CHAPTER XVII.JIMMY ON THE TRAIL.
King Jimmy the First had thrown aside the robes of royalty for the time. He was on the trail! He was also in disguise! From his bosom he had removed the ensign of his exalted station, he had turned up his coat-collar, and his old hat was pulled far down over his eyes, while upon his upper lip was a smooch of charcoal that was intended to represent a mustache. He was now Old Ferret, the Sleepless Detective.
Already his investigations had revealed that the name of the man with whom Frank Merriwell had departed from the railway-station was Cunningham. Cunningham—ha! why, that was the name of the desperate Blue Ridge outlaw! S’death! Here was a clue! It was enough for Old Ferret. The Sleepless Detective would track the outlaw to his lair. The victim of the outlaw’s perfidious machinations should be rescued at all hazards.
So Old Ferret set about his task of tracking the outlaw down. He found that the man’s associates in town were a most disreputable set, indeed; but he went among them boldly and told them that he had been given an important letter to deliver to Mr. Cunningham. It was not Jimmy Lee, of Charlottesville, whotold this falsehood, mind you; it was Old Ferret, the Sleepless Detective, and he did it for a good cause.
One man offered to take the letter to Cunningham, but Old Ferret declined to transfer such an important message into the care of any other person. He must deliver it himself as a sacred duty. Then somebody told the detective that Cunningham hung out at Ben Shannon’s a great deal. Where was Ben Shannon’s? The information was obtained, and the Sleepless Detective took the trail afoot and alone.
On the way the great sleuth made inquiries, and he learned that a man driving such a team as Cunningham’s and accompanied by a smooth-faced youth had passed along that road. Farther on he also learned that the team had run away on that road, and the beardless youth had leaped astride one of the horses and pulled the animals down to a walk.
Ah, but this was information, indeed! It was the heart of Jimmy Lee, of Charlottesville, that thrilled with delighted admiration when he heard of this daring feat of his idol; but it was Old Ferret, the detective, who muttered, “He cannot escape me, for I’ll not rest night or day till he is in the toils!” And he was referring to Cunningham, not Frank Merriwell, when he muttered those words.
Sometimes the trailer paused to examine with a critical eye the tracks on the dusty road, and the look of wisdom on his charcoal-mustached face would have done you good to see. When he met a wayfarer, he turned his collar still higher, pulled his hat still lower,and so, safe in his disguise, passed on. Perchance the wayfarer smiled at him; but what of that so long as he was not recognized as the great detective, Old Ferret!
And so, at last, he came to the strip of timber in which he had learned was the home of Ben Shannon, standing at a considerable distance from the public road. And in due time he arrived at what he knew without doubt was the private road that led to Shannon’s, the lair of the outlaw.
Even a great detective must be cautious, and so Old Ferret slipped into the woods at a distance from the private road, the course of which he pursued without venturing into it.
At times he stopped and crouched in the shelter of some shrubbery bushes or behind the bole of a tree, while he peered through the forest and listened. Being satisfied with his investigations, he went on till he saw through the trees the ramshackle resort of the outlaw.
What was to be done now? Already midday was long past. The sun was in the western sky. Old Ferret had not eaten since early morning, but little cared he for that. His iron frame gave no heed to fatigue or hunger while he was on the trail.
Should he wait in hiding until night and see what he could do then? Night! Why, that would be too late, for then the base design of the outlaw would be accomplished. Beyond a doubt that design was to keep Frank Merriwell from the ball-field that afternoon.There could be no delay. Onward, Old Ferret, to the rescue!
The house looked silent and deserted. There were not even dogs around it, for which the great detective was thankful enough, for dogs always raise a rumpus at the wrong time.
However, while Old Ferret was meditating on the next move, a colored man came out of the house, leaving the front door open as he did so. He was singing thickly to himself, and his steps were not quite steady as he walked toward some distant sheds. Before he reached the sheds he paused, took a bottle from his pocket, and drank from it.
“Ha!” hissed the watchful sleuth. “Methinks I smell something!”
It would not have been the contents of the bottle, for he was much too far away.
However, as intoxicated colored men are seldom seen coming from the front door of the homes of white people in Virginia, it is possible that Old Ferret did smell something, metaphorically speaking. And that something gave him great encouragement to move without delay.
Nevertheless, he waited till the colored man had disappeared in the shed. Then he worked round till he was very near that shed. After a time he slipped up to the door and peered in.
The colored man was fast asleep on some straw in a corner, his bottle by his side. Standing in the shed were two horses. They were the very ones Cunninghamhad driven when, with Frank Merriwell at his side, he left the railway-station that day.
Old Ferret was well satisfied. Thus far he had not made one false step. Now he surveyed the house.
Still, as before, there were no signs of life about it. It was strangely silent and deserted.
The daring detective slipped up close under the shelter of its walls, and, with one ear pressed against the moss-grown shingles, he listened as a physician listens to the beating of a patient’s heart.
No sound from within.
Still thinking how that colored man who was sleeping in the shed had issued from the front door, which he had left ajar, Old Ferret was led to advance round the corner and approach the sagging steps.
