Kidnapping gone wrong

Characters: Old hank-  Bill

          Snake eye- Sam

          Sam- 1st person kidnapper

          Bill- 2nd kidnapper

         Ebenezer Dorset- Boy's Father

          Red chief- The kidnapped boy

It looked like a good thing; but wait till I tell you. We (Bill and myself) were in Alabama, when this kidnapping idea struck us. There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained undeleterious and self-satisfied inhabitants. Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to buy a piece of land in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of a hotel. Family love, we said, is strong in semi-rural communities; therefore, and for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in big cities. 

So, it looked good. We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright collection plate passer and foreclosure. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the color of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you.

 About two miles from Summit was a little mountain. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions. One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset’s house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence. “Hey, little boy!” says Bill, “would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice ride?” The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick. “That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars,” says Bill, climbing over the wheel. That boy put up a fight like a bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain. Bill was applying medicine over his scratches and bruises. 

There was a fire burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tail-feathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says: “Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?” “We’re playing Indian. I’m Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief’s captive, and I’m to be scalped at daybreak.” says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his shins. That boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made him forget that he was a captive himself. He immediately christened me Snake eye, the Spy, and announced that, when his braves returned from the warpath, I was to be boiled at the stake at the rising of the sun. 

Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. He made a during dinner speech something like this: “I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a pet ’possum once, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to to go to school. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some more gravy. Do the trees moving make the wind blow? We had five puppies. What makes your nose so red, Bill? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I don’t like girls. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave?” Now and then he would let out a war-whoop that made Old Hank the Trapper (Bill), shiver. That boy had Bill terrorized from the start. “Red Chief,” says I to the kid, “would you like to go home?” “Aw, what for?” says he. “I don’t have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. You won’t take me back home again, Snake-eye, will you?” “Not right away,” says I. “We’ll stay here in the cave a while.” “All right!” says he. “That’ll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life.” We went to bed about eleven o’clock. We spread down some wide blankets and quilts and put Red Chief between us.

 We weren’t afraid he’d run away. He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up and reaching for his rifle and screeching: “Hst! trrrrr!,” in mine and Bill’s ears. At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped and chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with red hair. Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams from Bill. They weren’t yells, or howls, or shouts, or whoops, or yawps, such as you’d expect from a manly set of vocal organs—they were simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as some women emit when they see 'ghosts' or caterpillars. It’s an awful thing to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at daybreak. I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on Bill’s chest, with one hand twined in Bill’s hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife we used for slicing bacon; and he was industriously and realistically trying to take Bill’s scalp, according to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the evening before. I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie down again. 

But, from that moment, Bill’s spirit was broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was to be burned at the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn’t nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit my pipe and leaned against a rock. “What you getting up so soon for, Sam?” asked Bill. “Me?” says I. “Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thought sitting up would rest it.” “You’re a liar!” says Bill. “You’re afraid. You were to be burned at sunrise, and you were afraid he’d do it. And he would, too, if he could find a match. Ain’t it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little imp like that back home?” “Sure,” said I. “A rowdy kid like that is just the kind that parents dote on. Now, you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of this mountain and reconnoiter.”

 I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over the place. Over toward Summit what I saw was a peaceful landscape dotted with one man ploughing his farm. “Perhaps,” says I to myself, “it has not yet been discovered that the kid is kidnapped.” says I, and I went down the mountain to breakfast. When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to smash him with a rock half as big as a coconut. “He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back,” explained Bill, “and then mashed it with his foot; and I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun about you, Sam?” I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched up the argument. “I’ll fix you,” says the kid to Bill. “No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but what he got paid for it. You better beware!” After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes outside the cave unwinding it. “What’s he up to now?” says Bill, anxiously. “You don’t think he’ll run away, do you, Sam?” “No fear of it,” I said. “He doesn't seem to be much of a home body. But we’ve got to fix up some plan about the ransom. There doesn't seem to be much excitement around Summit on account of his disappearance; but maybe they haven’t realized yet that he’s gone. His folks may think he’s spending the night with his relatives or one of the neighbors. Anyhow, he’ll be missed today. 

Tonight we must get a message to his father demanding the two thousand dollars for his return.” Just then we heard a kind of war-whoop, which was a sling that Red Chief had pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head. A niggerhead rock the size of an egg had caught Bill just behind his left ear. He lost balance and fell in the fire across the pan of hot water for washing the dishes. I dragged him out and poured cold water on his head to make him feel better. By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says: “You won’t go away and leave me here alone, will you, Sam?” I went out and caught that boy and shook him until his freckles rattled. “If you don’t behave,” says I, “I’ll take you straight home. Now, are you going to be good, or not?” “I was only funning,” says he sullenly. “I didn’t mean to hurt Old Hank (Bill). But what did he hit me for? I’ll behave, Snake-eye (Sam, me), if you won’t send me home." "Ok. Now, you come in and make friends with him and say you are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at once.”, said I. I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill aside and told him I was going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles from the cave, and find out what I could about how the kidnapping had been regarded in Summit. 

