"I took him by the shoulders, and lifting him fairly off his feet shook him as a terrier shakes a rat."—page 379."I took him by the shoulders, and lifting him fairly off his feet shook him as a terrier shakes a rat."—page 379.
"The law,"—he began.
"Thelawmay permit you to break the marriage vow you have just taken, butIwill not."
"You?" incredulously.
"Yes,I," I retorted, firmly. "The law of this mighty country, made by very wise men, and enacted by very great fools, is a wondrous vixen. You have stolen 'Squire Ewing's daughter, and for that the law permits you to go unhung. You have stolen 'Squire Ewing's horse, and for that, the law will put you in the State's prison."
"His horse—I!—" the poor wretch gasped, helplessly.
"Exactly. The horse! and you! You see, the daughter has been found, but the horse hasnot."
"But—I can prove—"
"You can prove nothing. I know all about the affair.Youcarried Nellie Ewing away in your own carriage.Youhanded her pony over to an accomplice. I have, at my finger's ends, testimony enough to condemn you before any jury, and the only thing that can save you from the fate of a common horse-thief, is—your own good behavior."
"What do you want?" he said, abjectly.
"Iwantto see you hung as high as Haman. But that poor girl in the next room wants something different, and I yield my wishes to hers. She is so foolish as to value your miserable existence, and so I give you this one chance. Go home with your wife, not to your home, but hers, and remain there so long as she needs or wants you. Treat her with tenderness, serve her like a slave, and try thus to atone for some of your past villainy. Quit your old associates, be as decent and dutiful as the evil within will let you. So long as I hear no complaint, so long as your wife is made happy, you are safe. Commit one act of cruelty, unkindness, or neglect, and your fate is sealed. And, remember this, if you attempt to run away, I will bring you back, if I have to bring you dead."
He whined, he blustered, he writhed like a cur under the lash. But he was conquered. 'Squire Ewing behaved most judiciously. Poor Nellie was foolishly happy. Mamie Rutger, too, became our ally, and, after a time, La Porte, who loved his ease above all things, seemed resigned, or resolved to make the best of the situation. I think, too, that he was, in his way, fond of his poor little wife. Perhaps his conscience troubled him, for when a physician was called in by the anxious father, her case was pronounced serious, and the chances for her recovery less than three in ten. The physician advised them to take her North at once, and they hastened to obey his instructions.
Our next care was to quiet Fred Brookhouse, for the present, and punish him, as much as might be, for the future.
Accordingly, Brookhouse was arrested, on a trumped-up charge, and locked up in the city jail, and then Wyman and myself gave to the Chief of police and the Mayor of the city, a detailed account of his scheme to provide attractions for his theater, and took other measures to insure for the Little Adelphi a closer surveillance than would be at all comfortable or welcome to the enterprising manager.
Brookhouse was held in jail until we were out of the city, and far on our way Northward, thus insuring us against the possibility of his telegraphing the alarm to any one who might communicate it to Arch, or Ed. Dwight, and then, there being no one to appear against him, at the proper time, he was released.
Amy Holmes remained a prisoner at the hotel, conducting herself quite properly during the time of her compulsory sojourn there; and on the day of our departure I paid her a sum equivalent to the week's salary she had lost, and bade her go her way, having first obtained her promise that she would not communicate with any of her accomplices; a promise which I took good care to convince her it would be safest to keep.
She was not permitted to see either Mamie or Nellie, and she had no desire to see the other members of the homeward-bound party. And thus ended our case in New Orleans.
While Carnes was solving the Groveland problem, in that far-away Southern city, we, who were in Trafton, were living through a long, dull week of waiting.
There were two dreary days of suspense, during which Carl Bethel and Dr. Denham wrestled with the deadly fever fiend, the one unconsciously, the other despairingly. But when the combat was over, the doctor stood at his post triumphant, and "Death, the Terrible," went away from the cottage without a victim.
Then I began to importune the good doctor.
