"Men are bounding over the low hedge to the left! Men are rising up from the long grass by the roadside!"—page 417."Men are bounding over the low hedge to the left! Men are rising up from the long grass by the roadside!"—page 417.
Oaths, ejaculations, cracking of pistols, plunging of horses—
"The first man who attempts to run will be shot down!"
I hear these words, as I drive the Brookhouse roadster, foaming and panting, into the midst of the melee.
In spite of the warning one man has made a dart for liberty, has turned and rushed directly upon my horse.
In spite of the darkness his sharp eyes recognize the animal. What could his son's horse bring save a warning or a rescue?
He regains his balance, which, owing to his sudden contact with the horse, he had nearly lost, and springs toward me as my feet touch the earth.
"Arch!"
Before he can realize the truth my hands are upon him. Before he can recover from his momentary consternation other hands seize him from behind.
The captain of the horse-thieves, the head and front and brains of the band, is bound and helpless!
It is soon over; the horse-thieves fight well; strive hard to evade capture; but the attack is so sudden, so unexpected, and they are unprepared, although each man, as a matter of course, is heavily armed.
The vigilants have all the advantage, both of numbers and organization. While certain ones give all their attention to the horses, the larger number look to the prisoners.
Briggs, the silent man in the buggy, is captured before he knows what has happened.
Tom Briggs, his cowardly brother, is speedily reduced to a whimpering poltroon.
Ed. Dwight takes to his heels in spite of the warning of Captain Warren, and is speedily winged with a charge of fine shot. It is not a severe wound, but it has routed his courage, and he is brought back, meek and pitiful enough, all the jauntiness crushed out of him.
Larkins, my jehu on a former occasion, makes a fierce fight; and Louis Brookhouse, who still moves with a limp, resists doggedly.
Our vigilants have received a few bruises and scratches, but no wounds.
The struggle has been short, and the captives, once subdued, are silent and sullen.
We bind them securely, and put them in the coal wagons which now, for the first time, perhaps, are put to a legitimate use.
We do not care to burden ourselves with Larkins' roans, so they are released from the buggy and sent galloping homeward.
The bay Morgans, which have been "stolen" for the sake of effect, are again harnessed, as leaders of the four-in-hand. The vigilants bring out their horses from behind the brush fence, and the procession starts toward Trafton.
No one attempts to converse with the captives. No one deigns to answer a question, except by a monosyllable.
'Squire Brookhouse is wise enough to see that he can gain nothing by an attempt at bluster or bribery. He maintains a dogged silence, and the others, with the exception of Dwight, who can not be still under any circumstances, and Tom Briggs, who makes an occasional whimpering attempt at self-justification, which is heeded by no one, all maintain a dogged silence. And we move on at a leisurely pace, out of consideration for the tired horses.
As we approach Trafton, the Summer sun is sending up his first streak of red, to warn our side of the world of his nearness; and young Warren reins his horse out from the orderly file of vigilants, who ride on either side of the wagons.
He gallops forward, turns in his saddle to look back at us, waves his hat above his head, and then speeds away toward the village.
I am surprised at this, but, as I look from one face to another, I see that the vigilants, some of them, at least, understand the movement, and so I ask no questions.
I am not left long in suspense as to the meaning of young Warren's sudden leave-taking, for, as we approach to within a mile of Trafton, our ears are greeted by the clang of bells, all the bells of Trafton, ringing out a fiercely jubilant peal.
I turn to look at 'Squire Brookhouse. He has grown old in an instant; his face looks ashen under the rosy daylight. The caverns of his eyes are larger and deeper, and the orbs themselves gleam with a desperate fire. His lifeless black locks flutter in the morning breeze. He looks forlorn and desperate. Those clanging bells are telling him his doom.
Warren has done his work well. When we come over the hill into Trafton, we know that the news is there before us, for a throng has gathered in the street, although the hour is so early.
The bells have aroused the people. The news that the Trafton horse-thieves are captured at last, in the very act of escaping with their booty, has set the town wild.
Not long since these same horse-thieves have led Trafton on to assault, to accuse, and to vilify an innocent man. Now, those who were foremost at the raiding of Bethel's cottage, are loudest in denouncing those who were then their leaders; and the cry goes up,
"Hand over the horse-thieves! Hand them out! Lynch law's good enough for them!"
But we are fourteen in number. We have captured the prisoners, and we mean to keep them.
Once more my pistols, this time fully loaded, are raised against a Trafton mob, and the vigilants follow my example.
We guard our prisoners to the door of the jail, and then the vigilants post themselves as a wall of defence about the building, while Captain Warren sets about the easy task of raising a trusty relief guard to take the places of his weary men.
"Then the vigilants post themselves as a wall of defence about the building."—page 423."Then the vigilants post themselves as a wall of defence about the building."—page 423.
It is broad day now. The sun glows round and bright above the Eastern horizon. I am very weary, but there is work yet to be done.
I leave Captain Warren at the door of the jail, and hasten toward the Hill.
I am somewhat anxious about this coming bit of work, and a little reluctant as well, but it must be done, and that promptly.
Just outside of the avenue gate I encounter a servant from the Hill House, and accost him.
"Is Miss Manvers at home, and awake?"
"Yes, she is at home; she has been disturbed by the bells," and has sent him to inquire into the cause of the commotion.
She does not know, then! I heave a sigh of relief and hurry on.
I cross the avenue, and follow the winding foot-path leading up to the front entrance. I make no effort to see Jim or Gerry, at the barn; I feel sure that they are equal to any emergency that may arise.
