Out of a Labyrinth
Page 36
CHAPTER XXXVI.
SOMETHING THE MOON FAILED TO SEE.
It has come at last; that night, almost the last in August, which I andothers, with varying motives and interests, have so anxiously lookedforward to.
It has come, and the moon, so lately banished from the heavens, had shebeen in a position to overlook the earth, would have witnessed somesights unusual to Trafton at the hour of eleven P. M.
A little more than a mile from Trafton, at a point where the first milesection crosses the south road, not far from the Brookhouse dwelling,there is a little gathering of mounted men. They are seven in number;all silent, all cautious, all stern of feature. They have drawn theirhorses far into the gloom of the hedge that grows tall on either side,all save one man, and he stands in the very center of the road, lookingintently north and skyward.
Farther away, midway between Trafton and Clyde, six other horsemen areriding southward at an easy pace.
These, too, are very quiet, and a little light would reveal the earnestfaces of Messrs. Warren, Harding, Benner, Booth, Jaeger and Meacham; thelast mentioned being the owner of the recently stolen matched sorrels,and the others being the most prominent and reliable of the Traftonvigilants.
A close inspection would develop the fact that this moving band of men,as well as the party whose present mission seems "only to stand andwait," is well armed and strongly mounted.
The Hill, Miss Manvers' luxurious residence, stands, as its nameindicates, on an elevation of ground, at the extreme northern boundaryof Trafton.
It stands quite alone, this abode of the treasure-ship heiress, havingno neighbors on either hand for a distance of more than a quarter of amile.
The road leading up the hill from the heart of Trafton, is bordered oneither side by a row of shade trees, large and leafy. All about thehouse the shrubbery is dense, and the avenue, leading up from the road,and past the dwelling, to the barns and outhouses, is transformed, bytwo thickly-set rows of poplars into a vault of inky blackness.
To-night, if the moon were abroad, she might note that the fineroadster driven by Arch Brookhouse had stood all the evening at theroadside gate at the foot of the dark avenue of poplars, and, by peepingthrough the open windows, she would see that Arch Brookhouse himselfsits in the handsome parlor with the heiress, who is looking pale anddissatisfied, and who speaks short and seldom, opposite him.
The lady moon might also note that the new telegraph operator is not athis post, in the little office, at eleven o'clock P. M. But then, werethe fair orb of night actually out, and taking observations, thesesingular phenomena might not occur.
At half-past ten, on "this night of nights," three shadows steal throughthe darkness, moving northward toward the Hill.
At a point midway between the town proper and the mansion beyond, is ajunction of the roads; and here, at the four corners, the three shadowspause and separate.
Two continue their silent march northward, and the third vanishes amongthe sheltering, low-bending branches of a gnarled old tree thatoverhangs the road, and marks the northwestern corner.
At twenty minutes to eleven Arch Brookhouse takes leave of thetreasure-ship heiress, and comes out into the darkness striding down theavenue like a man accustomed to the road. He unties the waiting horsewhich paws the ground impatiently, yet stands, obedient to his lowcommand, turns the head of the beast southward, seats himself in thelight buggy, lights a cigar, and then sits silently smoking, andwaiting,--for what?
The dull red spark at the end of his cigar shines through the dark; thehorse turns his head and chafes to be away, but the smoker sits there,moveless and silent.
Presently there comes a sound, slight but distinct; the crackling of atwig beneath a man's boot, and almost at the same instant the last lightdisappears from the windows of the "Hill House."
One, two, three. Three dark forms approach, one after the other, eachpauses for an instant beside the light buggy, and seems to look up tothe dull red spark, which is all of Arch Brookhouse that is clearlyvisible through the dark. Then they enter the gate and are swallowed upin the blackness of the avenue.
And now, a fourth form moves stealthily down the avenue after theothers. It does not come from without the grounds, it starts out fromthe shrubbery within, and it is unseen by Arch Brookhouse.
How still the night is! The man who follows after the three first comerscan almost hear his pulses throb, or so he fancies.
Presently the three men pause before the door of the barn, and one ofthem takes from his pocket a key, with which he unlocks the door, andthey enter.
As soon as they are inside, a lantern is lighted, and the three men movetogether toward the rear of the barn, the part against which is piled amonstrous stack of hay.
