GERT; OR, THE WARNING IN THE TUNNEL.

       THE names and localities herein mentioned are, of course, fictitious, strict truthfulness being avoided for reasons that will doubtless be evident at the conclusion of the story. The firm of which I was the Western agent was one of the largest and wealthiest in the Eastern metropolis, and had recently been awarded a government contract to construct a road and canal in one of the most desolate and least civilized of the Western territories. In order to pay the workmen, it was necessary to despatch an agent to Wildbush at the end of each month who could be relied upon for courage, watchfulness and sobriety, for in this out-of-the-way region not even a wild-cat bank had as yet been established; and the men preferred gold or silver to bank notes, the latter being looked upon with some degree of suspicion, particularly if new and crisp. I may mention here, as a fact not widely known, perhaps, that in the far West, any amount of the "queer" could be "shoved," provided only that it was sufficiently soiled, greased, tattered and shabby — a fact the basis of which will at once suggest itself.

       The total amount of the laborers' wages, exactly three thousand seven hundred and fifty-one dollars in packages of quarter eagles and dollars, I carried in a small leather travelling-bag heavily bound with tempered steel bands and securely locked, and you may rest assured that this same bag was to me an object of considerable trouble and apprehension. However, my arrangements for its safety were admirable, it being fastened to my forearm and wrist in such a manner that, even had it been desirable, I could not have deserted my trust for an instant without first unbuckling the four stout straps coiled round my arm and wrist. As a further quietus to base cupidity, I had, before leaving the office, painted on the brown cover, in large white letters, the following deceptive legend: "Samples Spring-Locks, A. I. X." an artful idea for which I received a favorable smile from the resident Western partner. Pardon, observant reader, the egotism manifested in the above lines. It is really necessary, and decidedly agreeable to the writer.

       "All aboard!" and the impatient engine snorted and puffed and wheezed, and once in a while suggested hurry by moving forward a few inches, causing a prolonged echo-rattle along the line of the attendant cars, and inspiring nervous passengers with the dreadful idea that they were fated to be left behind.

       Securing my ticket, I walked hastily toward the cars, sniffing with a born traveller's delight the sulphurous, smoky atmosphere, and was about to enter, when the engine started, and I was almost thrown off my feet, while at the same moment a piercing cry behind me made me turn round on my heel with unusual precipitancy. A sickening sensation of fear and horror made my flesh creep and my sight momentarily indistinct, as I looked down and beheld a white and terror-stricken but pretty face turned up to mine, while the scared, distended eyes were eloquent with an imploring, pitiful expression that was inexpressibly touching, that reminded me of a picture I had seen in London of Andromede shrinking back from her foul enemy. The sudden start of the engine had whirled the girl off her feet, and she fell, and now lay half prostrate in the narrow passage between the platform and the cars, and being pushed slowly along as the rumbling wheels turned round. It was the slow pace of the cars that saved her; for had the ponderous wheels moved with but a very little more velocity, they would have ground out her young life with one turn of their remorseless edges. Throwing myself flat on the platform of the car, I reached down, and with one hand — the other was encumbered with my bag — dragged the girl from her peril-fraught position and placed her on the step beside me. For a moment she stood perfectly silent, her fingers pressed on her closed eyes, her body rocking mechanically to and fro, then uncovering her face, said, with startling calmness, considering what had so recently happened, "Thank you, sir. Death and I have often been pretty close neighbors, but he never frightened me before. Some day, perhaps, I shall requite your kind trouble."

       "Well," I said to myself, "here is certainly an odd character. She thanks me as coolly as though I had merely saved her handkerchief from being cut into fragments, instead of her own pretty body, and half promises to repay me for my exertions."

       Brushing past me, she entered the car amid the buzzing whispers and inquisitive glances of the gaping passengers. Following in her wake, I was about to take a seat in a shady corner near the water-tank, when an almost imperceptible gesture induced me to cross over and sit down beside the girl whom I had rescued from a terrible death. Deducing my companion's age from the girlishness of her form, I arrived at the conclusion that she was about seventeen or eighteen years of age, but a minute after her face — though comely, even lovely to a biased observer — produced within me the impression that she was at least twenty-three or twenty-four. It seemed too old for the childish shoulders on which it rested. In her flashing hazel eyes there gleamed a reckless, scornful wildness that was not altogether pleasing; so ceasing to regard the eyes, I began to critically examine the rest of her features. Tempting, full, red lips, rather coarse for a woman, too delicate for a man, straight, large nose, firm, round chin, and spotless complexion tanned to a rich, mellow brown. Tanned — it is said advisedly, sundry sought-for glimpses of a white, plump neck warranting the assertion.

       "May I ask your name, sir?" she bluntly asked, in a low voice.

       "Certainly — Frank Carter. May I hope that you will return the favor?"