Miss Manvers is standing at an open drawing-room window; she sees my approach and comes herself to admit me.
Then we look at each other.
She, I note, seems anxious and somewhat uneasy, and she sees at a glance that I am not the jaunty, faultlessly-dressed young idler of past days, but a dusty, dishevelled, travel-stained individual, wearing, instead of the usual society smile, a serious and preoccupied look upon my face.
"Miss Manvers," I say, at once, "you will pardon my abruptness, I trust; I must talk with you alone for a few moments."
She favors me with a glance of keen inquiry, and a look of apprehension crosses her face.
Then she turns with a gesture of careless indifference, and leads the way to the drawing-room, where she again turns her face toward me.
"I have before me an unpleasant duty," I begin again; "I have to inform you that Arch Brookhouse has been arrested."
A fierce light leaps to her eyes.
"Is that all?" she questions.
"The charge against him is a grave one," I say, letting her question pass unanswered. "He is accused of attempted abduction."
"Abduction!" she exclaims.
"And attempted assassination."
"Assassination! ah,who?"
"Attempt first, upon myself, in June last. Second attempt, upon Dr. Carl Bethel."
A wrathful look crosses her face.
"I wish they could hang him for it!" she says, vindictively. Then she looks me straight in the eyes. "Did you come to tell me this because you fancy that I care for Arch Brookhouse?" she questions.
"No."
"Why, then?"
"Because I am a detective, and it was my duty to come. There is more to tell you. 'Squire Brookhouse and his gang were arrested last night in the act of removing stolen horses from your barn."
Her face pales and she draws a long sighing breath, but she does not falter nor evince any other sign of fear.
"So it has come," she says. "And now you are here to arrest me. I don't think I shall mind it much."
"I have come to make terms with you, Miss Lowenstein, and it will be your fault if they are hard terms. I know your past history, or, at least—"
"Atleast, that I am a counterfeiter's daughter, and that I have served a term as a convict," she finishes, sarcastically.
"I know that you are the daughter of Jake Lowenstein, forger and counterfeiter. I know that you were arrested with him, as an accomplice; that immunity was offered you if you would testify against your father, the lawyers being sure that your evidence alone would easily convict him. I know that you refused to turn State's evidence; that you scoffed at the lawyers, and rather than raise your voice against your father, let them send you to prison for two years."
"You know all this?" wonderingly. "How did you find me out here?"
"Before you were taken to prison, they took your picture for—"
I hesitate, but she does not.
"For the rogue's gallery," she says, impatiently. "Well! go on."
"You were fiercely angry, and the scorn on your face was transferred to the picture."
"Quite likely."
"I had heard of your case, and your father's, of course. But I was not personally concerned in it, and I never saw him. I had never seen you, until I came to Trafton."
"I have changed since then," she breaks in, quickly.
"True; you were a slender, pretty young girl then. You are a handsome woman, now. Your features, however, are not much changed; yet probably, if I had never seen you save when your face wore its usual serene smile, I should never have found you out. But my comrade, who came to Trafton with me—"
"As your servant," she interposes.
"As my servant; yes. He had your picture in his collection. On the day of your lawn party, I chanced to see you behind a certain rose thicket, in conversation with Arch Brookhouse. He was insolent; you, angry and defiant. I caught the look on your face, and knew that I had seen it before, somewhere. I went home puzzled, to find Carnes, better known to you as Cooley, looking at a picture in his rogue's gallery. I took the book and began turning its leaves, and there under my eye was your picture. Then I knew that Miss Manvers, the heiress, was really Miss Adele Lowenstein."
"You say that it will be my fault if you make hard terms with me. My father is dead. I suppose you understand that?"
"Yes; I know that he is dead, but I do not know why you are here, giving shelter to stolen property and abbetting horse-thieves. Frankly, Miss Lowenstein, so far as your past is concerned, I consider you sinned against as much as sinning. Your sacrifice in behalf of your father was, in my eyes, a brave act, rather than a criminal one. I am disposed to be ever your friend rather than your enemy. Will you tell me how you became connected with this gang, and all the truth concerning your relations with them, and trust me to aid you to the limit of my power?"
"You do not promise me my freedom if I give you this information," she says, more in surprise than in anxiety.
"It is not in my power to do that and still do my duty as an officer; but I promise you, upon my honor, that you shall have your freedom if it can be brought about."
"I like the sound of that," says this odd, self-reliant young woman, turning composedly, and seating herself near the open window. "If you had vowed to give me my liberty at any cost I should not have believed you. Sit down; I shall tell you a longer story than you will care to listen to standing."
I seat myself in obedience to her word and gesture, and she begins straightway:
"I was seventeen years old when my father was arrested for counterfeiting, and I looked even younger.
"He had a number of confederates, but the assistant he most valued was the man whom people call 'Squire Brookhouse. He was called simply Brooks eight years ago.
"When my father was arrested, 'Squire Brookhouse, who was equally guilty, contrived to escape. He was a prudent sharper, and both he and father had accumulated considerable money.
"If you know that my father and myself were sentenced to prison, he for twenty years, and I for two, you know, I suppose, how he escaped."
"I know that he did escape; just how we need not discuss at present."
"Yes; he escaped. Brookhouse used his money to bribe bolder men to do the necessary dangerous work, for he, Brookhouse, needed my father's assistance, and he escaped. I had yet six months to serve.
"Well, Brookhouse had recently been down into this country on a plundering expedition. He was an avaricious man, always devising some new scheme. He knew that without my father's assistance, he could hardly run a long career at counterfeiting, and he knew that counterfeiting would be dangerous business for my father to follow, in or near the city, after his escape.
