The windows of Borton's shone cheerfully, although it was past midnight. At our cautious approach a signal was given, and with the answering word a man appeared from the obscurity.
“All safe?” I inquired.
“It's all right,” said Barkhouse. “There's a dozen men in the bar-room, and I'm not sure there ain't some of the hounds amongst them. But you're to go in the side door, and right up stairs.”
“Two of you may keep at the foot of the stairs, just inside the door,” I said. “You may stand watch outside, Barkhouse.”
There was sound of rude song, and the clink of glass and bottle in the bar and dining-room, as I passed through the side hall. But the door was closed, and I saw nothing of the late revelers. In the upper hallway Mother Borton stood by an open door, silhouetted dark and threatening against the dim flickerings that came from the candle in the room behind her.
I had but opened my mouth to give her word of greeting when she raised a warning claw, and then seizing me, drew me swiftly into the room and closed and locked the door.
“How air ye, dearie?” she said, surveying me with some apparent pride. “You're safe and whole, ain't ye?”
As the candlelight fell on her face, she seemed older and more like a bird of prey than ever. The nose and chin had taken a sharper cast, the lines of her face were deeper drawn with the marks of her evil life, and her breath was strong with the strength of water-front whisky. But her eyes burned bright and keen as ever in their sunken sockets, with the fire of her fevered brain behind them.
“I am safe,” I said, “though I had a close shave in Chinatown.”
“I heerd of it,” said Mother Borton sourly. “I reckon it ain't much good to sit up nights to tell you how to take keer of yourself. It's a wonder you ever growed up. Your mammy must 'a' been mighty keerful about herdin' ye under cover whenever it rained.”
“Iwasa little to blame,” I admitted, “but your warning was not thrown away. I thought I was well-guarded.”
Mother Borton sniffed contemptuously.
“I s'pose you come down here alone?”
“No.” And I explained the disposition of my forces.
“That's not so bad,” she said. “They could git up here soon enough, I reckon, if there was a row. But I guess you didn't think I sent for ye jest to tell ye you was a fool in Chinatown.”
I admitted that I should have expected to wait till morning for such a piece of information.
“Well,” said Mother Borton, “that ain't it. Something's up.”
“And what might it be?” I inquired. “The moon?”
Mother Borton did not take this flippancy kindly. Her face grew darker and more evil as it was framed in the dancing shadows behind her.
“You can git a knife in ye as easy as winking if I'll jest keep my mouth shut,” she cried spitefully.
“Yes,” said I repentantly, putting my hand upon her arm. “But you are my very good friend, and will tell me what I ought to know.”
The creature's face lighted at my tone and action, and her eyes melted with a new feeling.
“That I will,” she said; “that I will, as if you were my own boy.”
She seized my hand and held it as she spoke, and looked intently, almost lovingly, on my face. Elsewhere I could have shivered at the thought of her touch. Here, with the bent figure amid the gloomy shadows of the den in which we sat, with the atmosphere of danger heavy about us, I was moved by a glow of kindly feeling.
“I was a-listening to 'em,” she continued in a low, earnest tone, glancing around fearfully as if she had the thought that some one else might be listening in turn. “I was a-listening, an' I heerd what they says.”
“Who said?” I inquired.
“The ones you knows on,” she returned mysteriously.
“What ones?” I persisted, though I supposed she meant to indicate some of my energetic enemies.
Mother Borton paid no attention to my question, and continued:
“I knowed they was a-talking about you, an' they says they would cut your liver out if they found ye there.”
“And where is there?” I asked with growing interest.
“That's what I was listening to find out,” said Mother Borton. “I couldn't hear much of what they says, but I hears enough to git an idee.”
“Well?” I said inquiringly as she hesitated.
She bent forward and hissed rather than whispered:
“They've found out where the boy is!”
“Are you certain?” I asked in sudden alarm.
“Pretty sure,” she said, “pretty sure. Now you won't go near the place, will ye, dearie?” she continued anxiously.
“You forget that I haven't the first idea where the boy is hidden,” I returned.
“Oh, Lord, yes! I reckon my mind's going,” grunted Mother Borton. “But I'm afeard of their knives for ye.”
“I wish I could give warning,” said I, much disturbed by the information. “The protector of the boy ought to know about this. I'm afraid I have done wrong.”
Mother Borton looked at me fixedly.
“Don't you worry, my dear. She'll know about it all right.”
Again the feeling stole over me that this woman knew more than she told. But I knew that it was useless to question her directly. I considered a moment, and then decided to trust her with a secret which might surprise her into admitting her knowledge.
“I suspect that she knows already. I got a note to-night,” said I, drawing from my pocket the envelope I had received from the Unknown.
Mother Borton seized it, looked for a moment at the firm, delicate hand of the address, and drew out the sheet that it inclosed.
“Read it, dearie,” she said, handing it back after a scrutiny. “I can't tell anything but big print.”
I suspected that Mother Borton was trying to deceive me, but I repeated the words of the note:
“Send six men to 8 o'clock boat. Come with one in hack to courtyard of the Palace Hotel at 7:40.”
Mother Borton's face changed not a whit at the reading, but at the end she nodded. “She knows,” she said.
“What does it mean?” I asked. “What is to happen?”
“Don't go, dearie—you won't go, will you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I must go.”
“Oh,” she wailed; “you may be killed. You may never come back.”
“Nonsense,” said I. “In broad daylight, at the Palace Hotel? I'm much more likely to be killed before I get home to-night.”
Her earnestness impressed me, but my resolution was not shaken. Mother Borton rested her head on the table in despair at my obstinacy.
“Well, if you will, you will,” she said at last; “and an old woman's warnings are nothing to you. But if you will put your head in the traps, I'll do my best to make it safe after you git it there. You jist sit still, honey.” And she took the candle and went to a corner where she seated herself at a stand.