"When would Bethel be able to talk? at least to answer questions? For it was important that I should ask, and that he should answeroneat least."
I received the reward I might have expected had I been wise. "Our old woman" turned upon me with a tirade of whimsical wrath, that was a mixture of sham and real, and literally turned me out of doors, banished me three whole days from the sick room; and so great was his ascendancy over Jim Long, that even he refused to listen to my plea for admittance, and kept me at a distance, with grim good nature.
At last, however, the day came when "our old woman" signified his willingness to allow me an interview, stipulating, however, that it must be very brief and in his presence.
"Bethel is better," he said, eyeing me severely, "but he can't bear excitement. If you think youmustinterview him, I suppose you must, but mind,Ithink it's all bosh. Detectives are a miserable tribe through and through. Is not that so, Long?"
And Jim, who was present on this occasion, solemnly agreed with him.
And so the day came when I sat by Bethel's bedside and held his weak, nerveless hand in my own, while I looked regretfully at the pallid face, and into the eyes darkened and made hollow by pain.
"And so the day came when I sat by Bethel's bedside and held his weak, nerveless hand in my own."—page 386."And so the day came when I sat by Bethel's bedside and held his weak, nerveless hand in my own."—page 386.
The weak hand gave mine a friendly but feeble pressure. The pale lips smiled with their old cordial friendliness, the eyes brightened, as he said:
"Louise has told me how good you have been, you and Long."
"Stuff," interrupted Dr. Denham. "Hegood, indeed; stuff! stuff! Now, look here, young man, you can talk with my patient just five minutes, then—out you go."
"Very well," I retorted, "then see that you don't monopolize four minutes out of the five. Bethel, you may not be aware of it, but, that cross old gentleman and myself are old acquaintances, and, I'll tell you a secret, we, that is myself and some friends,—"
"A rascally lot," broke in the old doctor, "arascallylot!"
"We call him," I persisted, "our old woman!"
"Humph!" sniffed the old gentleman, "upstarts! 'old woman,' indeed!"
But it was evident that he was not displeased with his nickname in the possessive case.
We had judged it best to withhold the facts concerning our recent discoveries, especially those relating to his would-be assassin, from Bethel, until he should be better able to bear excitement. And so, after I had finished my tilt with the old doctor, and expressed my regret for Bethel's calamity, and my joy at his prospective recovery, I said:
"I have been forbidden the house, Bethel, by your two dragons here, and now, I am only permitted a few moments' talk with you. So I shall be obliged to skip the details; you shall have them all soon, however. But I will tell you something. We are having things investigated here, and, for the benefit of a certain detective, I want you to answer me a question. You possess some professional knowledge which may help to solve a riddle."
"What is your question?" he whispers, with a touch of his natural decisiveness.
"One night, nearly two weeks ago," I began, "you and I were about to renew an interview, which had been interrupted, when the second interruption came in the shape of a call, from 'Squire Brookhouse, who asked you to accompany him home, and attend to his son, who, so he said, had received some sort of injury."
"I remember."
"Was your patient Louis Brookhouse?"
"Yes."
"Did you dress a wound for him?"
He looked at me wonderingly and was silent.
"Bethel, I am tracing a crime; if your professional scruples will not permit you to answer me, I must find out by other means what you can easily tell me. But to resort to other measures will consume time that is most valuable, and might arouse the suspicions of guilty parties. You can tell me all that I wish to learn by answering my question with a simple 'Yes,' or 'No.'"
While Bethel continued to gaze wonderingly, my recent antagonist came to my assistance.
"You may as well answer him, boy," "our old woman" said. "If you don't, some day he'll be accusing you of ingratitude. And then this is one of the veryrareinstances when the scamp may put his knowledge to good use."
Bethel looked from the doctor's face to mine, and smiled faintly.
"I am overpowered by numbers," he said; "put your questions, then."
"Did you dress a wound for Louis Brookhouse?"