"They talked and schemed and prospected; and the result was that they both came to Trafton, and invested a portion of their gains, the largest portion of course, in two pieces of real estate; this and the Brookhouse place.
"Before we had been here a year, my father grew venturesome. He went to the city, and was recognized by an old policeman, who had known him too well. They attempted to arrest him, but only captured his dead body. The papers chronicled the fact that Jake Lowenstein, the counterfeiter, was dead. And we, at Trafton, announced to the world that Captain Manvers, late of the navy, had been drowned while making his farewell voyage.
"After that, I became Miss Manvers, the heiress, and the good Traftonites were regaled with marvelous stories concerning a treasure-ship dug out from the deep by my father, 'the sea captain.'
"Their main object in settling in Trafton, was to provide for themselves homes that might afford them a haven should stormy times come. And, also, to furnish them with a place where their coining and engraving could be safely carried on.
"Then the 'Squire grew more enterprising. He wanted more schemes to manage. And so he began to lay his plans for systematic horse-stealing.
"Little by little he matured his scheme, and one by one he introduced into Trafton such men as would serve his purpose, for, if you inquire into the matter, you will find that every one of his confederates has come to this place since the first advent of 'Squire Brookhouse.
"The hidden place in our barn was prepared before my father was killed, and after that—well, 'Squire Brookhouse knew that I could be a great help to him, socially.
"I did not know what to do. This home was mine, I felt safe here; I had grown up among counterfeiters and law-breakers, and I did not see how I was to shake myself free from them—besides—"
Here a look of scornful self-contempt crosses her face.
"Besides, I was young, and up to that time had seen nothing of society of my own age. Arch Brookhouse had lately come home from the South, and I had fallen in love with his handsome face."
She lifts her eyes to mine, as if expecting to see her own self-scorn reflected back in my face, but I continue to look gravely attentive, and she goes on:
"So I stayed on, and let them use my property as a hiding-place for their stolen horses. I kept servants of their selection, and never knew aught of their plans. When I heard that a horse had been stolen, I felt very certain that it was concealed on my premises, but I never investigated.
"After a time I became as weary of Arch Brookhouse as he, probably, was of me. Finally indifference became detestation. He only came to my house on matters of business, and to keep up the appearance of friendliness between the two families. Mrs. Brookhouse is a long-suffering, broken-down woman, who never sees society.
"I do not intend to plead for mercy, and I do not want pity. I dare say that nine-tenths of the other women in the world would have done as I did, under the same circumstances. I have served two years in the penitentiary; my face adorns the rogues' gallery. I might go out into the world and try a new way of living, but I must always be an impostor. Why not be an impostor in Trafton, as well as anywhere else? I have always believed that, some day, I should be found out."
When she has finished her story there is a long silence, then she says, with a suddenness that would have been surprising in any other woman than the one before me:
"You say you have arrested Arch Brookhouse for the shooting of Dr. Bethel. Tell me, is it true that Dr. Bethel is out of danger?"
"He is still in a condition to need close attention and careful medical aid; with these, we think, he will recover."
"I am very glad to know that," she says, earnestly.
"Miss Lowenstein, I have some reason for thinking that you know who is implicated in that grave-robbing business."
"I do know," she answers, frankly, "but not from them. The Brookhouses, father and sons, believed Dr. Bethel to be a detective, and to be candid, so did I. You know 'the wicked flee when no man pursueth.' They construed his reticence into mystery. They fancied that his clear, searching eye was looking into all their secrets. I knew they were plotting against him, but I had told Arch Brookhouse that they should not harm him. When I went down to the cottage with Louise Barnard, I felt sure that it wastheirwork, the grave-robbing.
"Tom Briggs was there, the fiercest of the rioters. Tom had worked about my stable for a year or more, and I thought that I knew how to manage him. I contrived to get a word with him. Did you observe it?"
"Yes, I observed it."
"I told him to come to The Hill that evening, and he came. Then I made him tell me the whole story.
"Arch Brookhouse had planned the thing, and given it to Briggs to execute. There were none of the regular members of the gang here to help him at that work, so he went, under instructions, of course, to Simmons and Saunders, two dissolute, worthless fellows, and told them that Dr. Bethel had offered him thirty dollars to get the little girl's body, and offered to share with them.
"Those three did the work. Briggs buried the clothing and hid the tools. Then, when the raid began, Briggs told his two assistants that, in order to avoid suspicion, they must join the hue and cry against Dr. Bethel, and so, as you are aware, they did."
This information is valuable to me. I am anxious to be away, to meet Simmons and Saunders. I open my lips to make a request, when she again asks a sudden question.
"Will you tell me where and how you arrested the Brookhouse gang? I am anxious to know."
"I will tell you, but first will you please answer one more question?"
She nods and I proceed.
"I have told you that Arch Brookhouse is charged with attempted abduction; I might say Louis Brookhouse stands under the same charge. Do you know anything about the matter?"
"I? No."
"Did you ever know Miss Amy Holmes?"
"Never," she replies, emphatically. "Whom did they attempt to abduct?"
"Three young girls; three innocent country girls."
"Good heavens!" she exclaims, her eyes flashing fiercely, "that is a deed, compared with which horse-thieving is honorable!"
I give her a brief outline of the Groveland affair, or series of affairs, so far as I am able, before having heard Carnes' story. And then I tell her how the horse-thieves were hunted down.
"So," she says, wearily, "by this time I am known all over Trafton as the accomplice of horse-thieves."
