Oakes looked into the mass of men and scanned the pale face of the injured one. "It's Maloney," he said, seizing the doctor and myself by the arm. He pushed his way forward as the crowd recognized and opened for Mr. Clark.
"Well, Maloney, what is it?" asked Oakes.
"I was shot at, sir," he exclaimed, "shot at, in the very spot where Mr. Mark was killed; and then, sir, someone hit me a blow on the head, and I fell."
I saw Oakes run his hand over Maloney's scalp.
"I was dazed, sir, when these men found me," finished the gardener.
"Yes," said two laborers, "we found him on the ground just waking up, and acting queer-like. And here's the revolver; it was lying behind the rock, sir."
"How did it happen?" asked Oakes.
"I heard a shot near me," Maloney answered, "a heavy revolver shot. I turned, and was then hit with something like a sand-bag, I guess, for everything got dim."
Hallen walked him into the headquarters building, to avoid the rapidly increasing crowd.
"Shut the doors," he ordered. The command was quickly obeyed, and we who had worked together were all within the building now, away from the crowd.
"Who was it?" asked Hallen of Maloney.
The man hesitated a while, but upon being pressed for an answer finally replied: "I have not dared to mention my suspicions, sir, but the fellow looked like Mike O'Brien. At any rate, he was wounded; he was walking with a limp, sir, and I saw blood on histrousers leg. He must have been in a scrap or an accident."
"When I was coming to," he continued, "I saw him hiding a revolver behind a rock. I pointed out the place to the men when they came a few moments after, and they found it."
"Why did you not cry out for help?" asked Oakes suddenly, even viciously, I thought.
Maloney answered quickly: "Because he thought I was dead, and I let him think so. If I had made any noise, sir, he would have finished me. I did not move until I knew help was near."
"Good!" said Oakes; "you had presence of mind. Let us see the revolver; the men left it here, did they not?"
Hallen stepped forward with the weapon.
Oakes examined it; but his look informed us that it was not theoldone taken from the wall in the Mansion.
Further questioning failed to reveal anything of importance, but it seemed clear from what Maloney said that the assaulter escaped on horseback after he was seen by his intended victim, for Maloney insisted that he had heard a galloping horse afterwards.
"He was wounded, you said?" queried the detective.
"Yes, sir, quite badly, I thought."
Moore examined Maloney's injury and took careful note of his condition; then the gardener was told to go, and he was soon joined outside by the two laborers—his new found friends. Together they went for the hotel bar across the street. As they disappeared, Oakes exchanged glances with the doctor, and I knew that something was wrong. There came a long silence, which Hallen finally broke.
"This is a queer story, Oakes; I don't understand it. Is it the murderer at work again—and O'Brien accused? You say the Mansion mysteries are the work of the same hand that shot Mr. Mark, and possibly Mr. Smith. But those mysteries are old, and O'Brien is a recent arrival here and knows very little of the Mansion. I cannot see his guilt. How do you explain it, Oakes?"
The keen man addressed faced the Chief, and we all knew the words that were coming were valuable.
"Chief, I have just told you of Mr. Stone's adventures with me thismorning—of my proof that Maloney lied to us. Well, he has lied again."
"Yes," chimed in Dr. Moore, "the man's a fake. He was not seriously injured, if at all."
"I saw through Maloney's story instantly," continued Oakes. "He said he was assaulted by O'Brien, who was, according to his own story, a badly wounded man. He said O'Brien hid the revolver afterwards, while he, Maloney, was shamming death, and that O'Brien sought to escape. It is nonsense."
"Why? I fail to see!" I asked excitedly.
Oakes turned to me: "Why, Stone, don't you see the flaws? Would a seriously injured man attempt deliberate murder? What show would he have to escape? Then, again, if able to get away himself, would he hide the revolver near the scene of the crime, behind a rock? No, he would take it with him as a defensive weapon, or else hide it where it never could be found; in the Hudson, for instance, or the brook—both near at hand."
"True enough," cried Hallen, his face showing his admiration; "but what's your idea, then, Oakes?"
"Just this, gentlemen. Maloneyhimselfshot O'Brien, and seeing the latter escape knew that his game was up, for he had been identified by O'Brien. So he hid the revolver that he himself used, and then pretended to have been sand-bagged and shot at. He relied on the weight of his word against O'Brien's, not knowing anything of the evidence collected against him or that we were anything but agents and workmen about the Mansion?"
The Chief looked long and half sceptically at Oakes, then asked: "Does Maloney meet your requirements? Does he fill the bill?"
"Well, he has a strong wrist and long arms," answered Oakes—"that places him among thepossibles; he also has a comparatively narrow chest, such as the man had who wore the robe—you remember we reasoned that out. Those three things cover much ground. Then, again, he is an old resident, knows all about the Mansion, was here when Smith was murdered."
Elliott now spoke up: "Oakes, you said the murderer was a good shot. Is Maloney a good shot with a revolver?"
"Yes, he was; he used to belong to the National Guard years ago. He was a splendid shot then, according to evidence procured by my men."
"But the revolver to-day was not the old one?" queried the Chief.
"No," answered Oakes; "but he can easily have two."
"I had better arrest him now as a suspicious person," exclaimed Hallen excitedly.
"Not yet. Let us besurefirst—remember Skinner has a motive for crossing us; he has tried to defeat the aims of justice right through. He was dealing money this morning to someone; suppose it was to Maloney—what is his reason?"
Hallen thumped the table furiously as though a new thought had come to him. "Skinner answers the physical requirements also, Mr. Oakes—he was also a guardsman—a good shot."
"Yes," answered Oakes, "but scarcely strong enough to overpower me at the Mansion."
"Unless he was acting while in mania, as we presume this criminal acts," said Moore.
I sat spellbound as these men discussed the intricacies of the affair,realizing the truth of their reasonings and marvelling at the clues, conceptions and brilliant memories revealed, especially by the masterly Oakes.
"Too bad you cannot find Skinner, and see what he is up to," I remarked.
"We must let Hallen keep watch on him until we are ready for our final move. It would be easy to arrest him on suspicion, but that might defeat our object, and, again, I do not believe in making arrests until my case is clear," said Oakes.
"Do you not think Skinner might be the murderer?" I asked.
"Not as I see things now. It seems more probable that he is interested in someone whom he wants to get out of harm's way. His motive throughout this affair has been to hide the guilty, I think."
"And what do you make of that man O'Brien?" queried Dowd; "he seems to be a mysterious fellow."
Oakes and Hallen exchanged knowing glances. "He's another possibility; he's a little Tartar," said the detective.
"But won't Maloney get away now?" asked Elliott.