Her shadow grew very large, and her straggling locks sent streamers of blackness dancing on the grimy ceiling. The weird figure, thrown into bold relief by the candle-lighted wall beyond it while all else was in obscurity, gave an uncanny feeling that turned half to dread as I looked upon her. What secret did she hold? What was the danger she feared?
Mother Borton appeared to have some difficulty in arranging her words to her liking. She seemed to be writing, but the pen did not flow smoothly. At last she was done, and, sealing her work in an envelope, she brought the flickering light once more to the table.
“Take that,” she said, thrusting the envelope into my hand. “If you find a one-eyed man when you git into trouble, give him that letter I've writ ye, and it may do ye some good. It's the best I can do fer ye. You'd better go now and git some sleep. You may need it.”
I thanked Mother Borton and pressed her hand, and she held the candle as I tiptoed down the stairs, joined my waiting guards, and went out into the night.
The fresh, cool air of the early morning hours was grateful after the close and tainted atmosphere of the den we had left, but I had other things to think of than the pleasure of once more filling my lungs.
“Where are Barkhouse and Phillips?” I asked, as we turned our faces toward the west.
Porter gave a low whistle, and, as this failed to bring an answer, followed it with one louder and more prolonged. We listened, but no response came.
“We'd better get out of here,” said Wilson. “There's no telling what may happen when they hear that whistle.”
“Hist! What's that?” said Porter, drawing me back into a doorway.
There were running steps on the block above us, and I thought a shadow darted from one side of the street to the other.
“There seem to be friends waiting for us,” said I. “Just get a good grip of your clubs, boys, and keep your revolvers handy in case they think they have a call to stop us.”
“Hold on,” said Porter. “There's a gang of 'em there. I see a dozen of 'em, and if we're the ones they're after we had better cut for it.”
“I believe you are right,” said I, peering into the darkness. I could see a confused mass, but whether of men or boxes I could only guess.
“We'll go up here, and you can cut around the other way,” said Porter. “There's no need for you to risk it.”
“There's no need for any one to risk it. We'll cut together.”
“This way then,” said Wilson. “I know this part of town better than you do. Run on your toes.” And he darted past Borton's, and plunged into an alley that led toward the north. Porter and I followed, as quietly as possible, through the dark and noisome cut-off to Pacific Street. Wilson turned toward the bay, and crossing the street at the next corner followed the main thoroughfare to Broadway.
“I guess we're all right now,” he gasped, as we turned again to the west, “but we'd best keep to the middle of the street.”
And a little later we were in sight of the house of mystery which fronted, forbidding and gloomy as ever, on Montgomery Street.
“Where's Barkhouse?” I asked of Trent, who was on guard.
“He hasn't come in, sir. Phillips got here a bit ago, and I think he has something to report.”
As Phillips had been sent scouting with Barkhouse I thought it likely, and called him to my room.
“No, sir, I didn't see Bob for nigh on an hour before I came back. Not after we got to Borton's.”
“I left him just outside the door,” I said.
“Then you seen him after I did. I was following two fellows down to the Den, you know, and that was the last I seen of Bob.”
I understood that the Den was one of the meeting-places of the enemy.
“Did you find anything there?”
“Not a thing. The two fellows went in, but they didn't come out. Another gang of three comes along and goes in, but none of 'em shows up again, and I reckoned they'd gone to bed; so I takes it as a hint and comes up here.”
“I suppose it would have done no good to wait.”
“You don't think Bob's been took, do you?”
I did feel uneasy over the absence of the stalwart scout, and but for the orders I had received for the morning I should have had my forces out to find him, or get a hostage in exchange. But as it was, I dissembled my fears and made some reassuring reply.
At the earliest light of the morning I was once more astir, but half-refreshed by my short and broken rest, and made my dispositions for the day. I ordered Porter, Fitzhugh, Brown, Wilson, Lockhart and Abrams to wait for me at the Oakland Ferry. Trent, who was still weak from his wound, I put in charge of the home-guard, with Owens, Phillips and Larson as his companions, and gave instructions to look for Barkhouse, in case he did not return. Wainright I took with me, and hailing a hack drove to the Palace Hotel.
There was a rattle of wagons and a bustle of departing guests as we drove into the courtyard of the famous hostelry. The eight-o'clock boat was to carry the passengers for the east-bound overland train, and the outgoing travelers were filling the place with noise and confusion.
I stepped out of the hack, and looked about me anxiously. Was I to meet the Unknown? or was I to take orders from some emissary of my hidden employer? No answering eye met mine as I searched the place with eager glance. Neither woman nor man of all the hurrying crowd had a thought for me.
The hotel carriages rattled away, and comparative quiet once more fell on the court. I looked impatiently about. Was there some mistake? Had the plans been changed? But as I glanced at the clock that ticked the seconds in the office of the hotel I saw that I had been early, and that it was even now but twenty minutes to the hour.
The minute-hand had not swept past the figure VIII when the door opened, there was a hurried step, and two women stood before me, leading a child between them. Both women were closely veiled, and the child was muffled and swathed till its features could not be seen.
One of the women was young, the other older—perhaps middle-aged. Both were tall and well-made. I looked eagerly upon them, for one of them must be the Unknown, the hidden employer whose task had carried Henry Wilton to his death, who held my life in her hands, and who fought the desperate battle with the power and hatred of Doddridge Knapp.
I was conscious of some disappointment, I could not say why. But neither of the women filled the outline of the shadowy picture my fancy had drawn of the Unknown. Neither gave impression of the force and decision with which my fancy had endowed the woman who had challenged the resources and defied the vengeance of the Wolf. So much I took to my thoughts in the flash of an eye as they approached. It was to the younger that I turned as the more likely to have the spirit of contest, but it was the older who spoke.
“Here is your charge, Mr. Wilton,” she said in a low, agitated voice. As she spoke, I felt the faint suggestion of the peculiar perfume that had greeted me from the brief letters of the Unknown.
“I am ready for orders,” I said with a bow.