"Yes."
"A wound in the leg?"
"Yes, the right leg."
"Was it a bullet wound?"
"Yes."
"Did you extract the ball?"
"I did."
"Who has it?"
"I. Nobody seemed to notice it. I put it in my pocket."
"Brookhouse said that his wound was caused by an accident, I suppose?"
"Yes, an accidental discharge of his own pistol."
"Some one had tried to dress the wound, had they not?"
"Yes, it had been sponged and—"
"And bound with a fine cambric handkerchief," I interrupted.
"Yes," with a stare of surprise, "so it was."
"How old was the wound, when you saw it?"
"Twenty-four hours, at least."
"Was it serious?"
"No; only a flesh wound, but a deep one. He had ought to be out by this time."
"Can you show me the bullet, sometime, if I wish to see it?"
"Yes."
My five minutes had already passed, but "our old woman" sat with a look of puzzled interest on his face, and as Bethel was quite calm, though none the less mystified, I took advantage of the situation, and hurried on.
"Bethel, I want to ask you something concerning your own hurt, now. Will it disturb or excite you to answer?"
"No; it might relieve me."
"This time Iwillsave you words. On the night when you received your wound, you were sitting by your table, reading by the light of the student's lamp, and smoking luxuriously; the door was shut, but the front window was open."
"True!" with a look of deepening amazement.
"You heard the sound of wheels on the gravel outside, and then some one called your name."
"Oh!" a new look creeping into his eyes.
"When you opened the door and looked out, could you catch a glimpse of the man who shot at you?"
"No," slowly, as if thinking.
"Have you any reason for suspecting any one? Can you guess at a motive?"
"Wait;" he turned his head restlessly, seemingly in the effort to remember something, and then looked toward Dr. Denham.
"In my desk," he said, slowly, "among some loose letters, is a yellow envelope, bearing the Trafton post-mark. Will you find it?"
Dr. Denham went to the desk, and I sat silently waiting. Bethel was evidently thinking.
"I received it," he said, after a moment of silence, disturbed only by the rustling of papers, as the old doctor searched the desk, "I received it two days after the search for little Effie Beale. I made up my mind then that I would have a detective, whom I could rely upon, here in Trafton. And then Dr. Barnard was taken ill. After that I waited—have you found it?"
Dr. Denham stood beside me with a letter in his hand, which Bethel, by a sign, bade him give to me.
"Do you wish me to read it?" I asked.
"Yes."
I glanced at the envelope and almost bounded from my seat. Then, withdrawing the letter with nervous haste, I opened it.
Dr. Bethel. If that is your name, you are not welcome in Trafton. If you stay here three days longer, it will beat your own risk.
No resurrectionists.
I flushed with excitement; I almost laughed with delight. I got up, turned around, and sat down again. I wanted to dance, to shout, to embrace the dear old doctor.
I held in my hand aprinted warning, every letter the counterpart of those used in the anonymous letter sent to "Chris Oleson" at Mrs. Ballou's! It was a similar warning, written by the same hand. Was the man who had given me that pistol wound really in Trafton? or—
I looked up; the patient on the bed, and the old doctor beside me, were both gazing at my tell-tale countenance, and looking expectant and eager.
"Doctor," I said, turning to "our old woman," "you remember the day I came to you with my wounded arm?"
"Umph! Of course."
"Well, shortly before getting that wound I received just such a thing as this," striking the letter with my forefinger, "a warning from the same hand. And now I am going to find the man who shotme, who shotBethel, and who robbed the grave of little Effie Beale, here, in Trafton, andvery soon."
"What is it? I don't understand," began Bethel.
But the doctor interposed.
"This must be stopped. Bethel, you shan't hear explanations now, and youshallgo to sleep. Bathurst, how dare you excite my patient! Get out."
"I will," I said, rising. "I must keep this letter, Bethel, and I will tell you all about it soon; have patience."