"Nit," was the answer from Hallen. "Those two 'laborers' with him are my 'specials.'"
I was getting entirely tied up now, but, desiring to appear erudite and worthy of such company, I blurted forth: "Who is Mike O'Brien, anyway?"
Oakes looked at us all coolly and exasperatingly. "He seems to be a little extra thrown in. I'll tell you all about it when you tell me if the 'S' on the handkerchief has anything to do with Mr. Skinner."
An exclamation of surprise went up. We had all forgottenthat. But before we could resume, a message arrived for Oakes. It was brought by one of the men whom we knew so well by sight around the Mansion. He told of the finding of a burned tree, hidden in the forest, near the scene of the murder of Mr. Mark. Those who were searching had discovered that the tree was recently struck by lightning and that within its burned interior was ash.
The man had brought some with him, and also a small, crumpled piece of newspaper. Oakes looked carefully at them as we glanced over his shoulder.
"At last!" cried he. "Here is wood ash—wet, as was that on the robe; and here is paper like thatof the 'Daily News,' which we found in the robe; is it not?"
"Yes," cried Moore. "It is indeed—can it be?"
"Yes," came the answer from Oakes; "my orders to search for the origin of the ash have been crowned with success. The robe was in that tree."
"But," I cried, "of what value is that?"
"Just this—the robe was not worn at the time of the murder. Remember, Joe did not see it—it had been hidden, probably. The murderer used it to go and to come in, but for some unknown reason discarded it at the shooting."
"Excuse me," said the messenger, "excuse me, Mr. Oakes—but that's about right. The tree was beyond the stone where he crossed and lost the handkerchief. He was running for the robe, sir; the murderer was after his disguise."
Oakes looked at his subordinate calmly and smiled ever so slightly. The man bowed and retreated, abashed at his own impetuosity.
Hallen turned to our friend Oakes and said: "I never in my life saw anything like this—like you."
Oakes, always ready to side-step praise in anyform, answered, with one of his chilling glances: "Oh, bother! You're young yet, Hallen; you need age."
Hallen half resentfully yanked his cap on his head and strode to the door.
"Well," he remarked, "here's where I take a look at Maloney's arms—I am dead tired of theorizing."
"Stop!" commanded Oakes; "you'll spoil it all."
"I won't spoil the cross on the arm—the cross of indigo—if it's there; and if it ain't there, it ain't. Hang it all, anyway." And forthwith Hallen strode out the door, down the steps toward the hotel bar-room, with Oakes and the rest of us following in a vain endeavor to head him off.
When we reached the bar-room, Hallen was already in the side room. We rushed toward the little room door, expecting to see Maloney in the grasp of Hallen; but instead, we beheld the Chief gazing in stupefaction at his two men dead drunk, heads between their hands on the little round table.
"——————,——!" cried the Chief in a voice that shook the glasses on the shelves inthe bar-room and brought the white-coated attendant with one bound to the door. "Hell—en—Maloney's escaped."
"Escaped!" cried the bar-keeper. "Escaped!—nit. Why, he paid for the drinks and walked out half an hour ago—said he had a job at the Mansion. These fellows—gosh!" cried the man as he shook them—"drunk! What's up—what does it mean, Chief?"
Then Quintus Oakes spoke in tones of dulcet and ineffable sweetness, cooingly, charmingly. "It means that Chief Hallen pays for a round of the best you've got. In order to see a cross on a man's arm it becomes necessary first to catch the man—something like the bird's tail and the salt proposition."
"Mix 'em up quick!" shouted Hallen, advancing to the bar. "Hell—en—be damned! Get the two samples of Mona's police out into the air! Hell—en——!"
CHAPTER XX
A Man's Confession
The assault upon Maloney was now the talk of the town. Hallen, who had enjoyed a respite from censure, was again furiously blamed for inability and incompetence. None but our select few discerned that Maloney was lying, for none knew as much of the intricacies of the case as did we. All were crying out for the instant arrest of the one who had attempted to kill him, but none but the few who had heard Maloney's statement within headquarters knew that it was O'Brien he had accused—and only those few knew that his story was probably false.
Although the order had gone forth quietly, as we knew, to "find Mike O'Brien," still it was not known to any save Hallen's and Oakes's men.
The masses were in ignorance of the strides we had made twards the solution of the horrible happenings at Mona, and, of course, Hallen was getting more than he deserved in the way of criticism.
Oakes told us that he momentarily expected some new developments in the case, as Hallen was endeavoring to find Skinner and bring him to the Mansion. His surmises proved true, for it was found an easy matter to locate the old man; and early in the evening Hallen arrived at the Mansion and joined us in the apartments upstairs, and with him were Martin and Skinner.
Dowd, the rival of the old man, was with us, having begged earnestly of Oakes to be allowed to follow as close to the action as possible, and having stuck by us like a veritable leech since the morning. Dowd was a nice fellow, and a newspaper man from start to finish, and he seemed to have developed a great liking for Oakes.
We were all upstairs when Martin ushered in the tall, rather slender, but powerful old man, Skinner. None of us, save Hallen, had seen him at close range before; but I saw a curious expression, half of defiance, half of dismay, in his face, that made me watch him most closely. Dr. Moore was scanning his features carefully in a way that showed he had detected something, but Quintus Oakes, rising from his seatand advancing politely to meet the old gentleman, seemed neither to have seen anything nor to know anything. He was just the polished gentleman we all knew so well; but I noticed that, as he shook hands with Mr. Skinner, he cast a quick glance at the man's arm and the wrist, and then at the old man's eyes.
Moore whispered: "He has excluded Skinner as the criminal. Look! see him take it all in."
Oakes was leading Skinner to a seat, and as he walked, he spoke freely. He had discovered that which Dr. Moore had also seen, but which I had failed to detect.
"Mr. Skinner, allow me," said he, gracefully. "It's not well lighted here; I imagine that little white scar on your right eye—on your cornea, just in front of the pupil—interferes somewhat with your vision."
"Yes, Mr. Clark, it does interfere just a trifle."
"Just enough to spoil duck-shooting, eh! I understand you used to be quite fond of that sort of thing, Mr. Skinner."
Moore and Hallen exchanged glances; and theknowledge was general to us—the old man wasnotthe murderer, for the assassin could shoot well, and the old scar on the eye prevented that in Skinner's case.
"But to what do I owe the honor of a request to call at the Mansion, escorted by such a nice young man, to see Mr. Clark, the agent?" queried Skinner.
The old fellow was shrewd—he looked at Hallen and smiled half-heartedly. Then he looked at me, and remarked that we had met before somewhere, and extending his hand to Moore, he said he guessed he was glad to know us all better. Then turning quietly to Chief Hallen, he laughed, and gave us a shock from which we were unable to rally for a few moments.