It was apparently a mere business matter between us. I had fancied somehow that there had been a bond of friendship, as much as of financial interest, between Henry Wilton and his employer, and felt the sense of disappointment once more.
“Your orders are in this envelope,” said the Unknown, hurriedly thrusting a paper into my hand. “Drive for the boat, and read them on the way. You have no time to lose.”
The younger woman placed the child in the hack.
“Climb in, Wainwright,” said I, eying the youngster unfavorably. “Will he travel with us, ma'am? He's rather young.”
“He'll go all right,” said the elder woman with some agitation. “He knows that he must. But treat him carefully. Now good-by.”
“Oakland Ferry, driver,” I cried, as I stepped into the hack and slammed the door. And in a moment we were dashing out into New Montgomery Street, and with a turn were on Market Street, rolling over the rough cobbles toward the bay.
“Did you see him?” asked Wainwright, as the hack lurched into Market Street and straightened its course for the ferry.
“Who?”
“Tom Terrill. He was behind that big pillar near the arch there. I saw him just as the old lady spoke to you, but before I catches your eye, he cuts and runs.”
I felt of my revolver at this bit of news, and was consoled to have the touch of it under my hand.
“I didn't see him,” I said. “Keep the child between us, and shoot anybody who tries to stop us or to climb into the hack. I must read my orders.”
“All right, sir,” said Wainwright, making the child comfortable between us.
I tore open the envelope and drew forth the scented paper with its familiar, firm, yet delicate handwriting, and read the words:
“Take the train with your men for Livermore. Await orders at the hotel. Protect the boy at all hazards.”
Inclosed in the sheet were gold-notes to the value of five hundred dollars—a thoughtful detail for which I was grateful at the outset of such an expedition. I thrust the money into my pocket and pondered upon the letter, wondering where Livermore might be. My knowledge of the geography of California was exceedingly scant. I knew that Oakland lay across the bay and that Brooklyn lay close by, a part of Oakland. I remembered a dinner at Sacramento, and knew Los Angeles on the map. Further than this my ideas were of the most hazy character, and Livermore was nowhere to be found in my geographical memory.
I had some thought of questioning Wainwright, who was busy trying to make friends with the child, but reflecting that I might be supposed to know all about it I was silent. Wainwright's efforts to get the child to speak were without success. The little thing might from its size have been five years old, but it was dumb—frightened, as I supposed, by the strangeness of the situation, and would speak no word.
This, then, was the mysterious boy whose fate was linked so closely with my own; about whose body battled the hirelings of Doddridge Knapp and of my unknown employer; for whom murder had been done, and for whom perhaps many now living were to give up their lives.
Who was he? Whence had he come? What interests were bound up in his life? Why was his body the focus of plot and counterplot, and its possession disputed with a fierce earnestness that stopped at no crime? Perhaps, could he be got to talk, the key of the mystery might be put in my hands. Out of the mouth of the babe I might learn the secret that had racked my brain for days and weeks.
And why was he put thus in my charge? What was I to do with him? Whither was I to carry him? I reproached myself that I had not stopped the Unknown to ask more questions, to get more light on the duties that were expected of me. But the hack on a sudden pulled up, and I saw that we were before the long, low, ugly wooden building that sat square across Market Street as the gateway to San Francisco through which the tide of travel must pass to and from the Golden City.
“Look out on both sides, Wainwright,” I cautioned. “You carry the boy and I'll shoot if there's any trouble. See that you keep him safe.”
There were nearly ten minutes before the boat left, but the hurry for tickets, the rush to check baggage, the shouts of hackmen and expressmen, the rattle and confusion of the coming and departing street-cars that centered at the ferry, made us inconspicuous among the throng as we stepped out of the hack.
“Here Fitzhugh, Brown,” I said, catching sight of two of my retainers, “get close about. Have you seen anything—anysigns of the enemy?”
“I haven't,” said Fitzhugh, “but Abrams thought he saw Dotty Ferguson over by the Fair Wind saloon there. Said he cut up Clay Street before the rest of us caught sight of him—so maybe Abrams was off his nut.”
“Quite likely,” I admitted as we turned the jutting corner of the building and came under shelter by the ticket office. “But keep a close watch.”
The other four retainers were in the passageway, and I called to the ticket-seller for the tickets to Livermore. By the price I decided that Livermore must be somewhere within fifty miles, and marshaling my troop about the boy, marched into the waiting-room, past the door-keeper, through the sheds, and on to the ferry boat.
I saw no signs of the enemy, and breathed freer as the last belated passenger leaped aboard, the folding gang-plank was raised, and the steamer, with a prolonged blast of the whistle, slid out into the yellow-green waters of the bay.
The morning had dawned pleasant, but the sky was now becoming overcast. The wind came fresh and strong from the south. The white-capped waves were beginning to toss and fret the shallow waters, and the air gave promise of storm. We could see men busy making all things snug on the vessels that swung uneasily to their anchors in the harbor, and tugs were rushing about, puffing noisily over nothing, or here and there towing some vessel to a better position to meet the rising gale. The panorama of the bay, with the smoke-laden city, grim and dark behind, the forest of masts lining its shore, the yellow-green waters, dotted here and there with ships tossing sharply above the white-capped waves that chased each other toward the north, the cloud squadrons flying up in scattered array from the south, and the Alameda hills lying somber and dark under the gray canopy of the eastern sky in front, had a charm that took my mind for the time from the mysterious enterprise that lay before me.
“Keep together, boys,” I cautioned my retainers as I recalled the situation. “Has any one seen signs of the other gang?”
There was a general murmur in the negative.
“Well, Abrams, will you slip around and see if any of them got aboard? There's no such thing as being comfortable until we are sure.”
In the hurry and excitement of preparation and departure, the orders I had given and received, and the work that filled every moment, I had been conscious of the uneasy burden of a task forgotten. I had surely neglected something. Yet for my life I could not see that we lacked anything. I had my seven retainers, the boy was safe with us, I had my purse, we were well-armed, and every man had his ticket to Livermore. But at last the cause of my troubles came to my mind.
