O. Henry



   The Ransom of Red Chief

    It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell  you.  We  were  down  South, 
in Alabama - Bill Driscoll and myself - when this kidnapping  idea  struck  us.  It 
was, as  Bill  afterward  expressed  it,  "during  a  moment  of  temporary  mental 
apparition"; but we didn't find that out till later.
    There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called  Summit,  of 
course. It contained inhabitants of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class  of 
peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole.
    Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred  dollars,  and  we  needed 
just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in  Western 
Illinois  with.  We  talked  it  over  on   the   front   steps   of   the   hotel. 
Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semi-rural communities  therefore,  and 
for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius 
of newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk  about  such 
things. We knew that Summit couldn't get  after  us  with  anything  stronger  than 
constables and, maybe, some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in  the 
Weekly Farmers' Budget. 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 forecloser. The kid was  a  boy  of  ten,  with 
bas-relief freckles, and hair the colour 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, covered with a  dense  cedar 
brake. 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 welter-weight cinnamon bear; but,  at  last,  we 
got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. 
    We took him up to the cave, and I hitched the horse in the cedar  brake.  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 pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his  features. 
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  tailfeathers  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?"
    "He's all right now," says Bill, rolling up his  trousers  and  examining  some 
bruises on his shins. "We're playing Indian. We're making Buffalo Bill's show  look 
like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I'm Old Hank, the  Trapper, 
Red Chief's captive, and I'm to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that  kid  can 
kick hard."
    Yes, sir, 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 broiled 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 go to school. Rats  ate  up  sixteen  of  Jimmy
Talbot's aunt's speckled hen's eggs. Are there any real Indians in these  woods?  I 
want some more gravy. Does the trees  moving  make  the  wind  blow?  We  had  five 
puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of  money.  Are  the 
stars hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don't  like  girls.  You  dassent 
catch toads unless with a string. Do oxen make any noise? Why  are  oranges  round? 
Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got six toes. A  parrot 
can talk, but a monkey or a fish can't. How many does it take to make twelve?"
    Every few minutes he would remember that he was a pesky redskin,  and  pick  up 
his stick rifle and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of the 
hated paleface. Now and then he would let out a warwhoop that  made  Old  Hank  the 
Trapper, 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: "His! 
pard," in mine and Bill's ears, as the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle of a 
leaf revealed to his young imagination the stealthy approach of the outlaw band. 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 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 was to be  burned  at  sunrise, 
and you was 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 reconnoitre."
    I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over the contiguous 
vicinity. Over toward Summit I expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of  the  village 
armed with scythes  and  pitchforks  beating  the  countryside  for  the  dastardly 
kidnappers. But what I saw was a peaceful landscape dotted with one  man  ploughing 
with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither and  yon, 
bringing tidings of no news to the distracted parents. There was a sylvan  attitude 
of somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of the external outward  surface  of 
Alabama that lay exposed to my view. "Perhaps," says I to myself, "it has  not  yet 
been discovered that the wolves have borne away the tender lambkin from  the  fold. 
Heaven help the wolves!" 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 cocoanut.
    "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," says I. "He don't seem to be much of a home  body.  But  we've 
got to fix up some plan about the ransom. There don'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 Aunt Jane  or  one 
of the neighbours. Anyhow, he'll be missed to-day. To-night 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, such as David might have  emitted  when 
he knocked out the champion Goliath. It was a sling that Red Chief had  pulled  out 
of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head.
    I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a sigh from Bill, like  a  horse 
gives out when you take his saddle off. A niggerhead rock the size of  an  egg  had 
caught Bill just behind his left ear. He loosened himself all over and fell in  the 
fire across the frying pan of hot water for washing the dishes. I dragged  him  out 
and poured cold water on his head for half an hour.
    By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says: "Sam,  do  you  know 
who my favourite Biblical character is?"
    "Take it easy," says I. "You'll come to your senses presently."
    "King Herod," says he. "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.  But 
what did he hit me for? I'll behave, Snake-eye, if you won't send me home,  and  if 