Bethel turned his eyes toward the doctor, and said, eagerly:
"Why did you call himBathurst?"
"Did I?" said the old man, testily. "It was a slip of the tongue."
The patient turned his head and looked from one to the other, eagerly. Then he addressed me:
"If you will answer me one question, I promise not to ask another until you are prepared to explain."
"Ask it," I replied.
"Areyoua detective?"
"Yes."
"Thank you," closing his eyes, as if weary. "I am quite content to wait. Thank you."
My first movement, after having made the discovery chronicled in the last chapter, was to go to the telegraph office and send the following despatch:
Arrest Blake Simpson instantly, on charge of attempted assassination. Don't allow him to communicate with any one.
This message was sent to the Agency, and then I turned my attention to other matters, satisfied that Blake, at least, would be properly attended to.
Early the following morning Gerry Brown presented himself at the door of my room, to communicate to me something that instantly roused me to action.
At midnight, or a little later, Mr. Arch Brookhouse had dropped in at the telegraph office; he was in evening dress, and he managed to convey to Gerry in a careless fashion the information that he, Arch, had been enjoying himself at a small social gathering, and on starting for home had bethought himself of a message to be sent to a friend. Then he had dashed off the following:
Ed. Dwight, Amora, etc.
Be ready for the party at The Corners to-morrow eve. Notify Lark. B.—— will join you at Amora.
A. B.
"There," he had said, as he pushed the message toward the seemingly sleepy operator, "I hope he will get that in time, as I send it in behalf of a lady. Dwight's always in demand for parties."
Then, with a condescending smile as he drew on his right glove, "Know anybody at Amora?"
"No," responded Gerry, with a yawn, "nor anywhere else on this blasted line; wish they had sent me East."
"You must get acquainted," said the gracious young nabob. "I'll try and get you an invitation to the next social party; should be happy to introduce you."
And then, as Gerry was too sleepy to properly appreciate his condescension, he had taken himself away.
"Gerry," I said, after pondering for some moments over the message he had copied for my benefit, "I'm inclined to think that this means business. You had better sleep short and sound this morning, and be on hand at the office as early as twelve o'clock. I think you will be relieved from this sort of duty soon, and as for Mr. Brookhouse, perhaps you may be able to attend this 'party' in question, even without his valuable patronage."
After this I went in search of Jim Long. I found him at Bethel's cottage, and in open defiance of "our old woman," led him away where we could converse without audience or interruption. Then I put the telegram in his hand, telling him how it had been sent, much as Gerry had told the same to me.
"What do you make of it?" asked Jim, as he slowly folded the slip of paper and put it in my hand.
"Well, I may be amiss in my interpretation, but it seems to me that we had better be awake to-night. The moon has waned; it will be very dark at ten o'clock. I fancy thatwemay be wise if we prepare for this party. I don't know who B—— may stand for, but there is, at Clyde, a man, who is a friend of Dwight's, and whose name isLarkins."
"Larkins! To be sure; the man is often in Trafton."
"Exactly. He appears like a good-natured rustic, but he is a good judge of a horse. Do you know of a place in this vicinity called The Corners?"
"No."
"Well, you are probably aware that the south road forks, just two miles north of Clyde, and that the road running east goes to the river, and the coal beds. It would not be a long drive from Amora to these corners, and Larkins is only two miles off from them. Both Dwight and Larkins own good teams."
"Ah!" ejaculated Jim, in a tone which conveyed a world of meaning. "Ah, yes!" Then after a moment's silence, and looking me squarely in the face, "what do you want me to do?"
"Our movements must be regulated by theirs. We must see Warren and all the others."
"All?"
"Yes, all. It will not be child's play. I think Mr. Warren is the man to lead one party, for there must be two. I, myself, will manage the other. As for you and Gerry—"
"Gerry?" inquiringly.
"Gerald Brown, our night operator. You will find him equal to most emergencies, I think."
"And what are we to do?"