       She was silent for a moment, then replied, with a smile of doubtful meaning,

       "Oh, you want to know my name! Gert."

       "Gert?" I responded, amused at her strange manner. "Miss Gert, I presume?"

       "No, no miss about it. Gert — short for Gertrude;" and a hard, stony look settled in her eyes as she murmured in musing tones that to my ears were tinged with regretful bitterness, "They used to call me Pet at home;" then turning toward me with a searching look, "But that is my business. You mustn't be offended at my way of speaking, Mr. Carter. I belong to the Sierra Madre slope, and out there we don't risk our dust on Eastern fashions."

       I was about to reply that "one so handsome as herself made her own fashions," when a chance look at the closed lips and the shrewd, keen eyes made me hesitate; for in spite of Gert's slightly slangy remark, her free manners and her blunt speech, there was an air of refinement about her that was both pleasing and mystifying, and which served to restrain me from an over-indulgence in soft speeches and point-blank compliments.

       "You are not travelling alone?" I asked.

       "Yes."

       Again that peculiar smile lurked in the corners of her mouth.

       "I trust that we shall be companions for some time," I ventured, surprised to find so young and winsome a girl travelling alone in a dangerous, desperado-infested country.

       "I am going to Burnstown."

       "Glad to hear it," I rejoined, congratulating myself on having found an agreeable partner in whose society the wearisome hours would fly more quickly. "I stop at Millcreek, five miles this side of your destination, Gert."

       "Yes," replied Gert, in a listless, vacant manner, rather humiliating after the semi-mournful accents of my last speech. Then, noticing that she untied her hat-strings and threw off her shawl as though too warm, I rose and leaned over her in order to raise the window. She followed my movements with a pleasant, thankful smile. As I reseated myself, she took hold of my hand, and said, not what I had expected from her actions, but the following:

       "Permit me to look at this ring, Carter. I believe it is a genuine opal. Jack has one that is very like it."

       "You are right, Gert," I replied, laughingly, and drew the ring off my finger. Holding it up to the light, she exclaimed,

       "Beautiful! its colors are as soft and lovely as those in the rainbow over the Devil's Cañon!"

       The look of admiration on her face, or its bewitching outline as it was turned half from me, or my susceptibility to female charms, or my stupidity, made me reply,

       "If you will accept it, it is yours."

       Gert blushed to her temples and laughed uneasily, while her eyes were fixed on me with a searching and — so I imagine — pitying and irresolute expression, as she returned the ring to me, and said,

       "No, thank you. It wouldn't make much difference to me what you might think of me if I were to accept it, but — but I won't."

       Not knowing what to reply to this last outburst, I grew ostensibly very much interested in admiring the swiftly-passing scenery, and calculating how many minutes would elapse before we entered the great tunnel near Sandville. Then my curiosity began to overpower my politeness and reticence, and I was making ready to question Gert in regard to her certainly uncalled-for blushes and mysterious smiles, when my purpose was nipped in the bud by the startling change that had come over her features — face pale and cadaverous as an opium-eater's, eyes fixed, hard and stern, lips tightly compressed, nostrils quivering, and under the light shawl I saw that her hand was pressed against her bosom. Crash, whiz, boom! and we were swallowed up in utter, pitch darkness. Instinctively I passed my hand around my bag to be sure that the locks and bands were in good condition. Yes, it was right; and leaning back, I pondered and mused over the queer speeches and actions of my pretty travelling companion. Suddenly a hand was laid softly on my arm; I started, and possibly turned a little pale, while I grasped my revolver and held the bag more tightly. A moment's consideration determined me to keep silence and permit the intruding hand to wander where it would. Rapidly but lightly passing down the whole length of my arm, it finally rested for an instant on my wrist; then a small lump or pellet of paper was thrust into my palm, and my fingers pressed down over it, as though it was meant to be a secret communication of some sort. At this minute I clutched at the hand, but had time only to ascertain that it was small and soft like a woman's before it twisted from me, leaving behind the pellet of paper. At first I thought that the hand must have been Gert's; but then it had come from the opposite side and was bare, while her hands were covered with white Lisle-thread gloves. Involuntarily I put out my own hand and touched Gert's. They were lying on her lap, folded and gloved. "Well," thought I, "we must wait until we get out of this never-ending tunnel, and doubtless the mystery will then explain itself," and I began to grow feverishly impatient to escape from the choking, sulphurous darkness into the open sunlight.