“Great Scott!” I thought. “It's Doddridge Knapp. That little engagement in the stock-market is casting its shadow before.”
It seemed likely indeed that the demands of my warring employers would clash here as well as in the conflict over the boy.
Yet with all the vengeful feeling that filled my heart as I looked on the child and called up the memory of my murdered friend, I could but feel a pang of regret at the prospect that Doddridge Knapp's fortune should be placed in hazard through any unfaithfulness of mine. He had trusted me with his plans and his money. And the haunting thought that his fortune was staked on the venture, and that his ruin might follow, with the possible beggary of Luella and Mrs. Knapp, should I fail him at tomorrow's crisis, weighed on my spirits.
My uncomfortable reflections were broken by the clanging engine-bells and the forward movement of the passengers as the steamboat passed into the slip at Long Wharf.
“Stand together, boys,” I cautioned my men. “Keep back of the crowd. Wainwright will take the boy, and the rest of you see that nobody gets near him.”
“All right,” said Wainwright, lifting the child in his arms. “It will take a good man to get him away from me.”
“Where's Abrams?” I asked, noting that only six of my men were at hand.
“You sent him forward,” said Lockhart.
“Not for all day.”
“Well, he hasn't been seen since you told him to find out who's aboard.”
I was a little vexed at the seeming neglect of my retainer, and as we had come down the rear stairs to avoid the crowd and marched through the driveway on the lower deck, I cast a glance into the bar-room with the expectation of finding him engaged in the gentle art of fortifying his courage. But no sign of the missing man met my eye.
“It's no use to wait for him,” I growled. “But the next man that takes French leave had better look somewhere else for a job, for by the great horn spoon, he's no man of mine.”
We marched off the boat in the rear of the crowd, I in no pleasant humor, and the men silent in reflection of my displeasure. And with some difficulty we found seats together in a forward coach. I arranged my men in three seats on one side of the car and two on the other, Wainwright taking the center of the three with the boy, guarded thus front and rear, while I sat opposite and one seat behind, where I could observe any attempt at interference, with Lockhart in front of me. I judged that any one who tried to attack the position would have a lively five minutes on his hands.
The train was the east-bound overland, and it seemed hours before the baggage was taken aboard and the signal given to start. I grew uneasy, but as my watch assured me that only ten minutes had passed when the engine gave the first gentle pull at the train, I suspected that I was losing the gift of patience. The train had not gathered headway before a man bent beside me, and Abrams' voice spoke softly in my ear.
“There are two of 'em aboard.”
“Yes? Where did you find them?” I asked.
“In the stoke hole. I hid behind a bench till every one had gone and saw 'em crawl out. They bribed a fireman or deck-hand or some one to keep 'em under cover. They got off the boat at the last minute, and I sneaked after 'em.”
“And they're on the train?”
“Yes, three cars back,—next to the sleepers. Shall we chuck 'em overboard as soon as we get out of Oakland?”
“Not unless we are attacked,” I returned. “Just sit down by the rear door and give the signal if they come this way. There'll be no trouble if they are only two.”
My precautions were not called to a test, and we reached Livermore at near eleven o'clock, without further incident than a report from Abrams that the spies of the enemy got off the train at every station and watched for our landing. Yet when we stood on the platform of the bare little station at Livermore and saw the yellow cars crawling away on their eastward journey, we looked in vain for the men who had tracked us.
“Fooled, by thunder!” said Fitzhugh with a laugh in which the others joined. “They're off for Sacramento.”
“They'll have to earn their money to find us there,” said Abrams.
The gray day had become grayer, and the wind blew fresh in our faces with the smell of rain heavy upon it, as we sought the hotel. It was a bare country place, yet trees grew by the hotel and there were vines climbing about its side, and it looked as though we might be comfortable for a day, should we have to stay there so long.
“Plenty of room,” said the landlord rubbing his hands.
“Are there any letters here for Henry Wilton?” I inquired, bethinking me that orders might have been sent me already.
“No, sir.”
“Nor telegrams?”
“O Lord, no, sir. We don't have telegrams here unless somebody's dead.”
“You may give me Mr. Wilton's mail if any comes,” I said.
The landlord led the way up the stairs, and beguiled me by informing me what a fine house he had and how hard the times were.
“We wish a large room, you know, where we can be together,” I said, “and sleeping-rooms adjoining.”
“Here's just the place for you,” said the landlord, taking the way to the end of the upper hall and throwing open a double door. “This is the up-stairs parlor, but I can let you have it. There's this large bedroom opening off it,—the corner bedroom, sir,—and this small one here at this side opens into the parlor and the hall. Perhaps you would like this other one, too.”
He seemed ready and anxious to rent us the whole house.
“This is enough for our comfort,” I assured him.
“There'll be a fire here in a minute,” said the landlord, regarding the miserable little stove with an eye of satisfaction that I attributed to its economical proportions.
“This is good enough,” said Lockhart, looking about approvingly at the prim horsehair furniture that gave an awesome dignity to the parlor.
“Beats our quarters below all hollow,” said Fitzhugh. “And no need to have your gun where you can grab it when the first man says boo!”
“Don't get that idea into your head,” said I. “Just be ready for anything that comes. We're not out of the woods yet, by a long way.”
“They've gone on to Sacramento,” laughed Fitzhugh; and the others nodded in sympathy.
“Indeed?” I said. “How many of you could have missed seeing a party of nine get off at a way-station on this line?”
There was silence.
“If there's any one here who thinks he would have missed us when he was set to look for us, just let him speak up,” I continued with good-humored raillery.
“I guess you're right,” said Fitzhugh. “They couldn't well have missed seeing us.”
“Exactly. And they're not off for Sacramento, and not far from Livermore.”
“Well, they're only two,” said Lockhart.