"Some special business which will depend on circumstances. We must capture the gang outside of the town, if possible, and the farther away the better."
"But—"
"Wait. There are others who must not take the alarm too soon."
"They will ride fleet horses; remember that."
"Long," I said, earnestly, "we won't let them escape us. If they ride, we will pounce upon them at the very outset. But if my theory, which has thus far proven itself correct, holds good to the endthey will not ride."
It has come at last; that night, almost the last in August, which I and others, with varying motives and interests, have so anxiously looked forward to.
It has come, and the moon, so lately banished from the heavens, had she been in a position to overlook the earth, would have witnessed some sights unusual to Trafton at the hour of elevenP. M.
A little more than a mile from Trafton, at a point where the first mile section crosses the south road, not far from the Brookhouse dwelling, there is a little gathering of mounted men. They are seven in number; all silent, all cautious, all stern of feature. They have drawn their horses far into the gloom of the hedge that grows tall on either side, all save one man, and he stands in the very center of the road, looking intently north and skyward.
Farther away, midway between Trafton and Clyde, six other horsemen are riding southward at an easy pace.
These, too, are very quiet, and a little light would reveal the earnest faces of Messrs. Warren, Harding, Benner, Booth, Jaeger and Meacham; the last mentioned being the owner of the recently stolen matched sorrels, and the others being the most prominent and reliable of the Trafton vigilants.
A close inspection would develop the fact that this moving band of men, as well as the party whose present mission seems "only to stand and wait," is well armed and strongly mounted.
The Hill, Miss Manvers' luxurious residence, stands, as its name indicates, on an elevation of ground, at the extreme northern boundary of Trafton.
It stands quite alone, this abode of the treasure-ship heiress, having no neighbors on either hand for a distance of more than a quarter of a mile.
The road leading up the hill from the heart of Trafton, is bordered on either side by a row of shade trees, large and leafy. All about the house the shrubbery is dense, and the avenue, leading up from the road, and past the dwelling, to the barns and outhouses, is transformed, by two thickly-set rows of poplars into a vault of inky blackness.
To-night, if the moon were abroad, she might note that the fine roadster driven by Arch Brookhouse had stood all the evening at the roadside gate at the foot of the dark avenue of poplars, and, by peeping through the open windows, she would see that Arch Brookhouse himself sits in the handsome parlor with the heiress, who is looking pale and dissatisfied, and who speaks short and seldom, opposite him.
The lady moon might also note that the new telegraph operator is not at his post, in the little office, at eleven o'clockP. M.But then, were the fair orb of night actually out, and taking observations, these singular phenomena might not occur.
At half-past ten, on "this night of nights," three shadows steal through the darkness, moving northward toward the Hill.
At a point midway between the town proper and the mansion beyond, is a junction of the roads; and here, at the four corners, the three shadows pause and separate.
Two continue their silent march northward, and the third vanishes among the sheltering, low-bending branches of a gnarled old tree that overhangs the road, and marks the northwestern corner.
At twenty minutes to eleven Arch Brookhouse takes leave of the treasure-ship heiress, and comes out into the darkness striding down the avenue like a man accustomed to the road. He unties the waiting horse which paws the ground impatiently, yet stands, obedient to his low command, turns the head of the beast southward, seats himself in the light buggy, lights a cigar, and then sits silently smoking, and waiting,—for what?
The dull red spark at the end of his cigar shines through the dark; the horse turns his head and chafes to be away, but the smoker sits there, moveless and silent.
Presently there comes a sound, slight but distinct; the crackling of a twig beneath a man's boot, and almost at the same instant the last light disappears from the windows of the "Hill House."
One, two, three. Three dark forms approach, one after the other, each pauses for an instant beside the light buggy, and seems to look up to the dull red spark, which is all of Arch Brookhouse that is clearly visible through the dark. Then they enter the gate and are swallowed up in the blackness of the avenue.