"Well, Chief, they're keeping you busy. They tell me you don't like it because I exposed that fellow who palmed himself off as Mr. Quintus Oakes—that man Rogers, you know."
"No, I did not like it particularly—it interfered with my plans; I am trying to catch the murderer of Mr. Mark, you know."
"Suppose you are! you haven't got him yet.You can search me, Chief. I think Mr. Quintus Oakes here is entitled to all the credit so far—eh—don't you?"
The old fellow turned to Oakes as he spoke the words that showed he was not to be fooled into believing Oakes was Clark.
We moved nearer. Skinner knew all, apparently.
Then Oakes arose to meet the occasion, and stood before the old man: "Mr. Skinner, I thank you for warning me not to come to Mona—it was your letter I received. But why did you warn me? Was it to protect your secret?"
Oakes had acted all along as though he had learned some things he had not spoken of to us—he and Hallen had seemed to comprehend more than we others knew; but I was scarce prepared for such a sudden revelation.
"Stop!" cried the old man, "stop! you have no right—I did warn you to keep away from Mona—I knew of the Mansion mysteries—I knew you by sight in New York—I recognized you here on your first visit—I did not want to see a good man get in trouble."
"Thank you," said Oakes, "thank you. Your kindness was appreciated, but you have another motive—you are shielding someone."
"None—no one," came the answer.
"Nonsense!" and Oakes's eyes blazed as he spoke; "you tried to send him away this morning. You gave him money at the hut. You were nearly killed by the man you are protecting. Can you explain it?"
The old man was shaking violently. He arose, tottered and sat down. Then burying his head in his hands, he remained silent for a space of seconds. Then shaking his head, he moaned: "No, I can't explain. I had given him all. Mr. Oakes, he was not robbing me—he seemed angry—he—I could not understand."
"I can," said Oakes. "The man you have befriended these many years, the man Maloney who used to work with you in your shop, to whom you gave, among many other things, a red bandana handkerchief with your initial 'S' upon it—one of those handkerchiefs you use about the printing office—that man, we think, is a maniac. We surmise thathe has the killing mania. Did you not suspect it?"
The old man's manner changed to one of terrified inquiry. "Why, I never suspected—I—I thought he was peculiar—I mistrusted he was at the bottom of the Mansion mysteries—I wanted to send him away to give him a show."
Oakes hesitated, then answered evasively, but forcefully: "Maloney is probably irresponsible. He is the man of the Mansion—the woman, so called, of the Smith murder—the murderer of Mr. Mark—we believe, but we are withoutproofas yet."
The old man's face filled with the blood dammed back from the throbbing heart, then paled as the heart-strokes weakened, and the cold sweat of collapse appeared in beady drops upon his brow.
Moore was at his side with a drink, and we all placed him on the sofa and watched the color return to the yellow-white face, and the respirations deepen again.
Oakes bent solicitously above him. "There is something back of all this, Skinner. Maloney is more than a friend." Then, as the old man rose, the detective, in tones gentle but strong, called Skinner's attention to the fact that his conduct in using the influence of his journal againstHallen and the discovery of the criminal needed an explanation.
Skinner arose, steadied himself, and turning to Hallen said, in a voice scarcely audible: "Chief, I have always been a good citizen till now. I wanted Maloney to get away. He would not go. I thought he might be at the bottom of the Mansion mysteries, but I had no idea he could be a murderer. I did not wish his identity revealed; I tried to discourage Mr. Oakes. I tried to save my reputation, Chief—to save a name good as the world goes; but this is my punishment. Study my face, Chief—study my eyes, my chin. Then imagine a handsome Spanish face—dark-haired, dark-skinned. Do you see why Maloney has blue eyes and a square chin—with hair black as the Indian's and skin swarthy as night? Gentlemen, do you understand? She is dead. Maloney does not know. I cared for the lad. He is my son. He always has been eccentric, but although perhaps insane, I had no proof. I tried to hide my secret, but if Justice demands his capture, Chief, I am at your disposal."
The old man extended his hands, his lips quivering with the words that spelled ruin, and advanced to the Chief, as though expecting arrest, while we all remained motionless, in pitying silence.
Hallen glanced at him. Then the burly fellow turned suddenly to Martin: "Here, you son of a dandy!" said he, as we all smiled and Oakes bit his lip in suppressed emotion, "here! you go on down to the stable and tell my coachman to drive round to the front door—I am going to have him drive home with Mr. Skinner." Then they walked to the door, the old man half-leaning on the thick-set, muscular shoulders of Hallen. At the threshold the Chief turned quickly: "If any of you ducks say anything, you're a lot of dudes," and the two disappeared downstairs to the coach.
After Hallen had returned to the room, and as the rumble of the wheels died away in the distance, Dowd addressed a question to Oakes. He wanted to know how Oakes had secured advance information as to the history of Skinner and the handkerchief.
"Well, Dowd, as soon as Skinner began antagonizing our moves, I suspected that he was the writerof the letter of warning. Then I ordered his history—you know those things are easily obtained. He came here years ago it seems, comparatively unknown, and worked his way up, employing a young fellow for many years in his office. This young fellow went West, but returned later. He was Maloney. He had not the mental attainments for his employer's business, but the older man kept in touch with the younger, even after he found it necessary to dispense with his services. When I saw Skinner, I detected some resemblance between them—this seems to have escaped general notice, but Dr. Moore was not deceived. A study of the eyes and the ears and the nose confirmed my suspicions of the paternity of Maloney; but all that, while interesting, was not so valuable as the knowledge that Maloney had several handkerchiefs given him by Skinner. You see, Skinner's conduct was so suspicious throughout that we have investigated him thoroughly. We found he wore such handkerchiefs around his neck in the printing office. We found Mrs. Cook was aware that Maloney had some of them—he told her that Mr. Skinner gave them tohim. He always was proud of Skinner's friendship."
"Then you knew all about it this morning, Quintus," I cried, exasperated at the man's taciturnity; "you knew when you said you would tell who O'Brien was, if I would tell whether the 'S' had anything to do with Skinner."
"No, but I mistrusted; the proofs were only more recently secured."
"Then, as you now have the answer regarding the 'S,' it seems only fair that you tell us who O'Brien is," I cried.
Oakes became very serious. "I believe O'Brien was the man watching on the balcony when Dr. Moore was assaulted; also that he was the man at the bridge who warned you, Stone, of danger, but who has kept his identity hidden. We had strong proof that he was at the hut watching, as were we; he accidentally left a part of his shirt with my man, remember. I also believe that he was wounded and is in hiding—wounded by Maloney, on the Highway, when he was about to close in upon him."