“How long will it take to get a dozen more up here?” I asked.
“There's a train to Niles about noon,” said one of the men. “They could get over from there in an hour or two more by hard riding.”
“The Los Angeles train comes through about dark,” said another.
“I think, gentlemen,” said I politely, “that we'd best look out for our defenses. There's likely to be a stormy evening, I should judge.”
“Well,” growled Wainwright, “we can look out for ourselves as well as the next fellow.”
“If there's bloody crowns going round, the other gang will get its share,” said Fitzhugh. And the men about me nodded.
I was cheered to see that they needed nobody to do their fighting, however advisable it might be to do their thinking by deputy.
“Very good,” I said. “Now I'll just look about the town a bit. You may come with me, if you please, Fitzhugh.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Abrams and Lockhart may go scouting if they like.”
Abrams and Lockhart thought they would like.
“Better keep together,” I continued. “What's the earliest time any one could get here?”
“Two o'clock—if they drove over.”
“I'll be around here by that time. You, Abrams, can look out for the road and see who comes into town.”
“All right, sir,” said Abrams. “There won't anybody get in here without I catch sight of him.”
Lockhart nodded his assent to the boast, and after cautioning the men who were left behind we sallied forth.
The town was a straggling, not unpleasing country place. The business street was depressing with its stores closed and its saloons open. A few loafers hung about the doors of the dram-shops, but the moist breath of the south wind eddying about with its burden of dust and dead leaves made indoors a more comfortable location, and through the blue haze of tobacco smoke we could see men gathered inside. Compared with the dens I had found about my lodgings in the city, the saloons were orderly; but nevertheless they offended my New England sense of the fitness of things. In the city I had scarcely known that there was a Sunday. But here I was reminded, and felt that something was amiss.
In the residence streets I was better pleased. Man had done little, but nature was prodigal to make up for his omissions. The buildings were poor and flimsy, but in the middle of December the flowers bloomed, vines were green, bushes sent forth their leaves, and the beauty of the scene even under the leaden skies and rising gale made it a delight to the eye.
“Not much of a place,” said Fitzhugh, looking disdainfully at the buildings. “Hello! Here's Dick Thatcher. How are you, Dick? It's a year of Sundays that I haven't seen you. This is—er—a friend of mine, Thatcher,—you needn't mention that you've seen us.” And Fitzhugh stumbled painfully over the recollection that we were incognito, and became silent in confusion.
“We needn't be strangers to Mr. Thatcher,” I laughed. “My name is Wilton. Of course you won't mention our business.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Wilton,” said Thatcher, impressed, and shifting the quid of tobacco in his lantern jaws. “Of course not.”
“And you needn't say anything of our being here at all,” I continued. “It might spoil the trade.”
“Mum's the word,” said Thatcher. “I'll not let a soul know till you say 'Let 'er go.' O Lord! I hope the trade goes through. We want a lot more capital here.”
Mr. Thatcher began to scratch his head and to expectorate tobacco-juice copiously, and I suspected he was wondering what the secret might be that he was not to betray. So I made haste to say:
“Is this stable yours?”
“Yes, sir,” said Thatcher eagerly. “I've been running it nigh on two years now.”
“Pretty good business, eh, Dick?” said Fitzhugh, looking critically about.
“Nothin' to brag on,” said Thatcher disparagingly. “You don't make a fortune running a livery stable in these parts—times are too hard.”
And then Mr. Thatcher unbent, and between periods of vigorous mastication at his cud, introduced us to his horses and eagerly explained the advantages that his stable possessed over any other this side of Oakland.
“Very good,” I said. “We may want something in your line later. We can find you here at any time, I suppose.”
“O Lord, yes. I live here days and sleep here nights. But if you want to take a look at the property before it gets a wetting you'll have to be pretty spry.”
My suggestion of a trade had misled the worthy stableman into the impression that I was considering the purchase of real estate.
“I'll see about it,” I said.
“There's a big rain coming on, sure,” he said warningly, as we turned back to the hotel.
It was a little after one o'clock, but as we approached our quarters Lockhart came running toward me.
“What is it?” I asked, as he panted, out of breath.
“There's a special train just come in,” he said; “an engine and one car. It's at the station now.”
“So? Did any of our friends come on it?”
“Abrams has gone down to find out.”
“Come along then,” said I. “We'll see what is to be seen.”
“Don't!” cried Fitzhugh, catching my arm. “They might get you.”
“Nonsense,” said I, shaking off his grasp. “Have your revolver ready, and follow me.”
A few idlers were on the platform of the station as we approached with much apparent unconcern, our hands in our overcoat pockets where the weapons lay.
“Where's the train?” I asked, looking at the bare track.
“Yonder,” grunted a native, pointing his thumb lazily up the road where the engine lay by the watering tank, slaking its thirst.
“Well, just let me and Lockhart walk ahead,” said Fitzhugh gruffly, as we started along the track. “I shouldn't have the first idea what we was here for if you was to be knocked over.”
Fitzhugh could not be much more in the dark on this point than I, but I let him have his way. If some one was to be shot, I was ready to resign my claim to the distinction in favor of the first comer.
There were perhaps a score of people about the car.
“There's Abrams,” said Lockhart.
“There's no danger, then,” said Fitzhugh with a grin. “See, he's beckoning to us.”
We hastened forward eagerly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“There's no one here,” said Abrams, with a puzzled look.
“Well, this car didn't come alone,” I returned. “Have you asked the engineer?”
“Yes.”
“And the fireman?”
“Yes.”
“And they say—”
“That it's against the rules to talk.”
“Nonsense; I'll see them myself.” And I went forward to the engine.
The engineer was as close-mouthed as though words were going at a dollar apiece and the market bounding upward. He declined dinner, could not be induced to come and take a drink, and all that could be got out of him was that he was going back to Niles, where he would stop until he got orders from the superintendent.