       The first thing I did as the train rattled out of the echoing tunnel was to closely inspect Gert's face. It was calm and perfectly emotionless; and as she seemed in meditation and totally regardless of my presence, I at once proceeded to unroll the mysterious pellet. It was an oblong slip of greasy, brown wrapping-paper, covered with barely legible writing, which I deciphered only after much trouble. The following is what met my astonished gaze:

       "Don't carry the money with you to Wildbush" — this was the place where the men were working, and I must confess that my breath became a trifle flurried — "for two or three days. Both it and your life are in danger. Your errand is known to Bill Martin and his squad. They will attack you on the road near —" and the last word was so scrawlingly written that I could not decipher it. Nearly a dozen times I read and re-read this strange missive without clearly comprehending its purport, then thrust it in my vest-pocket and keenly scrutinized every face in the car to discover a look or a gesture that might lead me to find the writer.

       "What is the matter?" asked Gert, smiling pleasantly and looking straight into my eyes.

       "Nothing, nothing," I vaguely responded, and renewed my scrutiny of the passengers, but without the slightest success.

       After fourteen hours of tiresome travel, I shook hands with Gert, bade her good-bye with studied grace and real regret, and jumped off the car on to the rickety platform at Millcreek. Thence I took my way toward the tavern where I had been instructed to stop overnight. As I walked along, I thought uneasily of the warning letter, and tried in vain to rid myself of a feeling of fear and apprehension. "However," I muttered, "I am well armed with a pair of Ethan Allen's shooters, and they kill at a hundred or more yards."

       Then recollections of Gert and her quaint bluntness and odd behavior made me laugh outright, and I amused myself with speculations regarding her past, present and future life and destiny. I shall pass over my stay at Seven-Up Tavern, my uneasy slumbers and the three hours of self-ridiculing that determined me to scoff the warning, and allow your imagination to evoke the details. After trotting steadily along for thirty miles or so, I drew rein at the entrance to an apparently interminable, darksome, winding cañon nearly choked up with tall, coarse prairie-grass and sombre, gigantic trees, through whose rustling branches flew or hopped myriads of dark-plumaged birds.

       "Umph, Frank!" I soliloquized. "If Bill Martin and his scoundrelly gang attack you anywhere, it will be here-about. Once through this villanous jungle, I shall feel safe;" and half cocking both revolvers, I rode resolutely forward, keeping a sharp lookout on every side. Permit me to mention, en passant, that an innocent decayed old stump standing in a gloomy corner of the road almost provoked my fire. I had ridden for nearly an hour before meeting with anything worthy of attention; this object was a miner or laborer trudging ahead of me afoot. Observing that he seemed unarmed, I felt no alarm, though not especially desirous of his company. Turning at the sound of my horse's feet, the man stepped to one side, and exclaimed, with true Western boisterousness, "Halloa, stranger, any tobacco? What's the news from the States?"

       "I am sorry to say that I have no tobacco; as for the news, here is a three days old journal."

       "Good enough," he laconically remarked. In attempting to catch the paper as I threw it toward him, he stumbled and fell. Ripping out a volley of oaths, he regained his feet, and stood close beside me closer than I altogether relished. Patting Ace on the neck, he said, admiringly, "Fine beast. What sire?"

       "Don't know," was my terse rejoinder, and I tickled Ace's side with my spur. Suddenly I saw something bright and glittering gleam over my right shoulder, and involuntarily I bent over in the saddle and dropped the reins. Ace screamed wildly, and pawed the air with his forefeet. A quick glance showed me the cause: a horn-handled bowie-knife was sunk to the hilt in the poor thing's quivering flank. In front of me stood the treacherous rascal to whom I had given the paper, a sneering smile on his coarse lips and a huge revolver in his right hand. Quick as thought, I sprang from the saddle. Jumping over the huge rocks on the roadside, I got behind the nearest tree, whence I noted with desperate calmness from six to seven or eight men clustering in front of me. One of them, a small wiry fellow with red hair and gaudily-beaded leggings, I recognized as the notorious Bill Martin, a desperado of the first water, and one whose avowed delight was robbery and murder.

       Crack, crack, crack, crack! and the bullets flew past my ears with a whirring sing-song whistle that filled my heart with savage fierceness. To this minute I marvel at my emotionless coolness, as I singled out Bill Martin and one of the nearest men, and fired. The two fellows dropped without a groan; the others wavered and hesitated, evidently at a loss what to do. I noted their indecision with still murderous glee, and fired again. Another fell with a bullet in his shoulder. I cursed my ill-luck in not killing him, and called in hoarse, low tones, "Come on, I've ten more shots left;" and I laughed such a laugh as a tiger-cub might growl out as it lapped its first fawn. The baffled bushwhackers replied with terrific curses, and emptied their rifles a second time without even grazing me. Then I ran back into the swampy forest, and crouched down in a clump of sage bush. There I remained for nearly two hours before venturing to emerge and resume my journey afoot.

       I had not proceeded a hundred paces before I was accosted by a slightly-built fellow, attired in the same kind of apparel as were those from whom I had just escaped. My revolver was levelled in an instant, and my finger was pressing hard on the trigger, when a clear, musical voice cried, "Hold on, Carter, don't shoot yet a while."