"What do you mean?" cried Moore. "Whatcurious conduct for a man—to keep in hiding!"
"No, not at all," answered Oakes sharply. "Remember how you saw him on horseback one night, revolver in hand. Well, he was attending to business.O'Brien is working on the Mansion mysteries.I believe he only knows half of the affair; he does not realize Maloney may be the murderer of Mark—his conduct is in accord with that of a brave detective working single-handed and desiring to keep his identity secret."
"Adetective!"
"Yes, I fancy so," answered Oakes, with a smile on his face. "Why not? We are not the only bees around the honeysuckle."
"By George! I never thought of that," exclaimed Moore.
"Indeed!" retorted Oakes in dulcet tones. "Why should you? You have not played this game before—it is new to you."
"And does Hallen know, does he mistrust that O'Brien is a detective?"
Oakes laughed. "Boys, you're slow. Of course he does. He has even found out there is a well-known detective by the name of Larkin who is fond ofthe alias O'Brien. This Larkin has a scar under his hair in front. We will perhaps be able to identify O'Brien soon."
"What made you first mistrust?" I asked.
"Why, remember how curiously O'Brien acted when we hunted the robe—how indifferent he was—how he used dialect!"
"Yes, but why—how?"
"Well," interrupted Oakes, "that dialect was poor—unnatural, consequently perhaps assumed. That was the first clue to explain the curious actions of Maloney's loving friend, who has stuck to him like molasses to a fly's leg."
"Let us go into town and have dinner at the hotel," I cried, disgusted at my lack of perspicacity. My invitation was accepted with the usual alacrity of hungry men, and we soon were striding along—Hallen, Oakes and Moore in front and Dowd, Elliott and myself behind. We walked close together, discussing the events and joking at one another in great good-natured animal spirits, for things werecoming to a head now and Broadway was not so far off after all.
As the darkness closed in upon us, relieved only by the faint glimmering of the rising moon, we were in a compact body—an excellent target. Strong in the presence of each other, we had for a moment forgotten that we were in the land where a brain disordered was at liberty. We, the criminal hunters, were but human—and this was our error.
CHAPTER XXI
The Attack
We had advanced along River Road to its junction with the Highway, and Martin had just closed in from behind as Dr. Moore started to say something about the dinner that was coming, when, just as we came into the shadows of the great trees to our left, a flame, instantaneous, reddish-blue, streaked forth from the side of the road and a deep, muffled, crashing sound came to our ears. Everyone recognized it instantly—it was not the high crack of a modern weapon such as we carried, but the unmistakable guttural of an old-style heavy revolver.
An instant, and the voice of Oakes rang out, cool, but intensely earnest, "To cover"—and we covered. Never before had six men melted from a close formation so rapidly, so silently, so earnestly.
Dr. Moore, Elliott and I reached the trees on the other side together, and lost our identity trying to find a place for our hunted bodies. We lay down ina heap behind a burned tree-stump, and said "damn" together.
Somewhere around was the fiend of Mona, and somewhere were Oakes, Hallen and Dowd, but not with us—we could swear to this, for we were in a class by ourselves and we knew one another even in the darkness.
We heard a sudden scuffle in the road, and saw a giant figure rush by us, throwing a silhouette on the roadway. It turned, faced about and crouched as another figure darted from the woods across the road. Then the figure crouching made a spring, and the two swayed to and fro before us like great phantoms, and then the figures separated, and one started down the Highway followed by the other at breakneck speed. Then we heard the voice of Oakes from somewhere:
"Halt! or I'll shoot."
The fugitives stopped, ducked, dashed toward us and by us, into the woods, and after them came the report of Oakes's revolver—we knew it by the quick, high-pitched note—and then—Oakes himself. It was evident to us he had fired in the air, for we all sawthe small flame point heavenward as his weapon was discharged.
Neither fugitive slackened his speed, but both rushed across the plains east by northeast into the face of the moon as it rose off the plateau of Mona.
"What is who?" gasped Moore.
"The which?" I answered, as a polar chill chased up my spine.
"Oh, the d——l!" soliloquized Elliott.
"See, the second man limps—he must be O'Brien; he is chasing the first one," whispered the doctor as we gazed into the night.
"And Oakes is cavorting after the bunch—I play him straight and place," spoke Elliott; "he is gaining."
We watched Oakes, fleeter than ever, steadier, disappear in the distance as the moon entered a passing cloud-bank and all became lonesome and dark.
"Let's get on the plain," said Elliott, and we crawled as best we could out of the woods toward the place where the three were last seen by us.
"Let's be in at the finish," I cried, and we started in the dim steely haze of the obscured moon to followthe chase. Darkness impenetrable came on, and suddenly a wild moan of anguish reached us—an awful, convulsive cry of terror. It neared us and was in our very neighborhood—in our midst—and again away; and with it came the rush of feet, heavy and tired, and soon the light tread of the pursuer—the athletic, soft tread of Oakes. I shall never forget that cry of terror. It was as though the soul had left the body in anguish—it was a cry of fear greater than man seemed capable of uttering.
From out of the darkness came the voice of Moore: "A maniac in terror!" Then the heavy tread was upon us again, a body darted past me, and the heavy revolver spoke again. I felt a stinging sensation in my arm, a numbness, a feeling of dread and of fear; then I reeled and recovered, and looking around me saw the figure dashing away like mad. The moon was uncovering again, and the fighting instinct of the brute was aroused within me. I knew I was wounded, but it was a trivial matter. I felt the surging of blood to my brain, the pumping of my heart, the warmth and glow of the body that comes whenone rallies from fear or surprise, and the next instant I was off in pursuit.
Always a good runner, I seemed endowed with the speed of the wind; slowly I gained. The man before me ran rapidly but heavily; he was tired. He glanced around and moved his arms, and I realized that he was unarmed. His weapon had fallen. I shut my mouth and saved my breath, and loosened joints which had not been oiled since the days of long ago, when I played on my college foot-ball team. Slowly I closed in—the capture was to be mine—the honor for Stone, yours truly—lawyer. I unreefed some more, and the ground went by under me like mad. I was dizzy with elation and courage and bull-hearted strength, and then, just as I came within talking distance of the fleeing terror, there was a report and my right leg dragged, my stride weakened and tied itself into bowknots, and I dropped my revolver. I realized I was done for. We all know the symptoms—the starboard front pulley of my new Broadway suspenders had "busted."