"Not so, Miss Lowenstein. The entire truth is known to Carnes and Brown, the two detectives I have mentioned, to Jim Long, and to Mr. Warren. The vigilants knew that the horses had been concealed near Trafton, but, owing to the manner in which the arrests were made, they do not know where. I suppose you are aware what it now becomes my duty to do?"
"Assuredly," with constrained voice and manner. "You came here to arrest me. I submit."
"Wait. From first to last it has been my desire to deal with you as gently as possible. Now that I have heard your story, I am still more inclined to stand your friend. The three men in Trafton who know your complicity in this business, are acting under my advice. For the present, you may remain here, if you will give me your promise not to attempt an escape."
"I shall not try to escape; I would be foolish to do so, after learning how skillfully you can hunt down criminals."
"Thanks for the compliment, and the promise implied. If you will give your testimony against the gang, telling in court the story you have told me, you shall not stand before these people without a champion."
"I don't like to do it. It seems cowardly."
"Why? Do you think they would spare you were the positions reversed?"
"No, certainly not; but—" turning her eyes toward the foliage without, and speaking wistfully, "I wish I knew how another woman would view my position. I never had the friendship of a woman who knew me as I am. I wish I knew how such a woman as Louise Barnard would advise me."
"I wish I knew how such a woman as Louise Barnard would advise me."—page 438."I wish I knew how such a woman as Louise Barnard would advise me."—page 438.
Scarcely knowing how to reply to this speech, I pass it by and hasten to finish my own.
Will she remain in her own house until I see her again, which may not be until to-morrow? And will she permit me to leave Gerry Brown here, for form's sake?
Jim Long would hardly question my movements and motives, but Mr. Warren, who is the fourth party in our confidence, might. So, for his gratification, I will leave Gerry Brown at the Hill.
She consents readily enough, and I go out to fetch Gerry.
"Miss Lowenstein, this is my friend, Gerry Brown, who has passed the night in your barn and in very bad company. Will you take pity on him and give him some breakfast?" I say, as we appear before her.
She examines Gerry's handsome face attentively, and then says:
"If your late companions were bad, Mr. Brown, you will not find your present company much better. You do look tired. I will give you some breakfast, and then you can lock me up."
"I'll eat the breakfast with relish," replies Gerry, gallantly; "but as for locking you up, excuse me. I've been told that you would feed me and let me lie down somewhere to sleep; and I've been ordered to stay here until to-morrow. It looks to me as if I were your prisoner, and such I prefer to consider myself."
I leave them to settle the question of keeper and prisoner as best they can, and go out to Jim.
He is smoking placidly, with Arch Brookhouse, in a fit of the sulks, sitting on an overturned peck measure near by, and Dimber Joe asleep on a bundle of hay in a corner.
We arouse Dimber and casting off the fetters from their feet, set them marching toward the town jail, where their brethren in iniquity are already housed.
Trafton is in a state of feverish excitement. As we approach the jail with our prisoners the air is rent with jeers and hisses for them, and "three cheers for the detective," presumably for me.
I might feel flattered and gratified at their friendly enthusiasm, but, unfortunately for my pride, I have had an opportunity to learn how easily Trafton is excited to admiration and to anger, so I bear my honors meekly, and hide my blushing face, for a time, behind the walls of the jail.
All the vigilants are heroes this morning, and proud and happy is the citizen who can adorn his breakfast table with one of the band. The hungry fellows, nothing loath, are borne away one by one in triumph, and Jim and I, who cling together tenaciously, are wrangled over by Justice Summers and Mr. Harris, and, finally, led off by the latter.
We are not bored with questions at the parsonage, but good, motherly Mrs. Harris piles up our plates, and looks on, beaming with delight to see her good things disappearing down our hungry throats.
We have scarcely finished our meal, when a quick, light step crosses the hall, and Louise Barnard enters. She has heard the clanging bells and witnessed the excitement, but, as yet, scarcely comprehends the cause.
"Mamma is so anxious," she says, deprecatingly, to Mr. Harris, "that I ran in to ask you about it, before going down to see Carl—Dr. Bethel."
While she is speaking, a new thought enters my head, and I say to myself instantly, "here is a new test for Christianity," thinking the while of that friendless girl at this moment a paroled prisoner.
"Miss Barnard," I say, hastily, "it will give me pleasure to tell you all about this excitement, or the cause of it."
"If I understand aright, you are the cause, sir," she replies, smilingly. "How horribly you have deceived us all!"
"But," interposes Mr. Harris, "this is asking too much, sir. You have been vigorously at work all night, and now—"
"Never mind that," I interrupt. "Men in my profession are bred to these things. I am in just the mood for story telling."
They seat themselves near me. Jim, a little less interested than the rest, occupying a place in the background. Charlie Harris is away at his office. I have just the audience I desire.
I begin by describing very briefly my hunt for the Trafton outlaws. I relate, as rapidly as possible, the manner in which they were captured, skipping details as much as I can, until I arrive at the point where I turn from the Trafton jail to go to The Hill.
Then I describe my interview with the counterfeiter's daughter minutely, word for word as nearly as I can. I dwell on her look, her tone, her manner, I repeat her words: "I wish I knew how another woman would view my position. I wish I knew how such a woman as Louise Barnard would advise me." I omit nothing; I am trying to win a friend for Adele Lowenstein, and I tell her story as well as I can.
When I have finished, there is profound silence for a full moment, and then Jim Long says:
"I know something concerning this matter. And I am satisfied that the girl has told no more and no less than the truth."
I take out a pocket-book containing papers, and select one from among them.