       "Gert?" I exclaimed, bewildered, and irresolute whether to shoot or not.

       "Just so, old fellow; Gert I am," urging her horse toward me.

       "Hold there!" I cried. "Another step, and I fire."

       Gert laughingly drew a pair of silver-mounted Derringers from her beaded belt, and threw them on the grass at my feet:

       "Never fear, Carter, these are my bowers; my ace" — pointing to a silver-hilted stiletto — "won't hold against your hand." Half ashamed of my fear, I stooped down, picked up the dangerous toys and returned them to her. Replacing them in the belt, she shook hands with me, and said:

       "Follow me, Carter; I've a number one mustang tied up for you."

       I obeyed in silent amazement.

       "Mount, and we'll jog along together. I want to let a little daylight into your brains — not with my pops, but my tongue. Elk, Elk;" and digging her spurs into her own horse, she gave mine a quick cut with her whip, and we trotted briskly along toward the open valley.

       "Well, I suppose you are anxious to learn how it is that I am travelling along in your company once more, eh?"

       "I am indeed, for my bewilderment is decidedly unpleasant."

       "Just so. Now, don't bother me with any questions till I am through with my tale. After that, you may do what you please, for I shall leave you. I am Bill Martin's scout and decoy. How he learned of your errand to Wildbush I don't know; at any rate, I was sent on to Macro Station with instructions to look out for Frank Carter and a bag containing nearly four thousand dollars in gold — that bag," pointing to it, as it lay on the pommel of my Spanish saddle. "If I found you — of course I had a description of your person — I was to keep you in sight until you reached Millcreek, so as to let Bill know of your arrival. You saved my life and treated me like a gentleman. You recollect offering me that opal ring? As we went through the tunnel, I repaid your attentions to me by warning you against Bill and his gang. You repay me in turn by scouting my warning, risking your own life and taking my lover's." Noticing my start, she laughed grimly and said, in a voice that rang with scornful, devil-may-care recklessness, "Don't be afraid; I don't want any revenge. Jack never treated me so well that I should feel forced to avenge his death. Mr. Carter, it is not worth while entering into further details; you can fill up the vacancies. I leave you now;" and rising in her saddle, the girl bent over and kissed me on the cheek.

       "But, Gert," I exclaimed, holding her arm, "you shall not go!"

       "What do you want with me?"

       There was a world of pathetic meaning in the downward pose of the head and the quivering of her long, brown lashes.

       "Tell me who you are, why it is that you are Bill Martin's spy and decoy, where you were born — not in this part of the country, I am sure?"

       "Oh, it is an old, old tale, with new trappings," she said, and a listless, weary look loomed up in the moist eyes and made me feel uneasy and remorseful. "I am an Eastern girl, and was once rather well educated, though this life has made me rough and savage. I was fifteen, foolish and romantic he — a Western gambler and a villain. I never get angry when I think of him now; that has all passed away." A single tear trembled on the wet lashes. "He was soon tired of me and my love, and left me to shift for myself. I grew mad and reckless. Jack saw me at Frisco, and easily persuaded me to accompany him. When I found that he was one of Martin's gang, I did feel a little shocked — frightened. But that feeling soon wore off, and I very soon grew to like the adventurous life and wild, free manners. In fact, the men all spoke kindly to me, and at that time the devil himself could have turned me around his finger with one kind word. I once showed my shrewdness by inveigling a wealthy old banker into Bill's house at Duluth. That fixed my fate. I was made decoy-duck and partner in common with the rest of the gang."

       Gert's pale lips trembled, in spite of her air of defiant bravado; and taking her hand in mine, I said, "Gert, whatever you are besides, you are a true, good woman at heart. Come back to the States with me, and God is my witness that I will do my best to make you happy." I would have said more, but she placed her hand on my lips, and replied, in unsteady accents,

       "No, Carter, it's too late — too late. There's too much bad in me now. I should die like a hurt fawn if I were to return home, where every eye would look at me in scornful pity, where I could not fight off the thoughts that get into my head and heart by a race over the quiet prairies or a brush with the Apaches. I am —"

       A sudden burst of tears choked her utterance, and before I could prevent her, Gert had dug her spurs into her horse and galloped out of sight, leaving me to meditate alone on this strange specimen of womankind, not without moist eyes and an aching heart. I finally reached Wildbush in safety, and gladly paid away the three thousand seven hundred and fifty-one dollars that had led me into such dangerous and romantic adventures. I have since learned that the pony with which poor Gert furnished me was originally the property of a "wealthy old banker" who had been robbed and maltreated by Bill Martin and his associates. However, I shall keep the animal as a souvenir of its donor, and pay the banker what he shall consider is its value.