The next instant the "terror" had turned and was upon me. I felt a crashing fist in my face and another in my neck, a swinging blow on myjaw and a quick upper cut in my solar plexus; and as the moon had just again disappeared behind the cloud, I sank to the plain of Mona nearly unconscious—overpowered. I felt hands with the power of ten men seize my wrists. I felt them being tied together with handkerchiefs; I felt a heavy weight on my stomach, and realized that I was being used as a sofa. Then I started to call for help, to speak and to struggle; but the terror who had murdered and frightened, and held up this part of the State, soaked me again with both fists. I thought of home and New York and mint juleps, and of the two dollars I spent to railroad it up to Mona, and realized that it was cheap for all I was getting. Then I started in to die; and the fiend struck a match in my face, and I nearly did die. For it was that quiet, aristocratic Elliott. "You're the darndest ass I ever saw," said he as he got off; "why didn't you tell who you were?"
"Couldn't," I muttered. "I was thinking of——"
I never finished that remark, for the next instant Elliott was borne down to the ground by the force ofthe impact of a great body. He rolled about with the unknown, and tore and twisted. I heard the deafening blows rain on his head, and was powerless to aid, for my hands were tied and I was strangely weak—I was done for.
"You d—— fiend! I've got you. You will murder Stone along with the others, will you? You terror, you."
I recognized the voice as I heard the handcuffs click on Elliott, and realized it all.
It was too much. "Hallen!" I murmured. "Thank God! Soak him again," and I heard the blows descend on Elliott's anatomy. Then I relented.
"Spare him, Chief—it's Mr. Elliott."
Hallen roared in surprise. "Then the murderer has gotten away, with Oakes after him. I beg pardon—I—I—ha, ha!" and then the Chief roared again as he undid us and called for the others.
Lanterns were now brought from the Mansion, and a crowd of Oakes's men collected around us. I noticed that Moore and Hallen were looking at mecuriously; and then Oakes stepped to my side from somewhere out in the darkness.
"You're sick, old fellow!" he said softly.
"Sick!" and then I realized that things were strangely distant, that faces seemed far, far away, and that Moore's voice was miles off as he rushed to my side.
"Wounded! Look at his arm," he cried.
"Yes," I murmured; "it was that last shot—I forgot it."
I tried to raise the arm and saw that a red-blue stream was running down and dripping from my hand upon the ground.
I stepped forward to point to Hallen, and to tell about how he slugged Elliott; but as I moved I lurched forward, and a great strong arm closed about me and a tender voice whispered—miles—miles away. It was Oakes's voice.
"Here, Hallen, give us a hand," and I felt myself lifted tenderly and carried across the plateau. I was dimly conscious that Moore was working silently, rapidly, at my side, and that the strong, supple arm of Oakes was about me, and that Hallen washelping. A great wave of affection came over me for these tender, dear fellows—and I talked long and loud as Elliott wiped my face; and I told Moore that Elliott was a past master at slugging—and all the time the crowd grew. I heard the name of Mr. Clark shouted, and then my own; and then, as they bore me in at the Mansion gate, I passed away off into the distance and went into a deep, dark tunnel where all was quiet and still. And then I again heard Moore's voice saying: "He has fainted, Oakes. Get him to bed, or he will faint again."
There was such gentle tenderness in the faces around me, such gentle, strong words, and such gentle, strong lifting of my body, that I sighed at the deliciousness of it all—the splendor, the beauty of my journey—and all for two dollars' railroad fare.
I heard some curious statements about great bravery in dashing after the unknown, and all that sort of thing—and I knew enough to realize that the crowd had things twisted. Oakes was speaking to me like a big brother, and Hallen had somehow quit all his bluster, and was quiet and grave, and Moore and Elliott seemed foolishly attentive. I appreciatedtheir kindness, but did not quite understand, and their attentions amused me. I should have laughed outright, but things were becoming confused.
Then I realized that they were worried. How peculiar it seemed! The angel of friendship was about me. I felt a strange peacefulness as I entered the great Mansion. It seemed like a palace with golden walls, and the familiar voices of welcome warmed me.
Then I heard a deep, thumping, rhythmic tremor as it was borne through the air, and I knew that the boat on the river was passing the Mansion. I laughed long and loud at the peculiar words it was saying. I talked to it, commanded it to breathe more quietly, or it would disturb those asleep on the shore. Then I tried to explain to the judge that I was not a brave man—that it was all a mistake; that I had chased Elliott instead of the murderer; that the jury had failed to understand—and I laughed again.
My merriment grew as I caught sight of Oakes's face; it was so nonsensical of him not to have perceived that the steamer was at the bottom of the whole mystery. I tried to explain, then I shoutedat their stupidity, and finally laughed angrily and in despair. I was in the grip of delirium.
During the night they searched for the bullet, and found it—and some time next day I awoke in my right mind.
CHAPTER XXII
"The Insane Root"
During the next few days Elliott called frequently and apologetically. Although he had suffered considerably at the hands of Hallen, he appreciated how much attention he had given me on the plains of Mona where was my Waterloo, and he kept me informed of the doings of our party in the search for the murderer. But it was several days before he brought me the information that both O'Brien and Maloney had been found—O'Brien in a farm-house, nursing his leg; Maloney walking about town, cool and collected, apparently with nothing to conceal. I was told that he was not yet under arrest, but had been coaxed back to the Mansion to give evidence against O'Brien, as he was led to believe.
"But why doesn't he suspect? He must realize that suspicion is against him."
"Well, Dr. Moore told me recently that the criminal, if insane as we surmise, may be oblivious duringhis lucid intervals of what he has been through during his periods of aberration."
"I see," I answered, remembering that such had been often recorded; "and as his attacks of mania may be unwitnessed, he escapes detection because he carries but little ordinary evidence of these during the interval of quiescence."
Before my companion could frame an answer there was a sudden commotion below—a hurrying of feet, and the quiet, commanding voice of Oakes heard now and then above all. We knew the time had at last arrived for the closing scene; we both felt that the hour had come when the final settlement was to take place.
Next moment Oakes appeared. I had not seen him for many hours. He was changed, haggard, worn. His handsome face showed worry and loss of sleep, but his carriage and voice were as usual—vigorous, independent.
Grasping my hand firmly and turning a pleased glance of recognition at Elliott, he said, "Come, Stone, you're strong enough"; and next moment he had thrown a coat over my shoulders and washelping me down the stairs to the dining-room. He seemed to me to have grown more serious, more quiet than was his wont; but his actions were, as ever, strong, quick, easy of execution, and I knew that it was the steadying of the mind and body for the final strain. Oakes's reputation was at stake, and he was fully cognizant that an error of judgment, a flaw in his reasonings, a mishap in the execution of his well-formulated plans, might readily result disastrously, not only to his reputation but to the cause of justice.