Also, I thought it best to send a letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom and dictating how it should be paid. “You know, Sam,” says Bill, “I’ve stood by you in earthquakes, fire and flood—in poker games, dynamite outrages, police raids, train robberies and cyclones. I never lost my nerve yet till we kidnapped that kid. He’s got me crazy. You won’t leave me long with him, will you, Sam?” “I’ll be back some time this afternoon,” says I. “You must keep the boy amused and quiet till I return. And now we’ll write the letter to old Dorset.” Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the letter while Red Chief, with a blanket wrapped around him, strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make the ransom fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand. I’m willing to take a chance at fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the difference up to me.” 

So, to relieve Bill, I accepted, and we collaborated a letter that ran this way:

Ebenezer Dorset, Esq.:                                                                                                                We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. It is useless for you or the most skillful detectives to attempt to find him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can have him restored to you are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in large bills for his return; the money to be left at midnight tonight at the same spot and in the same box as your reply—as hereinafter described. If you agree to these terms, send your answer in writing by a solitary messenger tonight at half-past eight o’clock. After crossing Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are three large trees about a hundred yards apart, close to the fence of the wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small pasteboard box. The messenger will place the answer in this box and return immediately to Summit. If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand as stated, you will never see your boy again. If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you safe and well within three hours. These terms are final, and if you do not accede to them no further communication will be attempted.                                                                                                                          Two Desperate Men.

 I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my pocket. “For Heaven’s sake,” says Bill, “hurry back, Sam, as soon as you can. I wish we hadn’t made the ransom more than a thousand.” I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the post office and store, talking with. One man said that he hears Summit is all upset on account of Elder Ebenezer Dorset’s boy having been lost or stolen. That was all I wanted to know. I bought some smoking tobacco, referred casually to the price of black-eyed peas, posted my letter surreptitiously and came away. The postmaster said the mail-carrier would come by in an hour to take the mail on to Summit. 

When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were not to be found. I explored the vicinity of the cave, and called out for them, but there was no response. So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank to await developments. In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and Bill wabbled out into the little glade in front of the cave. Behind him was the kid, stepping softly like a scout, with a broad grin on his face. Bill stopped, took off his hat and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. The kid stopped about eight feet behind him. “Sam,” says Bill, “I suppose you’ll think I’m a fool, but I couldn’t help it. I’m a grown person with masculine proclivities and habits of self-defense, but there is a time when all systems of egotism and predominance fail. The boy is gone. I have sent him home. “What’s the trouble, Bill?” I asks him. “I was rode,” says Bill, I was given oats. Sand ain’t edible I tell you. I tell you, Sam, a human can only stand so much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags him down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs black-and-blue from the knees down; and I’ve got to have two or three bites on my thumb and hands. But he’s gone”—continues Bill—“gone home. I showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick. I’m sorry we lose the ransom; but it was either that or me to the madhouse.”. “Bill,” says I, “there isn’t any heart disease in your family, is there?” “No,” says Bill, “nothing chronic except malaria and accidents. Why?” “Then you might turn around,” says I, “and have a look behind you.” Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits down plump on the ground and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was afraid for his mind. And then I told him that my scheme was to put the whole job through immediately and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. So Bill braced up enough to give the kid a weak sort of a smile and a promise to play the games he wanted.

 I had a plan for collecting that ransom without danger of being caught by counterplots that ought to commend itself to professional kidnappers. The tree under which the answer was to be left—and the money later on—was close to the road fence with big, bare fields on all sides. At half-past eight I was up in that tree as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the messenger to arrive. Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road on a bicycle, locates the pasteboard box at the foot of the fencepost, slips a folded piece of paper into it and pedals away again back toward Summit. I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was square. I slid down the tree, got the note, slipped along the fence till I struck the woods, and was back at the cave in another half an hour.

 I opened the note, got near the lantern and read it to Bill. It was written with a pen in a crabbed hand, and the writing of it was this: 

Two Desperate Men. Gentlemen:                                                                                                           I received your letter to-day by post, in regard to the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-proposition, which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and I agree to take him off your hands. You had better come at night, for the neighbors believe he is lost, and I couldn’t be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing him back.                                                                                                                           

   Very respectfully,                                                                                                          

      Ebenezer Dorset. 

“That cheek!” says I; But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most appealing look in his eyes. “Sam,” says he, “what’s two hundred and fifty dollars, after all? We’ve got the money. One more night of this kid will send me to bed in a hospital. Besides being a great gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset generous for making us such an offer. You ain’t going to let the chance go, are you?” “Tell you the truth, Bill,” says I, “this little he lamb has somewhat got on my nerves too. We’ll take him home, pay the ransom and make our get-away.” 

We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that his father had bought a big rifle and many chocolates for him, and we were going to hunt bears the next day. It was just twelve o’clock midnight when we knocked at Ebenezer’s front door. Just at the moment when I should have been receiving the fifteen hundred dollars from the box under the tree, according to the original proposition, Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars into Dorset’s hand. When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he started up a howl and fastened himself as tight as a leech to Bill’s leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like a sticker. 

“How long can you hold him?” asks Bill. “I’m not as strong as I used to be,” says old Dorset, “but I think I can promise you ten minutes.” “Enough,” says Bill. “In ten minutes I shall cross the country, over the Canadian border.” And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half out of Summit before I could catch up with him.