"This," I say, as I open it, "is a letter from the Chief of our force. He is a stern old criminal-hunter. I will read you whathesays in regard to the girl we have known as Adele Manvers, the heiress. Here it is."
And I read:
In regard to Adele Lowenstein, I send you the papers and copied reports, as you request; but let me say to you, deal with her as mercifully as possible. There should be much good in a girl who would go to prison for two long years, rather than utter one word disloyal to her counterfeiter father. Those who knew her best, prior to that affair, consider her a victim rather than a sinner. Time may have hardened her nature, but, if there are any extenuating circumstances, consider how she became what she is, and temper justice with mercy.
"There," I say, as I fold away the letter, "that's a whole sermon, coming from our usually unsympathetic Chief. Mr. Harris, I wish you would preach another of the same sort to the Traftonites."
Still the silence continues. Mr. Harris looks serious and somewhat uneasy. Mrs. Harris furtively wipes away a tear with the corner of her apron. Louise Barnard sits moveless for a time, then rises, and draws her light Summer scarf about her shoulders with a resolute gesture.
"I am going to see Adele," she says, turning toward the door.
Mr. Harris rises hastily. He is a model of theological conservatism.
"But, Louise,—ah, don't be hasty, I beg. Really, it is not wise."
"Yes, it is," she retorts. "It is wise, and it is right. I have eaten her bread; I have called myself her friend; I shall not abandon her now."
"Neither shall I!" cries Mrs. Harris, bounding up with sudden energy. "I'll go with you, Louise."
"But, my dear," expostulates Mr. Harris, "if you really insist, I will go first; then, perhaps—"
"No, you won't go first," retorts his better half. "You don't know what that poor girl needs. You'd begin at once to administer death-bed consolation. That will do for 'Squire Brookhouse, but not for a friendless, unhappy girl. Take your foot off my dress, Mr. Harris; I'm going for my bonnet!"
She conquers, of course, gets her bonnet, and ties it on energetically.
During the process, I turn to Jim.
"Long," I say, "we have yet one task to perform. Dr. Denham is on duty at the cottage, and fretting and fuming, no doubt, to know the meaning of all this storm in Trafton. Bethel, too, may be anxious—"
"Now, hear him!" interrupts our hostess, indignantly. "Just hear that man! As if you were not both tired to death already. You two are to stay right here; one in the parlor bed, and one in Charlie's room; and you're to sleep until dinner, which I'll be sure to have late. Mr. Harris can run down to the cottage and tell all the news. It will keep him from going where he is not wanted."
Mr. Harris warmly seconds this plan. Jim and I are indeed weary, and Mrs. Harris is an absolute monarch. So we submit, and I lay my tired head on her fat pillows, feeling that everything is as it should be.
It is late in the afternoon when I awake, for Mrs. Harris has been better than her word.
Jim is already up, and conversing with Mr. Harris on the all-absorbing topic, of course.
After a bountiful and well-cooked dinner has received our attention, Jim and I go together to the cottage.
Here we are put upon the witness stand by "our old woman," who takes ample vengeance for having been kept so long in the dark concerning my business in Trafton.
After he has berated us to his entire satisfaction, and after Bethel, who, having heard a little, insists upon hearing more, has been gratified by an account of the capture, given for the most part by Jim Long, we go southward again and come to a halt in Jim's cottage. Here we seat ourselves, and, at last, I hear the story of Jim Long, or the man who has, for years, borne that name.
"My name is Harvey James," he begins, slowly. "My father was a farmer, and I was born upon a farm, and lived there until I became of age.
"Except two years passed at a college not far from my home, I had never been a week away from my father's farm. But after my twenty-first birthday, I paid a visit to the city.
"It was short and uneventful, but it unsettled me. I was never content upon the home farm again.
"After my father died and the property came into my possession, I resolved to be a farmer no longer, but to go and increase my fortune in the city.
"My farm was large and valuable, and there was considerable money in the bank. My mother clung to the farm; so, as the house was a large one, I reserved for her use, and mine when I should choose to come home, a few of the pleasantest rooms, and put a tenant into the remainder of the house.
"I was engaged to be married to a dear girl, the daughter of our nearest neighbor. She was pretty and ambitious. She heartily approved of my new departure, but when I urged our immediate marriage, she put the matter off, saying that she preferred to wait a year, as by that time I should be a city gentleman; and until I should have become established in business, I would have no time to devote to a rustic wife. If she had married me then, my fate might have been different, God knows! But I went to the city alone, and before the year had elapsed I was in a prison cell!
"I took with me a considerable sum of money, and I commenced to enjoy city life. I began with the theaters and billiards, and went on down the grade. Before I had been in town a mouth I became acquainted with Brooks, the name then used by 'Squire Brookhouse. He professed to be a lawyer, and this profession, together with his superior age, won my confidence, as, perhaps, a younger man could not have done. After a time he made me acquainted with Joe Blaikie and Jake Lowenstein, both brokers, so he said.
"I was an easy victim; I soon began to consult the 'brokers' as to the best investment for a small capital.
"Of course they were ready to help me. I think I need not enter into details; you know how such scoundrels work. We soon became almost inseparable, and I thought myself in excellent company, and wrote glowing letters to my mother and sweetheart, telling them of my fine new friends and the promising prospect for a splendid investment, which was to double my money speedily, and laying great stress upon the fact that my prospective good fortune would be mainly brought about by my 'friends,' the lawyer and the brokers, who 'knew the ropes.'