Then I stepped across the threshold of the dining-room, and beheld a scene that will always linger in my mind. At the head of the table sat Hallen, and to his right was Dr. Moore, whose dress contrasted strangely with the Chief's blue uniform and brass buttons. Across the table from Moore was Dowd, and here and there about the room were some of Oakes's men, and some of Hallen's as well, lounging, looking out of the windows carelessly, but comprehensively.
As we entered, a deep guttural of welcome greeted me; and Oakes seated me by Moore's side, and Elliott went over and sat with Dowd. Then thedetective took the chair at the foot of the table, near which was an empty one.
It was evident at a glance that Oakes was to be the chief actor, while to Hallen had been given the chief position.
There was a moment's silence, then Hallen turned to Dr. Moore: "Are you positive," he said, "that Maloney is insane? I see no evidence."
"I am not positive as yet," was the reply. "Some signs indicate that he may be in the so-called interval between outbreaks of mental disease; but he is clever, as are almost all the insane, and he covers his condition well. Still, we can, and will put him to the test; we will soon determine if we are dealing with the 'insane root that takes the reason prisoner.'"
"But how can it be? He is not violent. I do not comprehend."
Moore glanced at the Chief. "Let Mr. Oakes explain—I should be too technical, I fear; he has an easier flow of words."
Hallen looked surprised. "Well, how is it,Oakes? How can you suspect such a man? Nobody ever saw him violent. What reason have you?"
Then Oakes turned. He was somewhat nettled, I thought, at Hallen's manner, but his voice did not betray him. His words came clearly, even curtly; but as he revealed his comprehensive knowledge of the matter in plain, every-day language, Hallen's manner changed wonderfully. Never before had he had such an opportunity to see the education of the man before him. Now it came as an overwhelming surprise.
"A lunatic does not necessarily rave or carry the ordinary signs of rending passion," began Oakes as he turned a quiet face of acknowledgment toward Dr. Moore. "The one who hears voices, real to him, but really arising in the diseased mechanism of his own brain—ordering him to be a martyr, a saviour of his country, or to spend the millions he imagines he possesses, is usually melancholy, reserved, cautious, ever on the watch, deceptive, but doubtful sometimes as to his own brain-workings.
"Likewise, the man who possesses the homicidalmania may be cautious and quiet—to the ordinary observer a normal citizen. But the aura of insanity is around him; he lives and moves and deceives, and hides from the outside world the words that come to him day or night—the words that arise not in the voice of a living man, but in his own diseased mind. The sufferer says nothing of the voices that tell him he is persecuted—that the world's hands are against him. By accident, in a moment of unwariness, he may reveal that he hears such voices; but it is an even chance that he will be laughed at and the warning fall on ears that fail to understand. He is considered a 'crank.'
"Then the unfortunate shrinks more into himself, becomes absolutely dominated by the ideas and commands generated in his own false mind. He may become violent by degrees, may scare and haunt the places where he believes himself abused; and all the while the voices tell him he is foolish, being put upon, and finally he becomes controlled by the delusion that he is being persecuted. Then perhaps suddenly comes the incentive, usually a command of false origin within his own brain, that makes theworm turn that reveals to the world that he is a maniac—a 'killer.' He hears the word 'kill,' and his mind, no longer even suspicions of its own disease as it was at first, becomes frenzied. He sometimes attacks openly, but usually does so secretively, with the cunning of the tiger, and kills and slaughters. Then he returns to his dreams—quiet, satisfied, spent."
Oakes paused. "You understand, Hallen," he said, "I am no expert; but such cases have come to my notice—it is not easy for me to explain more fully."
"Go on," was Hallen's answer; "go on, sir. I am deeply interested—it amazes me."
The Chief showed his words were those of genuine interest and surprise.
"The insane man leads a dual life," continued Oakes, "perhaps for a long time. Such a man is not yet an inmate of an asylum. His case is unrecognized—he is a soul battling with madness until some awful tragedy occurs, like that of Mona, to reveal his greatest of all misfortunes—the loss of reason."
We were all silent when Oakes finished speaking.Not a man there but now recognized and realized more fully what we had been fighting against. Then Hallen rose and looked at Oakes, then at all of us.
"Boys," he said, "according to custom, being Chief of Police of Mona, I am to make the arrest. That I will do, but let me tell you right here it is Mr. Oakes who will point out the culprit. I have been unable to get a clue, and I am damned if I'll take credit from a man like that." As he spoke he thumped the table with his hamlike fist. Hallen was not a clever man. He was about the average, perhaps a little above; but he was as honest as the day was long—a staunch, vigorous man—and we all admired him.
"Sit down," commanded Oakes harshly. "Don't give us any more such nonsense," and the Chief sat down, while we all half smiled at the discomfiture of both.
"Now, gentlemen," said Oakes, "let us keep our wits about us. First let me identify O'Brien, if possible, and let us study Maloney afterward. Remember, if O'Brien is not Larkin the detective, my case isnotready; if heisthe man we suspect, then wemust turn to Maloney regardless of any presence of insanity now, as he maybe in the quiescent period, so called, and may succeed in baffling us. Having once excluded O'Brien from suspicion, we will be justified in action against Maloney. We must prove his knowledge of the heavy revolver, if possible. Then if we succeed in forging that link to our chain, we will move quickly; upon his arm should be the cross seen by the dying Mr. Mark."
CHAPTER XXIII
The Test
As Oakes ceased speaking there came a silence. Although we were many there, there was not a motion for a space of seconds—not a sound save the deep breathing of Hallen and of some of the others upon whom the duty of the hour was to fall. Men trained for such scenes—always alive to the possibilities, always alert for trickery or treachery—are yet but human, and subject to the tension that is felt even by the most courageous.
Then, in obedience to a signal from Oakes, Martin appeared, escorting O'Brien, who was limping, into the room, and to the chair facing Oakes.
It soon became evident to us that Oakes's real identity was unknown to O'Brien. Even if the latter were the detective Larkin, he had failed to realize that Mr. Clark was anything but the agent for the property.
"You are wounded, my man! They tell me it happened in the Highway the other day, and that afterwards, at night, you chased Maloney on the plains of Mona, after he had fired upon us. Tell us about it, O'Brien."
Oakes's voice was calm and strong, but in it I fancied I detected a note of pity.
O'Brien hesitated, stammered. "How did you know when I was shot?" he exclaimed. "I told no one." Oakes smiled slightly. "Out with your story, O'Brien. Did you chase Maloney for revenge, or for revenge and business?"