And now, a fourth form moves stealthily down the avenue after the others. It does not come from without the grounds, it starts out from the shrubbery within, and it is unseen by Arch Brookhouse.
How still the night is! The man who follows after the three first comers can almost hear his pulses throb, or so he fancies.
Presently the three men pause before the door of the barn, and one of them takes from his pocket a key, with which he unlocks the door, and they enter.
As soon as they are inside, a lantern is lighted, and the three men move together toward the rear of the barn, the part against which is piled a monstrous stack of hay.
Meanwhile the watcher outside glides close to the wall of the building, listening here and there, as he, too, approaches the huge hay pile.
And now he does a queer thing. He begins to pull away handfuls of hay from the bottom of the stack, where it is piled against the barn. He works noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening, into which he crawls. Evidently this mine has been worked before, for there is a long tunnel through the hay, penetrating to the middle of the stack. Here the watcher peeps through two small holes, newly drilled in the thick boards of the barn. And then a smile of triumph rests upon his face.
"He works noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening, into which he crawls."—page 404."He works noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening, into which he crawls."—page 404.
He sees a compartment that, owing to the arrangement of the hay against the rear wall, is in the very heart of the barn, shut from the gaze of curious eyes. On either side is a division, which our spy knows to contain a store of grain piled high, and acting as a complete non-conductor of sound. In front is a small room hung about with harness, and opening into a carriage room. The place is completely hidden from the ordinary gaze, and only a very inquiring mind would have fathomed its secret.
The spy, who is peering in from his vantage ground among the hay,hasfathomed the secret. And he now sees within six horses—two bay Morgans, two roans, and two sorrels.
The three men are there, too, busily harnessing the six horses. They are working rapidly and silently.
The watcher lingers just long enough to see that the harness looks new and that it is of the sort generally used for draft horses, and then he executes a retreat, more difficult than his entrance, inasmuch as he can not turn in his hay tunnel, but must withdraw by a series of retrograde movements more laborious than graceful.
A moment more, and from among the poplars and evergreens a light goes shooting up, high and bright against the sky; a long, red ribbon of fire, that says to those who can read the sign,
"The Trafton horse-thieves are about to move with their long-concealed prey. Meacham's matched sorrels, Hopper's two-forty's, and the bay Morgans stolen from 'Squire Brookhouse."
It was seen, this fiery rocket, by the little band waiting by the roadside more than a mile away.
"There it is!" exclaims young Warren, who is the leader of this party—"It is the red rocket. Theyaregoing with the wagons; it's all right, boys, we can't ride too fast now."
The seven men file silently out from the roadside and gallop away southward.
At the four corners, not far from the house on the hill, where, a short time before, a single individual had stationed himself, as a sentinel in the darkness, this signal rocket was also seen, and the watcher uttered an exclamation under his breath, and started out from underneath the tree that had sheltered him.
He could never remember how it happened, but his next sensation was that of being borne to the ground, clutched with a tiger-like grip, crushed by a heavy weight.
And then a voice, a voice that he had not heard for years, hissed above him,
"Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunity for eight long years, and it won't be worth your while to trifle with Harvey Jamesnow."
"Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunity for eight long years, and it won't be worth your while to trifle with Harvey James now."—page 408."Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunity for eight long years, and it won't be worth your while to trifle with Harvey James now."—page 408.
And something cold and hard is pressed against the temple of the fallen sentinel, who does not need the evidence of the accompanying ominous click to convince him that it is a revolver in the hand of his deadliest foe.
"You did not use to be a horse-thief, Joe," continues the voice, and the speaker's words are emphasized by the pressure of a knee upon his chest, and the weapon at his forehead. "They could not trust you to do the fine business, it seems, and so you are picketed here to give the alarm if anything stirs up or down the road. If it's all right, you are to remain silent. If anything occurs to alarm you, you are to give the signal. Now, listen; you are to get up and stand from under this tree. I shall stand directly behind you with my revolver at your head, and I shall not loosen my grip upon your collar. When your friends pass this way,you had better remain silent, Joe Blaikie."