"At last the day came when I drew a considerable sum of money from my home bankers, to invest in city stock. The 'brokers' strongly advised me to put in all I could command, even to the extent of mortgaging my farm, but this I would not do. I adhered to my stern old father's principle, 'never borrow money to plant,' and I would not encumber my land; but I drew every dollar of my ready capital for the venture.
"I had established myself in comfortable rooms at a hotel, which, by-the-by, was recommended me by Brooks, as a place much frequented by 'solid men.' And soon the three blacklegs began dropping in upon me evenings, sometimes together, sometimes separately. We would then amuse ourselves with 'harmless' games of cards. After a little we began to bet chips and coppers, to make the game more interesting.
"They worked me with great delicacy. No doubt they could have snared me just as easily with half the trouble they took. I was fond of cards, and it was not difficult to draw me into gambling. I had learned to drink wine, too, and more than once they had left me half intoxicated after one of our 'pleasant social games,' and had laughingly assured me, when, after sobering up, I ventured a clumsy apology, that 'it was not worth mentioning; such things would sometimes happen to gentlemen.'
"On the night of my downfall I had all my money about my person, intending to make use of it early on the following morning. I expected the three to make an evening in my room, but at about eight o'clock Lowenstein came in alone and looking anxious.
"He said that he had just received a telegram from a client who had entrusted him with the sale of a large block of buildings, and he must go to see him that evening. It was a long distance, and he would be out late. He had about him a quantity of gold, paid in to him after banking hours, and he did not like to take it with him. He wanted to leave it in my keeping, as he knew that I intended passing the evening in my rooms, and as he was not afraid to trust me with so large a sum.
"I took the bait, and the money, three rouleaux of gold; and then, after I had listened to his regrets at his inability to make one at our social game that evening, I bowed him out and locked the door.
"As I opened my trunk and secreted the money in the very bottom, underneath a pile of clothing and books, I was swelling with gratified vanity, blind fool that I was, at the thought of the trust imparted to me. Did it not signify the high value placed upon my shrewdness and integrity by this discriminating man of business?
"Presently Brooks and Blaikie came, and we sat down to cards and wine. Blaikie had brought with him some bottles of a choice brand, and it had an unusual effect upon me.
"My recollections of that evening are very indistinct. I won some gold pieces from Brooks, and jingled them triumphantly in my pockets, while Blaikie refilled my glass. After that my remembrance is blurred and then blank.
"I do not think that I drank as much wine as usual, for when I awoke it was not from the sleep of intoxication. I was languid, and my head ached, but my brain was not clouded. My memory served me well. I remembered, first of all, my new business enterprise, and then recalled the events of the previous evening, up to the time of my drinking a second glass of wine.
"I was lying upon my bed, dressed, as I had been when I sat down to play cards with Brooks and Blaikie. I strove to remember how I came there on the bed, but could not; then I got up and looked about the room.
"Our card table stood there with the cards scattered over it. On the floor was an empty wine-bottle—where was the other, for Blaikie had brought two? On a side table sattwowine-glasses, each containing a few drops of wine, and a third which wasclean, as if it had been unused.
"Two chairs stood near the table, as if lately occupied by players.
"What did it mean?
"I stepped to the door and found that it had not been locked. Then I thought of my money. It was gone, of course. But I still had in my pockets the loose gold won at our first game, and the three rouleaux left by Lowenstein were still in my trunk. I had also won from Brooks two or three bank notes, and these also I had.
"You can easily guess the rest. The three sharpers had planned to secure my money, and had succeeded; and to protect themselves, and get me comfortably out of the way, they had laid the trap into which I fell.
"Blaikie appeared at the police station, and entered his complaint. He had been invited to join in a social game of cards at my rooms. When he arrived there, Brooks was there, seemingly on business, but he had remained but a short time. Then we had played cards, and Blaikie had lost some bank-notes. Next he won, and I had paid him in gold pieces. He had then staked his diamond studs, as he had very little money about him. These I had won, and next had permitted him to win a few more gold pieces. Blaikie did not accuse me of cheating, oh, no; but he had just found that I had won his diamonds and his honest money, and had paid him incounterfeit coin.
"At that time, Blaikie had not become so prominent a rogue as he now is. His story was credited, and, while I was yet frantically searching for my lost money, the police swooped down upon me, and I was arrested for having circulated counterfeit money. The scattered cards, the two wine-glasses, the two chairs, all substantiated Blaikie's story.
"A search through my room brought to light Blaikie's diamonds, and some plates for engraving counterfeit ten dollar bills, hidden in the same receptacle. In my trunk were the three rouleaux of freshly-coined counterfeit gold pieces, and in my pockets were some more loose counterfeit coin, together with the bank-notes which Blaikie had described to the Captain of police.
"It was a cunning plot, and it succeeded. I fought for my liberty as only a desperate man will. I told my story. I accused Blaikie and his associates of having robbed me. I proved, by my bankers, that a large sum of money had actually come into my possession only the day before my arrest. But the web held me. Brooks corroborated Blaikie's statements; Lowenstein could not be found.
"I was tried, found guilty, and condemned for four years to State's prison. A light sentence, the judge pronounced it, but those four years put streaks of gray in my hair and changed me wonderfully, physically and mentally.
"I had gone in a tall, straight young fellow, with beardless face and fresh color; I came out a grave man, with stooping shoulders, sallow skin, and hair streaked with gray.
"My mother had died during my imprisonment; my promised wife had married another man. I sold my farm and went again to the city; this time with a fixed purpose in my heart. I would find my enemies and revenge myself.