O'Brien straightened in the chair. "Who is this man Clark? How peculiar these questions are!" his look plainly said.
"Why, for revenge, of course," he answered.
"Let's see your wound," commanded Oakes.
O'Brien bared his leg: the injury was now nearly healed; but was still enough to make the man limp. Then, as he bent down to readjust his trousers Oakes, accidentally as it were, brushed against his forehead, throwing back the hair from O'Brien's brow.
We all saw a long, white, glistening scar, now exposed to full view atthe line of the heavy hair. The man before uswasLarkin the detective.
Oakes with marvelous tranquillity apologized for the "accident," and said: "Why should Maloney have shot you? what is behind it all? Speak."
"I do not know." It was evident to us all that O'Brien was avoiding the issue.
"I see," exclaimed Oakes. "As O'Brien you know nothing; as Mr. Larkin the detective you know more than it suits you to tell."
O'Brien was on his feet in an instant. "Who dares insinuate—who dares say I am a detective, sir?"
"Nonsense! Keep cool. The Chief here has satisfied himself. Tell us—why should Maloney hate you?"
O'Brien glanced around and fixed his gaze on Hallen. "I am Larkin. He hates me because I have been watching him. Maloney is the man responsible for the Mansion mysteries, I think," he said.
"Indeed! What else?" queried Hallen suddenly.
"I believe he may be the murderer of Mr. Mark."
"What proofs have you?" asked Oakes, as we all leaned forward intently.
"No proof as yet."
"Exactly! But, Mr. Larkin, you deserve much credit," said Oakes, as he led O'Brien to a chair by Hallen's side. "Sit here," he continued. "I am going to have Maloney brought in now. He has always been a good gardener—a decent sort of fellow. I must hear his story before I give him up to the Chief. It has been suggested that Maloney may be mentally unbalanced; you will excuse me, Mr. Larkin, if I use you as a foil to draw him out while Dr. Moore assists me."
Then, by way of explanation, Oakes, whose identity was still unknown to Larkin, went on:
"You see, Chief Hallen wishes to be sure of some little points, and so do I. Perhaps Maloney will not resent my questioning; he should have no feelings against the agent of this property, whereas he might object to Hallen as an interlocutor."
Oakes was now a trifle pale, I thought. There were furrows on his forehead; his manner was suave and deliberately slow. But little did I dream thetrue depth of the man, the masterly manner in which he was about to test the mental balance of Maloney.
To one who was ignorant of the terrible events this story tells of, and the dire necessity of discovering once for all who was responsible for them, the efforts of these keen, scientific men to entrap a weakened brain would have seemed unfair and cruel.
But for those who knew the story and knew of the murderous deeds done in Mona by some unfortunate with a cunning, diabolic, although probably unbalanced mind, there remained only one alternative—to uncover and catch the criminal at all hazards.
Martin left the room, and returned escorting the suspect, who was dressed in his working clothes, his coat covering a gray jersey. His face was stolid, but not unprepossessing; his bearing, quiet and reserved. His blue eyes shifted quickly. Then, as Oakes stood facing him, he respectfully saluted "Mr. Clark."
The detective met him cheerily.
"Good-morning, Maloney; I have asked you as a favor to come here and identify the man who shot atyou the other day; O'Brien has reached the end of his rope now."
As Oakes finished his sentence, Maloney's face changed hue, but he faced O'Brien, hesitatingly, as though somewhat at a loss. "There's the man! Yes, he shot me," he cried.
Then again Oakes began to speak, and we all knew that he was purposely deceiving Maloney, playing with him—waiting for the moment when he would make the slip; when, if of diseased mind, he would fail to differentiate facts from fiction, when the false paths suggested to him would hopelessly entangle him.
"The other night, Maloney, someone fired upon us on the road. We have well-nigh proved O'Brien is the guilty one. You chased him across the plain. We owe our thanks to you, one and all of us. Hadyounot been so close behind him, he would have killed Mr. Stone here."
Oakes motioned toward me as he spoke. I saw it all. He was twisting the facts, drawing Maloney into a false idea that he was unsuspected—that he was a hero.
"Yes," I cried, seeing the point instantly. "I owe my life to you, old man. I thank you."
A sudden flash of remembrance seemed to cross the suspect's face. Then his brow darkened. There was some error here—he was no hero. But what was it? Somehow things were wrong, but where?
Dim recollection came to him, then a calmness curious to witness; but his eyes were shifting quickly, and the fingers of one hand were moving silently over one another, as though rolling a crumb of bread. The man was suspicious of something, but clever enough to be apparently calm, although not yet able to understand the flaw in the presentation of facts.
Then with a supreme effort he seemed to rally to the occasion, and cleverly evaded the issue. "I only did a little thing," he said, "you need not thank me."
The voice was uncertain; the tone pathetic, groping. Oakes had befuddled the poor intellect. Maloney was at sea and sinking.
"Maloney," said Oakes again—there was gentleness in the detective's voice; he knew the man before him was going down—"Maloney, when wewere fired upon you were watching the would-be murderer—this man O'Brien. You acted with the promptitude of lightning—O'Brien dropped the weapon he had with him. Did you see where it fell? It was a great army revolver, a 45-calibre weapon."
Maloney started and straightened up; there, at least, was a familiar subject. He rememberedthat, even though his mind failed to remember the details of the assault.
But Maloney knew there was some mistake; it was his weapon, not O'Brien's, that they were talking about. Suddenly, like a flash, came full remembrance—momentarily, only—and he unguardedly blurted out: "There is only one in the county like it"; then cunningly ceased speaking as though he feared his tongue, but could not exactly reason why.
There was a scarcely audible sigh of anxiety around the room—Oakes hadprovedMaloney's knowledge of the old revolver. Dr. Moore was gazing intently at the gardener's neck. The carotid arteries were pumping full and strong, down deep beneath the tissues, moving the ridges of his neck in rhythmicbut very rapid undulations—the man was showing great excitement.
"Maloney," said Oakes again, quickly returning to the attack, "before we were fired upon we fancied we heard a cry over the plain, a curious one like someone yelling an oath or an imperious command. Did you hear it?"
"Yes," interpolated Moore. "We thought the words were 'Fire!' or 'Kill! kill!'"
We all realized what the clever men were doing—telling imaginary things, trying to draw from Maloney an acknowledgment of a delusion. They were sounding his mind, playing for its weak spot.
The suspect looked surprised, bewildered, then suddenly fell into the trap. His weakened mind had been reached at its point of least resistance.
As in nearly all insane individuals, it took but a proper mention of the predominant delusion to reveal that which might otherwise have gone undetected for a long period.