Arch Brookhouse, waiting at the avenue gate, has not seen the red rocket. The tall poplars that overshadow him have shut the shooting fiery ribbon from his vision; besides, he has been looking down the hill. Neither has he seen the form that is creeping stealthily toward him from behind the tree that guards the gate.
Those within the barn have not seen the rocket, of course; and presently they come forth and harness the six horses to two huge wagons that stand in readiness. Four horses to one wagon, two to the other. The wheels are well oiled, and the wagons make no unnecessary rumbling as they go down the dark poplar avenue.
At the gate the foremost wagon halts, just long enough to enable the driver to catch the low-spoken word that tells him it is safe to proceed.
"All right," Arch Brookhouse says, softly, and the two wagons pass out and down the hill, straight through the village of Trafton.
At the foot of the hill, where the four roads cross, the drivers peer through the darkness. Yes, their sentinel is there. The white handkerchief which he holds in his hand, as a sign that all is safe, gleams through the dark, and they drive on merrily, and if the sound of their wheels wakens any sleeper in Trafton, what then? It is not unusual to hear coal wagons passing on their way to the mines.
Should they meet a belated traveler, no matter. He may hear the rumble of the wheels, and welcome, so long as the darkness prevents him from seeing the horses that draw those innocent vehicles of traffic.
Meanwhile, his duty being done, Arch Brookhouse heaves a sigh of relief, gathers up his reins, and chirrups to his horse.
But the animal does not obey him. Arch leans forward; is there something standing by the horse's head? He gives an impatient word of command, and then,—yes, there is some one there.
Arch utters a sharp exclamation, and his hand goes behind him, only to be grasped by an enemy in the rear, who follows up his advantage by seizing the other elbow and saying:
"Stop a moment, Mr. Brookhouse; you are my prisoner, sir. Gerry, the handcuffs."
The man at the horse's head comes swiftly to my assistance, Arch Brookhouse is drawn from his buggy, and his hands secured behind him by fetters of steel. Not a captive to be proud of; his teeth chatter, he shivers as with an ague.
"Wh—who are you?" he gasps. "Wh—what do you want?"
"I'm a city sprig," I answer, maliciously, "and I'm an easy fish to catch. But not so easy asyou, my gay Lothario. By-and-by you may decide, if you will, whether I possess most money or brains; now I have more important business on hand."
Just then comes a long, low whistle.
"Gerry," I say, "that is Long. Go down to him and see if he needs help."
Gerry is off in an instant, and then my prisoner rallies his cowardly faculties, and begins to bluster.
"What does this assault mean? I demand an explanation, sir!"
"But I am not in the mood to give it," I retort. "You are my prisoner, and likely to remain so, unless you are stolen from me by Judge Lynch, which is not improbable."
"Then, y—you are an impostor!"
"You mistake; I am a detective. You shot at the wrong man when you winged Bethel. You did better when you crippled widow Ballou's hired man."
"What, are you?—" he starts violently, then checks his speech.
"I'm the man you shot, behind the hedge, Mr. Brookhouse, and I'll trouble you to explain your conduct to-morrow."
My prisoner moves restlessly under my restraining hand, but I cock my pistol, and he comprehending the unspoken warning, stands silent beside his buggy.
Presently I hear footsteps, and then Gerry comes towards me, lighting the way with a pocket lantern, which reveals to my gaze Dimber Joe, handcuffed and crest-fallen, marching sedately over the ground at the muzzle of a pistol held in the firm clutch of Jim Long, upon whose countenance sits a look of grim, triumphant humor.
"Here," says Gerry, with aggravating ceremony, "is Mr. Long, with sentinel number two, namely: Mr. Dimber Joe Blaikie, late of Sing Sing."
"And very soon to return there," adds Jim Long, emphatically. "What shall we do with these fellows?"