Meanwhile the watcher outside glides close to the wall of the building,listening here and there, as he, too, approaches the huge hay pile.
And now he does a queer thing. He begins to pull away handfuls of hayfrom the bottom of the stack, where it is piled against the barn. Heworks noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening, into which hecrawls. Evidently this mine has been worked before, for there is a longtunnel through the hay, penetrating to the middle of the stack. Here thewatcher peeps through two small holes, newly drilled in the thick boardsof the barn. And then a smile of triumph rests upon his face.
"He works noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening,into which he crawls."--page 404.]
He sees a compartment that, owing to the arrangement of the hay againstthe rear wall, is in the very heart of the barn, shut from the gaze ofcurious eyes. On either side is a division, which our spy knows tocontain a store of grain piled high, and acting as a completenon-conductor of sound. In front is a small room hung about withharness, and opening into a carriage room. The place is completelyhidden from the ordinary gaze, and only a very inquiring mind would havefathomed its secret.
The spy, who is peering in from his vantage ground among the hay, _has_fathomed the secret. And he now sees within six horses--two bay Morgans,two roans, and two sorrels.
The three men are there, too, busily harnessing the six horses. They areworking rapidly and silently.
The watcher lingers just long enough to see that the harness looksnew and that it is of the sort generally used for draft horses, and thenhe executes a retreat, more difficult than his entrance, inasmuch as hecan not turn in his hay tunnel, but must withdraw by a series ofretrograde movements more laborious than graceful.
A moment more, and from among the poplars and evergreens a light goesshooting up, high and bright against the sky; a long, red ribbon offire, that says to those who can read the sign,
"The Trafton horse-thieves are about to move with their long-concealedprey. Meacham's matched sorrels, Hopper's two-forty's, and the bayMorgans stolen from 'Squire Brookhouse."
It was seen, this fiery rocket, by the little band waiting by theroadside more than a mile away.
"There it is!" exclaims young Warren, who is the leader of thisparty--"It is the red rocket. They _are_ going with the wagons; it's allright, boys, we can't ride too fast now."
The seven men file silently out from the roadside and gallop awaysouthward.
At the four corners, not far from the house on the hill, where, a shorttime before, a single individual had stationed himself, as a sentinel inthe darkness, this signal rocket was also seen, and the watcher utteredan exclamation under his breath, and started out from underneath thetree that had sheltered him.
He could never remember how it happened, but his next sensation wasthat of being borne to the ground, clutched with a tiger-like grip,crushed by a heavy weight.
And then a voice, a voice that he had not heard for years, hissed abovehim,
"Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunity for eight longyears, and it won't be worth your while to trifle with Harvey James_now_."
"Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunityfor eight long years, and it won't be worth your while to trifle withHarvey Ja
mes _now_."--page 408.]
And something cold and hard is pressed against the temple of the fallensentinel, who does not need the evidence of the accompanying ominousclick to convince him that it is a revolver in the hand of his deadliestfoe.
"You did not use to be a horse-thief, Joe," continues the voice, and thespeaker's words are emphasized by the pressure of a knee upon his chest,and the weapon at his forehead. "They could not trust you to do the finebusiness, it seems, and so you are picketed here to give the alarm ifanything stirs up or down the road. If it's all right, you are to remainsilent. If anything occurs to alarm you, you are to give the signal.Now, listen; you are to get up and stand from under this tree. I shallstand directly behind you with my revolver at your head, and I shall notloosen my grip upon your collar. When your friends pass this way, _youhad better remain silent_, Joe Blaikie."
Arch Brookhouse, waiting at the avenue gate, has not seen the redrocket. The tall poplars that overshadow him have shut the shootingfiery ribbon from his vision; besides, he has been looking down thehill. Neither has he seen the form that is creeping stealthily towardhim from behind the tree that guards the gate.
Those within the barn have not seen the rocket, of course; and presentlythey come forth and harness the six horses to two huge wagons that standin readiness. Four horses to one wagon, two to the other. The wheels arewell oiled, and the wagons make no unnecessary rumbling as they go downthe dark poplar avenue.
At the gate the foremost wagon halts, just long enough to enable thedriver to catch the low-spoken word that tells him it is safe toproceed.