"I let my beard grow, I dropped all habits of correct speaking, I became a slouching, shabbily-dressed loafer. I had no reason to fear recognition,—the change in me was complete."
He paused, and seemed lost in gloomy meditations, then resumed:
"It was more than three months before I struck the trail of the gang, and then one day I saw Brooks on the street, followed him, and tracked him to Trafton. He had just purchased the 'Brookhouse farm' and I learned for the first time that he had a wife and family. I found that Lowenstein, too, had settled in Trafton, having been arrested, and escaped during my long imprisonment; and I decided to remain also. I had learned, during my farm life, something about farriery, and introduced myself as a traveling horse doctor, with a fancy for 'settling' in a good location. And so I became the Jim Long you have known.
"I knew that the presence of ''Squire Brookhouse' and 'Captain Manvers, late of the navy,' boded no good to Trafton; I knew, too, that Lowenstein was an escaped convict, and I might have given him up at once; but that would have betrayed my identity, and Brooks might then escape me. So I waited, but not long.
"One day 'Captain Manvers,' in his seaman's make-up, actually ventured to visit the city. He had so changed his appearance that, but for my interference, he might have been safe enough. But my time had come. I sent a telegram to the chief of police, telling him that Jake Lowenstein was coming to the city, describing his make-up, and giving the time and train. I walked to the next station to send the message, waited to have it verified, and walked back content.
"When Jake Lowenstein arrived in the city, he was followed, and in attempting to resist the officers, he was killed.
"Since that time, I have tried, and tried vainly, to unravel the mystery surrounding these robberies. Of course, I knew Brooks and his gang to be the guilty parties, but I was only one man. I could not be everywhere at once, and I could never gather sufficient evidence to insure their conviction, because, like all the rest of Trafton, I never thought of finding the stolen horses in the very midst of the town. I assisted in organizing the vigilants, but we all watched the roads leading out from the town, and were astounded at our constant failures.
"And now you know why I hailed your advent in Trafton. For four years I have hoped for the coming of a detective. I would have employed one on my own account, but I shrank from betraying my identity, as I must do in order to secure confidence. In every stranger who came to Trafton I have hoped to find a detective. At first I thought Bethel to be one, and I was not slow in making his acquaintance. I watched him, I weighed his words, and, finally, gave him up.
"When you came I made your acquaintance, as I did that of every stranger who tarried long in Trafton. You were discreetness itself, and the man you called Barney was a capital actor, and a rare good fellow too. But I studied you as no other man did. When I answered your careless questions I calculated your possible meaning. Do you remember a conversation of ours when I gave my opinion of Dr. Bethel, and the 'average Traftonite'?"
"Yes; and also told us about Miss Manvers and the treasure-ship. Those bits of gossip gave us some pointers."
"I meant that they should. And now you know why I preferred to hang on the heels of Joe Blaikie rather than go with the vigilants."
"I understand. Has Blaikie been a member of the gang from the first?"
"I think not. Of course when I heard that Brooks intended to employ a detective, I was on the alert. And when Joe Blaikie and that other fellow, who was a stranger to me, came and established themselves at the Trafton House, I understood the game. They were to personate detectives. Brooks was too cunning to make their pretended occupations too conspicuous; but he confided the secret to a few good citizens who might have grown uneasy, and asked troublesome questions, if they had not been thus confided in. I think that Blaikie and Brooks went their separate ways, when the latter became a country gentleman. Blaikie is too cowardly a cur ever to succeed as a horse-thief, and Brooks was the man to recognize that fact. I think Blaikie was simply a tool for this emergency."
"Very probable. When you told my landlord that Blaikie was a detective, did you expect the news to reach me through him?"
"I did," with a quizzical glance at me; "and it reached you, I take it."
"Yes; it reached me. And now, Long—it seems most natural to call you so—I will make no comments upon your story now. I think you are assured of my friendship and sympathy. I can act better than I can talk. But be sure of one thing, from henceforth you stand clear of all charges against you. The man who shot Dr. Bethel is now in limbo, and he will confess the whole plot on the witness stand; and, as for the old trouble, Joe Blaikie shall tell the truth concerning that."
He lifts his head and looks at me steadfastly for a moment.
"When that is accomplished," he says, earnestly, "I shall feel myself once more a man among men."
There was a meeting of the vigilants that night and Gerry Brown, Mr. Harris, Justice Summers and myself, were present with them.
I gave them the details of my investigation, and related the cause of Doctor Bethel's troubles. When they understood that the outlaws had looked upon Bethel as a detective, and their natural enemy, the vigilants were ready to anticipate the rest of my story.
When everything concerning the male members of the clique had been discussed, I entered a plea for Adele Lowenstein, and my audience was not slow to respond.
Mr. Harris arose in his place, and gave a concise account of the visit paid by his wife and Miss Barnard to the dethroned heiress, as he had heard it described by Mrs. Harris.
Adele Lowenstein had been sincerely grateful for their kindness, and had consented to act precisely as they should advise, let the result be what it would. She would give her testimony against the horse-thieves, and trust to the mercy of the Traftonites. Her story may as well be completed here, for there is little more to tell.
She was not made a prisoner. Mrs. Harris and Louise Barnard were not the women to do things by halves. They used all their influence in her favor, and they had the vigilants and many of the best citizens to aid them. They disarmed public opinion. They appealed to men high in power and won their championship. They conducted their campaign wisely and they carried the day.
There were found for Adele Lowenstein, the counterfeiter's daughter, "extenuating circumstances:" what the jury could not do the governor did, and she went out from the place, where justice had been tempered with mercy, a free woman.