"We must keep everything quiet to-night," I say, quickly. "If you and Gerry think you won't go to sleep over the precious scamps you might take them to the barn and let them pass the night where they have hidden so many horses. We will take them there now, and bind them more securely. Then one of you can look after them easily, while the other stands guard outside. All must be done quietly, so that they may not take the alarm in the house. If your prisoners attempt to make a noise, gag them without scruple."
"But," gasps Brookhouse, "you can not; you have no power."
"No power," mocks Jim Long. "We'll see about that! It may be unparliamentary, gentlemen, but you should not object to that. If you give us any trouble, we will convince you that we have inherited a little brief authority."
Ten minutes later we have carried out our programme. The two prisoners are safely housed in the hidden asylum for stolen horses, with Jim Long as guard within, and Gerry as sentinel without, and I, seated in the light buggy from which I have unceremoniously dragged Arch Brookhouse, am driving his impatient roadster southward, in the wake of the honest coal wagons.
It is long past midnight. A preternatural stillness broods over the four corners where the north and south road, two miles north from Clyde, intersects the road running east and west, that bears westward toward the coal beds and the river.
There are no houses within sight of these corners, and very few trees; but the northeastern corner is bounded by what the farmers call a "brush fence," an unsightly barricade of rails, interwoven with tall, ragged, and brambly brush, the cuttings, probably, from some rank-growing hedge.
The section to the southwest is bordered by a prim hedge, thrifty and green, evenly trimmed, and so low that a man could leap across it with ease.
And now the silence is broken by the sound of wheels coming from the direction of Clyde; swift running wheels that soon bring their burden to the four corners, and then come to a sudden halt.
It is a light buggy, none other than that owned by Mr. Larkins, of Clyde, drawn by his roans that "go in no time," and it contains three men.
"There!" says the driver, who is Larkins himself, springing to the ground, and thrusting his arm through the reins, "here we are, with nothing to do but wait. We always do wait, you know."
"Yes, I know," assents a second individual, descending to the ground in his turn. "We're always on time. Now, if a man only could smoke—but he can't."
And Ed. Dwight shrugs his shoulders and burrows in his pockets, and shuffles his feet, as only Ed. Dwight can.
"Might's well get out, Briggs," says Larkins, to the man who still sits in the buggy.
"Might's well stay here, too," retorts that individual, gruffly. "I'm comfortable."
Larkins sniffs, and pats the haunch of the off roan.
Dwight snaps a leaf from the hedge and chews it nervously.
The man in the buggy sits as still as a mummy.
Presently there comes again the sound of wheels. Not noisy wheels, that would break in upon midnight slumbers, nor ghostly wheels, whose honesty might be called in question, but well oiled, smooth running wheels, that break but do not disturb the stillness.
These also approach the cross roads, and then stop.
The first are those of a coal wagon, drawn by four handsome horses; the second, those of a vehicle of the same description, drawn by two fine steeds.
Two men occupy the first wagon; one the next.
As the foremost wagon pauses, Larkins tosses his reins to the silent man in the buggy, and advances, followed by Dwight.
"Anything wrong?" queries Larkins.
"Not ifyouare all right," replies a harsh voice, a voice that has a natural snarl in it.
"All right, Cap'n; give us your orders."
The two men in the wagon spring to the ground, and begin to unharness the foremost horses. The other wagon comes closer.
"You and Briggs are to take in these two teams. Tom is to go on with the Morgans. Dwight is to take us back to Trafton," says the rasping voice.
Dwight comes closer, and then exclaims:
"By George, Captain, it'syouin person."
"Yes, it's me," shortly. "Simpson failed to come, and I wanted to have a few words with you and Larkins. Hark!What's that?"
Wheels again; swift rushing, rattling wheels. Six heads are turned toward the north, whence they approach.
Suddenly there is a whistle, short and shrill.
Men are bounding over the low hedge to the left! Men are rising up from the long grass by the roadside!