"All right," Arch Brookhouse says, softly, and the two wagons pass outand down the hill, straight through the village of Trafton.
At the foot of the hill, where the four roads cross, the drivers peerthrough the darkness. Yes, their sentinel is there. The whitehandkerchief which he holds in his hand, as a sign that all is safe,gleams through the dark, and they drive on merrily, and if the sound oftheir wheels wakens any sleeper in Trafton, what then? It is not unusualto hear coal wagons passing on their way to the mines.
Should they meet a belated traveler, no matter. He may hear the rumbleof the wheels, and welcome, so long as the darkness prevents him fromseeing the horses that draw those innocent vehicles of traffic.
Meanwhile, his duty being done, Arch Brookhouse heaves a sigh ofrelief, gathers up his reins, and chirrups to his horse.
But the animal does not obey him. Arch leans forward; is there somethingstanding by the horse's head? He gives an impatient word of command, andthen,--yes, there is some one there.
Arch utters a sharp exclamation, and his hand goes behind him, only tobe grasped by an enemy in the rear, who follows up his advantage byseizing the other elbow and saying:
"Stop a moment, Mr. Brookhouse; you are my prisoner, sir. Gerry, thehandcuffs."
The man at the horse's head comes swiftly to my assistance, ArchBrookhouse is drawn from his buggy, and his hands secured behind him byfetters of steel. Not a captive to be proud of; his teeth chatter, heshivers as with an ague.
"Wh--who are you?" he gasps. "Wh--what do you want?"
"I'm a city sprig," I answer, maliciously, "and I'm an easy fish tocatch. But not so easy as _you_, my gay Lothario. By-and-by you maydecide, if you will, whether I possess most money or brains; now I havemore important business on hand."
Just then comes a long, low whistle.
"Gerry," I say, "that is Long. Go down to him and see if he needs help."
Gerry is off in an instant, and then my prisoner rallies his cowardlyfaculties, and begins to bluster.
"What does this assault mean? I demand an explanation, sir!"
"But I am not in the mood to give it," I retort. "You are my prisoner,and likely to remain so, unless you are stolen from me by Judge Lynch,which is not improbable."
"Then, y--you are an impostor!"
"You mistake; I am a detective. You shot at the wrong man when youwinged Bethel. You did better when you crippled widow Ballou's hiredman."
"What, are you?--" he starts violently, then checks his speech.
"I'm the man you shot, behind the hedge, Mr. Brookhouse, and I'lltrouble you to explain your conduct to-morrow."
My prisoner moves restlessly under my restraining hand, but I cock mypistol, and he comprehending the unspoken warning, stands silent besidehis buggy.
Presently I hear footsteps, and then Gerry comes towards me, lightingthe way with a pocket lantern, which reveals to my gaze Dimber Joe,handcuffed and crest-fallen, marching sedately over the ground at themuzzle of a pistol held in the firm clutch of Jim Long, upon whosecountenance sits a look of grim, triumphant humor.
"Here," says Gerry, with aggravating ceremony, "is Mr. Long, withsentinel number two, namely: Mr. Dimber Joe Blaikie, late of Sing Sing."
"And very soon to return there," adds Jim Long, emphatically. "Whatshall we do with these fellows?"
"We must keep everything quiet to-night," I say, quickly. "If you andGerry think you won't go to sleep over the precious scamps you mighttake them to the barn and let them pass the night where they have hiddenso many horses. We will take them there now, and bind them moresecurely. Then one of you can look after them easily, while the otherstands guard outside. All must be done quietly, so that they may nottake the alarm in the house. If your prisoners attempt to make a noise,gag them without scruple."
"But," gasps Brookhouse, "you can not; you have no power."
"No power," mocks Jim Long. "We'll see about that! It may beunparliamentary, gentlemen, but you should not object to that. If yougive us any trouble, we will convince you that we have inherited alittle brief authority."
Ten minutes later we have carried out our programme. The two prisonersare safely housed in the hidden asylum for stolen horses, with Jim Longas guard within, and Gerry as sentinel without, and I, seated in thelight buggy from which I have unceremoniously dragged Arch Brookhouse,am driving his impatient roadster southward, in the wake of the honestcoal wagons.