you'll let me play the Black Scout to-day."
    "I don't know the game," says I. "That's for you and Mr. Bill to  decide.  He's 
your playmate for the day. I'm going away for a while, on business. Now,  you  come 
in and make friends with him and say you are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, 
at once."
    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 peremptory 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  without  batting  an  eye  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 
two-legged skyrocket of a kid. He's got me going. 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 ain't attempting," says he, "to decry the celebrated moral  aspect  of 
parental affection, but we're dealing with humans, and it ain't human  for  anybody 
to give up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunk of freckled wildcat. I'm 
willing to take a chance at fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the  difference 
up to me."
    So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, 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 skilful 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  to-night  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  to-night 
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. As I was  about  to 
start, the kid comes up to me and says:
    "Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black Scout while you was gone."
    "Play it, of course," says I. "Mr. Bill will play with you. What kind of a game 
is it?"
    "I'm the Black Scout," says Red Chief, "and I have to ride to the  stockade  to 
warn the settlers that the Indians are coming. I 'm tired of playing Indian myself. 
I want to be the Black Scout."
    "All right," says I. "It sounds harmless to me. I guess Mr. Bill will help  you 
foil the pesky savages."
    "What am I to do?" asks Bill, looking at the kid suspiciously.
    "You are the hoss," says Black Scout. "Get down on your hands  and  knees.  How 
can I ride to the stockade without a hoss?"
    "You'd better keep him interested," said I, "till  we  get  the  scheme  going. 
Loosen up."
    Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in his eye  like  a  rabbit's 
when you catch it in a trap.
    "How far is it to the stockade, kid? " he asks, in a husky manner of voice.
    "Ninety miles," says the Black Scout. "And you have to  hump  yourself  to  get 
there on time. Whoa, now!"
    The Black Scout jumps on Bill's back and digs his heels in his side.
    "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. Say, you quit kicking me or I 'll  get 
up and warm you good."
    I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the postoffice and  store,  talking 
with the chawbacons that came in to trade. One whiskerand says 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 risked a yodel or two, 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 renegade, but I  couldn't  help 
it. I'm a grown person with masculine proclivities and habits of self-defence,  but 
there is a time when all systems of egotism and predominance fail. The boy is gone. 
I have sent him home. All is off. There was martyrs in old times,"  goes  on  Bill, 
"that suffered death rather than give up the particular graft  they  enjoyed.  None 
of 'em ever was subjugated to such supernatural tortures as I have been. I tried to 
be faithful to our articles of depredation; but there came a limit."
    "What's the trouble, Bill?" I asks him.
    "I was rode," says Bill, "the ninety miles to  the  stockade,  not  barring  an 
inch. Then, when the settlers was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain't a palatable 
substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to explain  to  him  why  there  was 
nothin' in holes, how a road can run both ways and what makes the  grass  green.  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  two  or  three  bites  on  my  thumb  and  hand 
cauterized.
    "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 Bill Driscoll to the madhouse."
    Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of ineffable peace and growing 
content on his rose-pink features.
    "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 Russian in a Japanese 
war with him as soon as he felt a little better.
    I had a scheme 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. If a gang of  constables  should  be 
watching for any one to come for the note  they  could  see  him  a  long  way  off 
crossing the fields or in the road. But no, sirree! 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 sum and substance  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 
neighbours 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.
    "Great pirates of Penzance!" says I; "of all the impudent - "
    But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most  appealing  look  in  his 
eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or a talking brute.
    "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 a bed in Bedlam. Besides being  a 
thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is  a  spendthrift  for  making  us  such  a 
liberal offer. You ain't going to let the chance go, are you?"
    "Tell you the truth, Bill," says I, "this little he ewe 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 silver-mounted rifle and a pair of moccasins  for  him,  and  we  were
going to hunt bears the next day.
    It was just twelve o'clock when we knocked at Ebenezer's front  door.  Just  at 
the moment when I should have been abstracting 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 
like a calliope and fastened himself as tight as a leech to Bill's leg. His  father 
peeled him away gradually, like a porous plaster.
    "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  Central,  Southern  and 
Middle Western States, and be legging it trippingly for 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.

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