that had cut through the wrist cords. Slowly he began to work to cut the ankle cords in the same way.

“What the divil makes ye squirm ’round so, like a shnake?” said Flynn, whose attention was at length drawn.

“Marse Flynn, dat man been doin’ dat fuh mo’ dan ten minutes, I reckons,” observed Cudjo.

“An’ ye niver mintioned it to me! Yez ar-re a gr-reat wan to be lift to watch a prisoner! Don’t yez know that ivery movement that luks suspicious has to be reported? Yez are not only a nagur, but a fool nagur!”

“Misteh Flynn,” protested the darky, “if you keeps on ’sultin’ me in dat scan’lous manner, I done gwine bus’ yo’ haid open wid a stone. I don’t stood nuff f’um you already. I ain’t been lef’ to watch dat pris’ner; you has been placed in discharge ob him yo’self. An’ if he gits away de faults ob de matter will be laid at yo’ do’. I washes my han’s of you. I hopes you falls in dat river an’ de ’gator ’vours you! You is de mos’ contemptuous man I ebber see. I’se a gem’man ob color, unnerstan’, and I been a car po’ter!”

Mickey Flynn walked over to the prisoner. The latter had ceased his struggles to cut those ankle cords, and lay back now, narrowly watching the Irishman through half-closed eyes. His hands were behind his back, to give them the appearance of being tied there.

“What the divil ar-re yez up to, annyway?” Flynn demanded, stooping over him. Flynn’s temper had been ruffled by the words of the darky. “Ye’re wrigglin’ round like a wor-rm, begorra! What’s bitin’ ye?”

“These cords are tied so durn tight that they hurt me, that’s all,” the prisoner explained, hoping when he said it that Flynn would go away.

“Oh, they ar-re? Well, the likes av you ought to have a cor-rd round his nick, begorra, with an ind av it fastened to the limb av a three! Thim’s my sintimints; and that’s what would be done to yez, av I was havin’ me own way about it. Cody’s too aisy intirely wid crathers av your class.”

He stooped over, to inspect the cords that he supposed held the man’s wrists.

It was to the prisoner a critical moment; he had no time for hesitation. Driven to desperation by the discovery that stared him in the face, he lifted his bound feet, and planted them with such force in the Irishman’s stomach that Flynn was hurled backward and fell with a crash in the bushes.

The next moment the prisoner had staggered up. He tried to run, but fell, then he began to roll over and over like a cart wheel, on his way to the water.

Flynn came out of the bushes, roaring his wrath in no gentle tones.

Even the darky had leaped up, and was now rushing toward the prisoner. Flynn drew his revolver, though he knew he dared not fire, lest the report of its discharge should reach the cabins.

“Shtop, ye divil!” he commanded, but before he could reach the man, the latter had flounced over into the river. Flynn reached for him, but he was gone, for he sank from sight as soon as he touched the water.

“Now, the divil is to pay!” said Flynn, fingering his revolver and staring at the spot where the man had disappeared. “He’ll be drowned, I’m thinkin’, an’ ’twill sarve him right!”

“’Twas yo’ fault, Marse Flynn!” Cudjo asserted.

“Say that ag’in,” Flynn roared at him, “and I’ll shtick me fist down yure black throat! ’Tis a lie, it is! Av he’s drowned, it’s his own fault.”

But that the escaping prisoner was not drowned both saw a second or so later; for he arose to the surface a few yards away, put up his hands, and began to swim, heading across toward the shore opposite.

Flynn pointed the revolver at him, then lowered it, fearing to fire.

“Git the canoe!” he said. “Tumble lively, too! The divil has got his hands loose, and he’s gittin’ away.”

He ran for the canoe and dragged it into the water; and, as the darky moved too slowly to suit him, he sprang in alone.

Paddling away from the shore, he headed the canoe for the spot where he had seen the man swimming; but he saw him no longer, for the desperate fellow had dived, and was out of sight.

Flynn rowed round and round in a circle, muttering excited ejaculations, but the man did not reappear.

“The divil’s drowned, begob!” he said, speaking so that the darky could hear. “His fate were tied, aven if he had his hands free, and he wint undher widout comin’ up ag’in.”

Nevertheless, he widened his circles, still looking for the man’s head to pop out of the water. Then he heard a splash, and saw that the man had risen near the other shore and was swimming for it with strong strokes.

Flynn sent the canoe flying after him, but again the man dived, going under like a fish. When the escaping prisoner rose again, in the willows by the shore, the darkness favored him and Flynn could not see him.

Flynn paddled slowly past the willows, staring into them; but the prisoner had only his head sticking above the water, and remained undiscovered. For nearly an hour the Irishman kept the canoe going up and down the shore, crisscrossing the stream, and searching with great persistence. At the end of that time he gave up, and paddled back to the island.

“He’s gone!” he said to Cudjo.

“Marse Flynn, I reckons de ’gator got him!” declared Cudjo solemnly.

Then both were startled by a report of revolvers coming from the village.

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