When I tried to question the fireman, the engineer recovered his tongue, and had so many orders to be attended to that my words were lost in a rattle of coal and clang of iron.
And the engine, having drunk its fill, changed its labored breathing to a hissing and swishing of steam that sent the hot vapor far on both sides, and then gathering speed, puffed its swift way back the road by which it had come, leaving the car deserted on a siding.
“Here's a go!” cried Fitzhugh. “A regular puzzler!”
“Guess it's none of the gang, after all,” said Lockhart.
Abrams shook his head.
“Don't you fool yourself,” he said. “They've landed below here, and maybe they're in town while we've got our mouths open, fly-catching around an empty car.”
“Good boy, Abrams,” I said. “My opinion exactly.”
“And what's to be done, then?” he asked anxiously.
“For the first thing, to visit the telegraph office at once.”
The operator was just locking his little room in the station as we came up.
“No, sir, no telegrams,” he said; “none for anybody.”
“This is a new way of running trains,” I said with a show of indifference, nodding toward the empty car.
“Oh, there was a party came up,” said the agent; “a dozen fellows or more. Bill said they took a fancy to get off a mile or more down here, and as they were an ugly-looking crew he didn't say anything to stop them.”
“I don't see what they can be doing up in this part of the country,” I returned innocently.
“I guess they know their business—anyway, it's none of mine,” said the agent. “Do you go in here, sir? Well, it will save you from a wetting.”
We had been walking toward the hotel, and the chatty agent left us under its veranda just as the light drops began to patter down in the dust of the road, and to dim the outlines of the distant hills.
“I reckon that's the gang,” said Fitzhugh.
“I told you so,” said Abrams. “I knew it was one of Tom Terrill's sneaky tricks.”
“Shall we take a look for 'em?” asked Lockhart.
“There's no need,” I replied.
The home guard of our party received the news calmly.
Wainwright had established amodus vivendiwith his young charge, and I saw that he managed to get a word out of him now and then. I had to abandon the theory that the boy was dumb, but I suspected that it was fear rather than discretion that bridled his tongue.
“Do you think the gang have got into town?” asked one.
“They'll have wet jackets if they are on the road,” I returned, looking at the rain outside.
“Hadn't we better find out?” inquired Wainwright.
“Are you in a hurry?” I asked in turn. “The landlord has promised to send up a good dinner in a few minutes.”
“But you see—”
“Yes, I see,” I interrupted. “I see this—that they are here, that there are a dozen or more of them, and that they are ready for any deviltry. What more can we find out by roaming over the country?”
Wainwright nodded his agreement with me.
“And then,” I continued, “they won't try to do anything until after dark—not before the middle of the night, I should say—or until the townspeople have gone to bed.”
“You're right, sir,” said Abrams. “A dark night and a clear field suits that gang best.”
“Well, here's the dinner,” said I; “so you can make yourselves easy. Porter, you may keep an eye on the stairway, and Brown may watch from the windows. The rest of us will fall to.”
In the midst of the meal Porter came in.
“Darby Meeker's in the office below,” he announced.
“Very good,” I said. “Just take Fitzhugh and Wilson with you, and ask Mr. Meeker to join us.”
The men looked blank. Porter was the first to speak.
“You don't mean—”
“I mean to bring him up here,” I said blandly, rising from the table. “I suppose, though, it's my place as host to do the honors.”
“No—no,” came in chorus from the men.
“Come on, Porter—Fitzhugh—Wilson,” I said; and then added sharply, “sit down, the rest of you! We don't need a regiment to ask a man to dinner.”
The others sank back into their seats, and the three I had named followed me meekly down the hall and stairs.
I had never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Meeker face to face, but I doubted not that I should be able to pick him out. I was right. I knew him the moment I saw him. He was tall and broad of shoulder, long of arm, shifty of eye, and his square jaw was covered with a stubby red beard. His color heightened as we walked into the office and cut off the two doors of retreat.
“An unexpected pleasure,” I said, giving him good day.
His hand slipped to the side pocket of his sack coat, and then back again, and he made a remark in an undertone that I fear was not intended for a pleasant greeting.
“There's a little dinner of a few friends going on up stairs,” I said politely. “Won't you join us?”
Meeker scowled a moment with evident surprise.
“No, I won't,” he growled.
“But it is a sad case for a man to dine alone,” I said smoothly. “You will be very welcome.”
“No, sir,” said he, looking furtively at my men drawing near, between him and the doors.
“But I insist,” I said politely. Then I added in a lower tone meant for him alone: “Resist, you hound, and I'll have you carried up by your four legs.”
His face was working with fear and passion. He looked at the blocked way with the eye of a baited animal.
“I'll be damned first!” he cried. And seizing a chair he whirled around, dashed it through a window, and leaped through the jagged panes before I could spring forward to stop him.
“Round in front, men!” I cried, motioning my followers to sally through the door. “Bring him back!” And an instant later I leaped through the window after the flying enemy.
There was a fall of six feet, and as I landed on a pile of broken glass, a bit shaken, with the rain beating on my head, it was a few seconds before I recovered my wits. When I looked, no one was in sight. I heard the men running on the porch of the hotel, so the enemy was not to be sought that way. I set off full speed for the other corner, fifty yards away, half suspecting an ambush. But at the turn I stopped. The rain-soaked street was empty for a block before me. Far down the next block a plodding figure under an umbrella bent to the gusts of the wind and tried to ward off the driving spray of the storm. But Darby Meeker had disappeared as though the earth had swallowed him up.
“Where is he?” cried Porter, the first of my men to reach my side.
I shrugged my shoulders. “I haven't seen him.”
“He didn't come our way—that I'll swear,” panted Fitzhugh.
“He was out of sight before I got my feet,” said I. “They must have a hiding-place close by.”
“He must have jumped the fence here,” said Wilson, pointing to a cottage just beyond the hotel's back yard. “I'll see about it.” And he vaulted the pickets and looked about the place.
He was back in a minute with a shake of the head.