"Yes," whispered Maloney. "I heard the command. It was 'Kill!' 'Murder!' I have heard it before. I am glad you heard it then—that provesthat I am right. I knew I was right. I can prove it. Surely it is not uncommon. Gentlemen, I have heard it before. I know—I believe—it was meant for—ha! ha!—O'Brien—ha! ha!—no! no!—forme!"
Moore stepped toward the man, whose speech now came thick and fast and unintelligible. Hallen closed nearer. Maloney was shaking. His face was turning dark, his jugulars were bulging like whip-cords down his neck, his eyes sparkling with the unmistakable light of insanity. He stooped. "There it is again! 'Kill! kill!'" he cried in thick, mumbling tones, and bending low. Then he straightened up suddenly and flung himself around, felling Hallen and Martin as though they were wooden men.
He seized a chair and hurled it across the table at Elliott, who dodged successfully, allowing it to crash through the opposite window. Quick to see this means of escape, Maloney followed through the smashed panes—a raving, delirious maniac.
The test, carried out with such consummate skill, had not only proved Maloney's knowledge of the revolver and that he was subject to delusions, but ithad also precipitated an unexpected attack of insane excitement—an acute mania.
And now Maloney was gone—escaped.
As Hallen and Martin staggered to their feet, the Chief bellowed forth an order in a voice of deepest chagrin and alarm: "Catch him!" he cried. "If he escapes, the people will rise in fury."
We all heard a sickening, wild yell of defiance from Maloney as he reached the ground—a deep, guttural, maniac cry that struck terror to my weakened nerves and which froze our men for an instant in their tracks, like marble statues.
Someone broke the awful spell—it was Oakes, crying out: "He is going for the pond and the bridge." And next instant he and Hallen were out of the front door, the men following in a rushing, compact body.
CHAPTER XXIV
Across the Bridge
As I staggered behind the pursuers I saw the tall, erect figure of Quintus glide rapidly across the road and disappear down the decline. In the briefest space we were at the crest by the road, looking down upon the pond. I saw Moore and O'Brien by my side—the latter swearing like a trooper.
"Who is that Mr. Clark, anyway? How did he know who I was? Since Hallen's men found me at the farm-house this man Clark—this agent—has had a lot to say."
"He is a man by the name of Oakes," I said.
O'Brien, or rather Larkin, looked at me a moment.
"Quintus Oakes?"
"The same."
"The deuce you say! No disgrace to me then. I understand things now. But I should have suspected."
The murderer reached the bridge and, hesitating,stooped suddenly at its near side. He had evidently picked up something from under one of the logs that formed the span. He straightened up and, turning, suddenly fired at Oakes, who was rapidly approaching. The deep tones of a heavy revolver were unmistakable. Maloney had secured his murderous weapon when he stooped; he had had it in hiding under the log. He was armed now with a weapon of terrible possibilities. In another instant he was across and mounting the green sunlit slope beyond. A hundred feet behind was Quintus, untouched by the bullet that had been sent his way. A few steps, and he reached the other side, but as he struck the ground, the bridge—frail thing that it was—loosened from its centre support and went crashing into the pond, leaving Hallen, who was close behind Oakes, on this side of the bridge with the rest of us. Oakes was alone, pursuing the murderer up the slope of the hill on the other side of the water, facing us. We saw him turn, as the bridge fell, and look at us; then he made a sweeping gesture toward the north and south, and turned again after the murderer, who was just half-way up the slope now; his bodydotting the surface of the ground with a shadow at his side—a shadow of himself—company in the race for freedom.
We all simultaneously interpreted the gestures made by Oakes, and Hallen dashed to the north end of the pond to skirt it, while Martin and Moore dashed for the southern end, leaving Elliott, Larkin and myself standing where we commanded full view of what was coming. We were conscious of several other figures dashing by us, and we knew that his men were straining every nerve and muscle to reach Oakes in his dangerous position.
It was a long run to skirt either end of the pond, and to swing around the opposite shore, and thence up the sloping sides to Quintus's aid. We three remaining behind were anxious beyond expression. I leaned heavily on Elliott, and really prevented him from joining in the chase, where he would have been useless; the others were so much fleeter of foot.
"God—that man Oakes is alone with the murderer!" cried Larkin. "He is too good a man to lose his life in the fight that is coming. Look!"
We saw Maloney halt and face about. Then camea slight flash, followed by the heavy report of the revolver in his hand.
Quintus was running slowly up toward him and was perhaps one hundred feet away. At the report he staggered, and dropped upon the green, slippery sward.
"He is wounded," cried Elliott.
I felt sick at heart and weak, and sat down, Larkin by my side; we two were powerless, being only convalescent.
"An elegant shot! That Maloney is a crack one," cried the detective.
"Yes," said Elliott; "it was determined before that Mark's murderer was a good shot."
Then came another report, and we saw that again the murderer had fired. Oakes remained quiet. His body showed sprawled on the hill-side.
"Damnation!" cried Elliott. "Is Oakes dead? He does not answer with his revolver."
"No," cried Larkin. "I saw him move, and see—he is braced to prevent himself slipping down the hill. He knows he is a poor target, and is not anxious to move lest he slide into the pond. That grass is frosty andvery slippery."
Then came the delayed crack of Quintus's weapon, and Maloney sprang into the air as he ran. He now went slowly and painfully, lurching forward along the crest of the hill.
"Slightly wounded, thank Fate—but Oakes could have killed him had he wished," cried Larkin.
We saw Quintus rise and follow Maloney, then drop to his chest again, as the latter wheeled and fired three shots rapidly at him in delirious excitement.
Oakes remained quiet and huddled, and despite the fact that Maloney was now an excellent target, he did not fire.
"Oakes is hit badly," exclaimed Elliott. Then the speaker did an unexpected thing. Seizing his revolver, he discharged the weapon again and again in the direction of Maloney. "A long shot," he muttered, "but I'll keep him guessing."
We could see the bullets hit somewhere near the fugitive, for he seemed disconcerted and turned toward the northern end of the pond, to run in thatdirection; he was now outlined on the crest of the hill. We heard another shot ring out—a shot sharp, staccato it was; and we then emitted a yell, for we knew by it that Oakes was alive. Maloney fired again, and again Elliott, by our side, tried two more long shots with his revolver.
We heard Oakes's voice, clear and firm it came, wafted across the pond.
"Don't shoot again. He has no more ammunition. I will get him."
And Elliott, in suppressed excitement, exclaimed: "He was drawing Maloney's fire all the time. He was not wounded."
"Yes, he knew Maloney had the old six-shooter, and he knows it is empty now."
"That Oakes keeps everything in mind," said Larkin. "He is a good one."