The Hill was sold, and Miss Lowenstein, who had avowed her intention of retaking her father's name, sullied as it was, prepared to find a new home in some far away city.
One day while the trial was pending, Gerry Brown came to me with fidgety manner and serious countenance.
"Old man," he said, anxiously, "I've been thinking about Miss Lowenstein."
"Stop it, Gerry. It's a dangerous occupation for a fellow of your age."
"My, age indeed! Two years, four months and seventeen days younger than your ancient highness, I believe."
"A man may learn much in two years, four months, and seventeen days—, Gerry. What about Miss Lowenstein?"
"I'm sorry for the girl."
"So am I."
"Don't be a bore, old man."
"Then come to the point, youngster."
"Youngster!" indignantly, "well, I'll put that to our private account. About Miss Lowenstein, then: She is without friends, and is just the sort of woman who needs occupation to keep her out of mischief and contented. She's ladylike and clever, and she knows the world; don't you think she would be a good hand on the force."
I paused to consider. I knew the kind of woman that we sometimes needed, and it seemed to me that Adele Lowenstein would "be a good hand." I knew, too, that our Chief was not entirely satisfied with one or two women in his employ. So I stopped chaffing Gerry and said soberly:
"Gerry, it's a good idea. We'll consult the lady and if she would like the occupation, I will write to our Chief."
Adele Lowenstein was eager to enter upon a career so much to her taste, and our Chief was consulted. He manifested a desire to see the lady, and she went to the city.
The interview was satisfactory to both. Adele Lowenstein became one of our force, and a very valuable and efficient addition she proved.
I had assured Jim Long,—even yet I find it difficult to call him Harvey James,—that his name should be freed from blot or suspicion. And it was not so hard a task as he evidently thought it.
Blake Simpson, like most scamps of his class, was only too glad to do anything that would lighten his own sentence, and when he found that the Brookhouse faction had come to grief, and that his own part in their plot had been traced home to him by "the detectives," he weakened at once, and lost no time in turning State's evidence. He confessed that he had come to Trafton, in company with Dimber Joe, to "play detective," at the instigation, and under the pay of Brookhouse senior, who had visited the city to procure their services. And that Arch Brookhouse had afterward bribed him to make the assault upon Bethel, and planned the mode of attack; sending him, Simpson, to Ireton, and giving him a note to the elder Briggs, who furnished him with the little team and light buggy, which took him back to Trafton, where the shooting was done precisely as I had supposed after my investigation.
Dimber Joe made a somewhat stouter resistance, and I offered him two alternatives.
He might confess the truth concerning the accusations under which Harvey James had been tried and wrongfully imprisoned; in which case I would not testify against him except so far as he had been connected with the horse-thieves in the capacity of sham detective and spy. Or, he might refuse to do Harvey James justice, in which case I would put Brooks on the witness stand to exonerate James, and I myself would lessen his chances for obtaining a light sentence, by showing him up to the court as the villain he was; garroter, panel-worker, counterfeiter, burglar, and general utility rascal.
Brooks or Brookhouse was certain of a long sentence, I assured Blaikie, and he would benefit rather than injure his cause by exposing the plot to ruin and fleece James. Would Mr. Blaikie choose, and choose quickly?
And Mr. Blaikie, after a brief consideration, chose to tell the truth, and forever remove from Harvey James the brand of counterfeiter.
The testimony against the entire gang was clear and conclusive. The elder Brookhouse, knowing this, made very little effort to defend himself and his band, and so "The 'Squire" and Arch Brookhouse were sentenced for long terms. Louis Brookhouse, the two Briggs, Ed. Dwight, the festive, Larkins and the two city scamps, were sentenced for lesser periods, but none escaped lightly.
Only one question, and that one of minor importance, yet lacked an answer, and one day, before his trial, I visited Arch Brookhouse in his cell, my chief purpose being to ask this question.
"There is one thing," I said, after a few words had passed between us, "there is one thing that I should like you to tell me, merely as a matter of self-gratification, as it is now of no special importance; and that is, how did you discover my identity, when I went to Mrs. Ballou's disguised as a Swede?"
He laughed harshly.
"You detectives do not always cover up your tracks," he said, with a sneer. "I don't object to telling you what you seem so curious about. 'Squire Ewing and Mr. Rutger went to the city to employ you, and no doubt you charged them to be secret as the grave concerning your plans. Nevertheless, Mr. Rutger, who is a simple-minded confiding soul, told the secret in great confidence to Farmer La Porte; and he repeated it, again in great confidence in the bosom of his family."
"And in the presence of his son, Johnnie?"
"Just so. When we learned that a disguised detective was coming into the community, and that he would appear within a certain time, we began to look for him, andyouwere the only stranger we discovered."
"And you wrote me that letter of warning?"
"Precisely."
"And undoubtedlyyouare the fellow who shot at me?"
"I am happy to say that I am."
"And I am happy to know that I have deprived you of the pleasure of handling firearms again for some time to come. Good morning, Mr. Brookhouse."
That was my final interview with Arch Brookhouse, but I saw him once more, for the last time, when I gave my testimony against him at the famous trial of the Trafton horse-thieves.
When the whole truth concerning themodus operandiof the horse-thieves was made public at the trial, when the Traftonites learned that for five years they had harbored stolen horses under the very steeples of the town, and that those horses, when the heat of the chase was over, were boldly driven away across the country and toward the river before a lumbering coal cart, they were astounded at the boldness of the scheme, and the hardihood of the men who had planned it.
But they no longer marveled at their own inability to fathom so cunning a plot.