“Well, it's no great matter,” I said. “We can get along without another guest for the afternoon. Now get under cover, boys, or you'll be soaked through.”
The landlord met us with an air half-anxious, half-angry.
“I'd like to know who's to pay for this!” he cried. “There's a sash and four panes of glass gone to smithereens.”
“The gentleman who just went out will be glad to pay for it, if you'll call it to his attention,” I said blandly.
“I'll have the law on him!” shouted the landlord, getting red in the face. “And if he's a friend of yours you'd better settle for him, or it will be the worse for him.”
“I'm afraid he isn't a friend of mine,” I said dubiously. “He didn't appear to take that view of it.”
“That's so,” admitted the landlord. “But I don't know his name, and somebody's got to settle for that glass.”
I obliged the landlord with Mr. Meeker's name, and with the bestowal of this poor satisfaction returned to the interrupted meal.
“Well, I reckon he wouldn't have been very pleasant company if you'd got him,” said one of the men consolingly, when we had told our tale of the search for a guest.
“I suspect he would be less disagreeable in here than out with his gang,” I returned dryly, and turned the subject. I did not care to discuss my plan to get a hostage now that it had failed.
The gray day plashed slowly toward nightfall. The rain fell by fits and starts, now with a sudden dash, now gently as though it were only of half a mind to fall at all. But the wind blew strong, and the clouds that drove up from the far south were dark enough to have borne threats of a coming deluge.
As the time wore on I suspected that my men grew uneasy, wondering what we were there for, and why I did not make some move. Then I reflected that this could not be. It was I who was wondering. The men were accustomed to let me do their thinking for them, and could be troubled no more here than in San Francisco. But what was I expected to do? Where could my orders be? Had they gone astray? Had the plans of the Unknown come to disaster through the difficulty of getting the telegraph on Sunday? The office here was closed. The Unknown, being a woman, I ungallantly reflected, would have neglected to take so small a circumstance into consideration, and she might even now be besieging the telegraph office in San Francisco in a vain effort to get word to Livermore.
On this thought I bestirred myself, and after much trouble had speech with the young man who combined in his person the offices of telegraph operator, station master, ticket seller, freight agent and baggage handler for the place. He objected to opening the office “out of office hours.”
“There might be inducements discovered that would make it worth your while, I suppose?” I said, jingling some silver carelessly in my pocket.
He smiled.
“Well, I don't care if I do,” he replied. “Whatever you think is fair, of course.”
It was more than I thought fair, but the agent thawed into friendship at once, and expressed his readiness to “call San Francisco” till he got an answer if it took till dark.
I might have saved my trouble and my coin. San Francisco replied with some emphasis that there was nothing for me, and never had been, and who was I, anyhow?
There was nothing to be done. I must possess my soul in patience in the belief that the Unknown knew what she was about and that I should get my orders in due time—probably after nightfall, when darkness would cover any necessary movement.
But if I could shift the worry and responsibility of the present situation on the Unknown, there was another trouble that loomed larger and more perplexing before my mind with each passing hour. If the mission of to-day were prolonged into the morrow, what was to become of the Omega deal, and where would Doddridge Knapp's plans of fortune be found? I smiled to think that I should concern myself with this question when I knew that Doddridge Knapp's men were waiting and watching for my first movement with orders that probably did not stop at murder itself. Yet my trouble of mind increased with the passing time as I vainly endeavored to devise some plan to meet the difficulty that had been made for me.
But as I saw no way to straighten out this tangle, I turned my attention to the boy in the hope of getting from him some information that might throw light on the situation.
“He's as shy as a young quail,” said Wainwright, when my advances were received in stubborn silence.
“You seem to be getting along pretty well with him,” I suggested.
“Yes, sir; he'll talk a bit with me, but he's as close-mouthed a chap as you'll find in the state, sir, unless it's one of them deef and dummies.”
I made another unsuccessful attempt to cultivate the acquaintance of my charge.
“You've got a day's job before you if you get him to open his head,” said Wainwright, amused at the failure of my efforts as an infant-charmer.
“What has he been talking about?” I inquired, somewhat disgusted.
“The train,” chuckled Wainwright. “Blamed if I think he's seen anything else since he started.”
“The train?”
“Yes; the one we come on. He's been talking about it, and wondering what I'd do with it and without it till I reckon we've covered pretty near everything that could happen to a fellow with a train or without one.”
“Is that the only subject of interest?”
“Well, he did go so far as to say that the milk was different here, and that he wanted a kind of cake we didn't get at dinner.”
I attacked the young man on his weak point, and got some brief answers in reply to my remarks on the attractiveness of locomotives and the virtues of cars. But as any venture away from the important subject was met with the silence of the clam, I had at last to give up with a wild desire to shake the young man until some more satisfactory idea should come uppermost.
As darkness came on, the apprehensions of danger which had made no impression on me by daylight, began to settle strongly on my spirits. The wind that dashed the rain-drops in gusts on the panes seemed to whistle a warning, and the splash of the water outside was as the muttering of a tale of melancholy in an unknown tongue.
I concealed my fears and depressions from the men, and with the lighting of the lamps made my dispositions to meet any attack that might come. I had satisfied myself that the rear bedroom, that faced the south, could not be entered from the outside without the aid of ladders. The parlor showed a sheer drop to the street on the west, and I felt assured we were safe on that side. But the front windows of the parlor, and the front bedroom which joined it, opened on the veranda roof in common with a dozen other rooms. Inside, the hallway, perhaps eight feet wide and twenty-five feet long, offered the only approach to our rooms from the stairs. The situation was not good for defense, and at the thought I had a mind even then to seek other quarters.