He knew he was taking his life in his hand when he ventured into the retreat of a desperado like Cunningham, the outlaw, but what recked he of that! Had not his life been in peril thousands of times as he tracked down the minions of crime!
And at the very foot of those sagging steps, lying on the ground, Old Ferret found something to cause his eyes to glitter. He quickly stooped and picked it up.
It was a knot of dark-blue ribbon, the same modest knot that had been worn by Jimmy Lee when the train bearing the Yale team drew in at the railway-station that day.
There was now no longer the least doubt but that the great detective was on the right track. However, themost desperate and daring part of his work lay before him.
It must be confessed that his heart was performing queer capers in his bosom as he mounted those steps and paused to peep into the hall that the partly open door revealed.
It was a forbidding-looking hall, too. No wonder he felt like drawing back. Unpapered, unpainted, and dirty it seemed on close examination.
But Old Ferret bethought himself of his disguise and turned not back. If he were seen, he would have recourse to his ready wit to get himself out of the scrape. Any detective could do that, and when did the ready wit of the real detective ever fail him in time of emergency!
Into the hall he slipped, with the velvet tread of the panther. Never mind if one of his shoes did squeak a little, it was just the same, “the velvet tread of the panther.” Great detectives always walked that way in a place like this.
Still the silence of the place was unbroken. He wondered greatly at it, and he longed to call to Frank Merriwell. This inclination to shout, however, he knew was very unprofessional, and he sternly repressed it.
From room to room he went with the same cautious tread, peering into first one and then another. Apparently all were empty save of the battered old furniture. There seemed to be no woman about the place. Plainly Ben Shannon was not partial toward women.
The lower part of the house was explored. Therewas no cellar. Even Old Ferret, for all of his wonderful nerve, might have hesitated in the teeth of a dark cellar that abounded with rats.
There being no cellar, it was necessary for him to proceed to the upper story of the house. The stairs complained and tried to shout a warning, and it must be that their vociferousness caused him to pause several times in the ascent.
But at last the top was reached, and then, as he halted there to survey his surroundings, he distinctly heard a sound that made him crouch with every nerve strained and every separate hair threatening to kick his hat off.
A strange and awesome sound it was, coming from whence he could not tell. A shuddering, nerve-trying sound, like the growl of some fierce wild beast preparing to leap upon its prey.
What could it be? Was it possible the outlaw was guarded by tame lions? Even that thought was not enough to break the iron nerve of Old Ferret, although it must be confessed that it gave his nerve a mighty wrench.
Then he heard it again.
It was a snore!
The tenseness went out of the great detective’s body, his hair permitted his old hat to settle back upon his head, and he straightened up with a deep sigh of relief.
“Well,” he said, “this seems to be about the sleepiestplace I ever struck. Everybody is taking a snooze. That’s first-class! I like it.”
But even then, knowing some one was near, it was some time before he could summon his strength to go on. He saw an open door, and, still with his professional panther-tread, he slipped up to it.
The room into which Old Ferret peered was the same one in which Frank Merriwell had caught a glimpse of two men who were sitting at a table and playing cards. The table was there, the men were there; but they were not playing cards. On the table were empty bottles that had once contained moonshine whisky, but which were empty now. Glasses were also there. One man lay sprawled forward on the table, though still seated on a chair. He was sound asleep and snoring. Another man had slipped from his chair and lay beneath the table in a most uncomfortable position, which he did not seem to mind in the least.
In a corner lay yet a third man, and this was the mighty outlaw himself, although—ye gods!—what a face he had! He was recognizable more by his red hair and beard than anything else. His face was battered and disfigured by blood, which had run down upon his clothes, and, taken all together, he was a most pitiful-looking object.
Old Ferret stared when he saw this fellow. What did it mean? Something had happened to Cunningham, and it had happened very much, too!
“I know!” thought the detective, in triumph. “Jiminy goshfry! Didn’t Frank Merriwell give it to himgood! Oh, say! Um-um! Didn’t he just paralyze Mr. Outlaw! I’d give fourteen thousand dollars just to have seen that scrap!”
Then came a horrible and blood-chilling thought. What had happened to Frank Merriwell?
Old Ferret shivered in his boots, only they were not exactly boots, and they had holes enough in them to cause anybody to shiver.
Where was Frank Merriwell? Had these ruffians killed him? This was the fear that caused even the freckles of the great detective to turn pale.
“If he is dead, I will avenge him!” vowed Old Ferret, through his clenched teeth.
Then he resumed his search, though it was with his heart filled with dread at what he expected to discover.
Almost the first room he peered into contained the object of his search.
Not dead! Not dying!
Bound hands and feet and tied to the floor, spikes having been driven down to hold the ropes. Bound and gagged!
Old Ferret hopped into that room and softly closed the door behind him. He felt like whooping for joy, but no great detective ever whooped, so he did not whoop.
But he said, “Ha! I have accomplished me purpose!” and his unutterable satisfaction was shown on his face.