It was too late for such a move, however, and I decided to make the best of the position. I placed the boy in the south bedroom, which could be reached only through the parlor. With him I placed Wainwright and Fitzhugh, the two strongest men of the party. The north bedroom, opening on the hallway, the veranda roof and the parlor, looked to be the weakest part of my position, but I thought it might be used to advantage as a post of observation. The windows were guarded with shutters of no great strength. We closed and secured those of the parlor and the inner bedroom as well as possible. Those of the north bedroom I left open. By leaving the room dark it would be easy for a sentinel to get warning of an assault by way of the veranda roof. I stationed Porter in the hall, and Abrams in the dark bedroom, while Lockhart, Wilson, Brown and I held the parlor and made ourselves comfortable until the time should come to relieve the men on guard.
One by one the lights that could be seen here and there through the town disappeared, the sounds from the streets and the other parts of the house came more infrequently and at last were smothered in silence, and only darkness and the storm remained.
I thrust open the door to the bedroom to see that the boy and his guards were safe, and this done I turned down the light, threw myself on the floor before the door that protected my charge, and mused over the strange events that had crowded so swiftly upon me.
Subtle warnings of danger floated over my senses between sleeping and waking, and each time I dropped into a doze I awoke with a start, to see only the dimly-lighted forms of my men before me, and to hear only the sweep and whistle of the wind outside and the dash of water against the shutters. Thrice I had been aroused thus, when, on the borderland between dreams and waking, a voice reached my ear.
“S-s-t! What was that?”
I sprang up, wide-awake, revolver in hand. It was Lockhart who spoke. We all strained our ears to listen. There was nothing to be heard but the moan of the wind and the dash of water.
“What was it?” I whispered.
“I don't know.”
“I heard nothing.”
“It was a coo-hoo—like the call of an owl, but—”
“But you thought it was a man?” Lockhart nodded. Brown and Wilson had not heard it.
“Was it inside or outside?”
“It was out here, I thought,” said Lockhart doubtfully, pointing to the street that ran by the side of the hotel.
I opened the door to the dark bedroom in which Abrams kept watch. It swung noiselessly to my cautious touch. For a moment I could see nothing of my henchman, but the window was open. Then, in the obscurity, I thought I discovered his body lying half-way across the window-sill. I waited for him to finish his observations on the weather, but as he made no move I was struck with the fear that he had met foul play and touched him lightly.
In a flash he had turned on me, and I felt the muzzle of a revolver pressing against my side.
“If you wouldn't mind turning that gun the other way, it would suit me just as well,” I said.
“Oh, it's you, is it?” said Abrams with a gulp. “I thought Darby Meeker and his gang was at my back, sure.”
“Did you hear anything?” I asked.
“Yes; there was a call out here a bit ago. And there's half a dozen men or more out there now—right at the corner.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes; I was a-listening to 'em when you give me such a start.”
“What were they saying?”
“I couldn't hear a word.”
“Give warning at the first move to get into the house. Blaze away with your gun if anybody tries to climb on to the porch.”
Porter had heard nothing, but was wide awake, watching by the light of the lamp that hung at the head of the stairway. And after a caution to vigilance I returned to my chair.
For half an hour I listened closely. The men were open-eyed but silent. The storm kept up its mournful murmur, but no sound that I could attribute to man came to my straining ears.
Suddenly there was a cry from the hall.
“Who's there?” It was Porter's voice.
An instant later there was a crash of glass, an explosion seemed to shake the house, and there was a rush of many feet.
I leaped to the door and flung it open, Lockhart, Wilson and Brown crowding close behind me. A body of men filled the hallway, and Porter was struggling in the hands of three ruffians. His revolver, whose shot we had heard, had been knocked from his hand and lay on the floor.
The sudden appearance of four more weapons in the open doorway startled the enemy into pausing for a moment. I sprang forward and gave the nearest of Porter's assailants a blow that sent him staggering into the midst of his band, and with a wrench Porter tore himself loose from the other two and was with us again.
“What does this mean?” I cried angrily to the invaders. “What are you here for?”
There were perhaps a dozen of them altogether, and in the midst of the band I saw the evil face and snake-eyes of Tom Terrill. At the sight of his repulsive features I could scarce refrain from sending a bullet in his direction.
Darby Meeker growled an answer.
“You know what we're here for.”
“You have broken into a respectable house like a band of robbers,” I cried. “What do you want?”
“You know what we want, Mr. Wilton,” was the surly answer. “Give us the boy and we won't touch you.”
“And if not?”
There was silence for a few moments.
“What are you waiting for?” growled a voice from beyond the turn of the hall.
At the sound I thrilled to the inmost fiber. Was it not the growl of the Wolf? Could I be mistaken in those tones? I listened eagerly for another word that might put it beyond doubt.
“Well, are you going to give him up?” asked the hoarse voice of Meeker.
“There has got to be some better reason for it than your demand,” I suggested.
“Well, we've got reasons enough here. Stand ready, boys.”
“Look out!” I said to my men, with a glance behind. As I turned I saw without noting it that Wainwright and Fitzhugh had come out of the boy's room to take a hand in the impending trouble. Lockhart and Wilson slipped in front of me.
“Get back and look after the boy,” whispered the former. “We can hold 'em here.”
“Move ahead there!” shouted a fierce voice that again thrilled the ear and heart with the growl of the Wolf. “What are you afraid of?”
“Stand fast, boys,” I said to my men. “Wainwright, keep close to the bedroom.” Then I shouted defiance to the enemy. “The first man that moves forward gets killed! There are eight revolvers here.”
Then I saw that Wainwright had come forward, despite my bidding, eager to take his share of the onslaught. And by some freak of the spirit of the perverse the boy, who had shown himself so timid during the day, had now slipped out of his room and climbed upon a chair to see what the excitement was about, as though danger and death were the last things in the world with which he had to reckon.
I caught a glimpse of his form out of the tail of my eye as he mounted the chair in his night-dress. I turned with an exclamation to Wainwright and was leaping to cover him from a possible bullet, when there was a roar of rage and the voice of Terrill rang through the hall:
“Tricked again!” he cried with a dreadful oath. “It's the wrong boy!”