Out of a Labyrinth Part 53

The dull red spark at the end of his cigar s.h.i.+nes through the dark; the horse turns his head and chafes to be away, but the smoker sits there, moveless and silent.

Presently there comes a sound, slight but distinct; the crackling of a twig beneath a man's boot, and almost at the same instant the last light disappears from the windows of the "Hill House."

One, two, three. Three dark forms approach, one after the other, each pauses for an instant beside the light buggy, and seems to look up to the dull red spark, which is all of Arch Brookhouse that is clearly visible through the dark. Then they enter the gate and are swallowed up in the blackness of the avenue.

And now, a fourth form moves stealthily down the avenue after the others. It does not come from without the grounds, it starts out from the shrubbery within, and it is unseen by Arch Brookhouse.

How still the night is! The man who follows after the three first comers can almost hear his pulses throb, or so he fancies.

Presently the three men pause before the door of the barn, and one of them takes from his pocket a key, with which he unlocks the door, and they enter.

As soon as they are inside, a lantern is lighted, and the three men move together toward the rear of the barn, the part against which is piled a monstrous stack of hay.

Meanwhile the watcher outside glides close to the wall of the building, listening here and there, as he, too, approaches the huge hay pile.

And now he does a queer thing. He begins to pull away handfuls of hay from the bottom of the stack, where it is piled against the barn. He works noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening, into which he crawls. Evidently this mine has been worked before, for there is a long tunnel through the hay, penetrating to the middle of the stack. Here the watcher peeps through two small holes, newly drilled in the thick boards of the barn. And then a smile of triumph rests upon his face.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "He works noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening, into which he crawls."--page 404.]

He sees a compartment that, owing to the arrangement of the hay against the rear wall, is in the very heart of the barn, shut from the gaze of curious eyes. On either side is a division, which our spy knows to contain a store of grain piled high, and acting as a complete non-conductor of sound. In front is a small room hung about with harness, and opening into a carriage room. The place is completely hidden from the ordinary gaze, and only a very inquiring mind would have fathomed its secret.

The spy, who is peering in from his vantage ground among the hay, _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 are working rapidly and silently.

The watcher lingers just long enough to see that the harness looks new and that it is of the sort generally used for draft horses, and then he executes a retreat, more difficult than his entrance, inasmuch as he can not turn in his hay tunnel, but must withdraw by a series of retrograde movements more laborious than graceful.

A moment more, and from among the poplars and evergreens a light goes shooting up, high and bright against the sky; a long, red ribbon of fire, that says to those who can read the sign,

"The Trafton horse-thieves are about to move with their long-concealed prey. Meacham's matched sorrels, Hopper's two-forty's, and the bay Morgans stolen from 'Squire Brookhouse."

It was seen, this fiery rocket, by the little band waiting by the roadside more than a mile away.

"There it is!" exclaims young Warren, who is the leader of this party--"It is the red rocket. They _are_ going with the wagons; it's all right, boys, we can't ride too fast now."

The seven men file silently out from the roadside and gallop away southward.

At the four corners, not far from the house on the hill, where, a short time before, a single individual had stationed himself, as a sentinel in the darkness, this signal rocket was also seen, and the watcher uttered an exclamation under his breath, and started out from underneath the tree that had sheltered him.

He could never remember how it happened, but his next sensation was that of being borne to the ground, clutched with a tiger-like grip, crushed by a heavy weight.

And then a voice, a voice that he had not heard for years, hissed above him,

"Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunity for eight long years, and it won't be worth your while to trifle with Harvey James _now_."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunity for eight long years, and it won't be worth your while to trifle with Harvey James _now_."--page 408.]

And something cold and hard is pressed against the temple of the fallen sentinel, who does not need the evidence of the accompanying ominous click to convince him that it is a revolver in the hand of his deadliest foe.

"You did not use to be a horse-thief, Joe," continues the voice, and the speaker's words are emphasized by the pressure of a knee upon his chest, and the weapon at his forehead. "They could not trust you to do the fine business, it seems, and so you are picketed here to give the alarm if anything stirs up or down the road. If it's all right, you are to remain silent. If anything occurs to alarm you, you are to give the signal.

Now, listen; you are to get up and stand from under this tree. I shall stand directly behind you with my revolver at your head, and I shall not loosen my grip upon your collar. When your friends pa.s.s this way, _you had better remain silent_, Joe Blaikie."

Arch Brookhouse, waiting at the avenue gate, has not seen the red rocket. The tall poplars that overshadow him have shut the shooting fiery ribbon from his vision; besides, he has been looking down the hill. Neither has he seen the form that is creeping stealthily toward him from behind the tree that guards the gate.

Those within the barn have not seen the rocket, of course; and presently they come forth and harness the six horses to two huge wagons that stand in readiness. Four horses to one wagon, two to the other. The wheels are well oiled, and the wagons make no unnecessary rumbling as they go down the dark poplar avenue.

At the gate the foremost wagon halts, just long enough to enable the driver to catch the low-spoken word that tells him it is safe to proceed.

"All right," Arch Brookhouse says, softly, and the two wagons pa.s.s out and down the hill, straight through the village of Trafton.

At the foot of the hill, where the four roads cross, the drivers peer through the darkness. Yes, their sentinel is there. The white handkerchief which he holds in his hand, as a sign that all is safe, gleams through the dark, and they drive on merrily, and if the sound of their wheels wakens any sleeper in Trafton, what then? It is not unusual to hear coal wagons pa.s.sing on their way to the mines.

Should they meet a belated traveler, no matter. He may hear the rumble of the wheels, and welcome, so long as the darkness prevents him from seeing the horses that draw those innocent vehicles of traffic.

Meanwhile, his duty being done, Arch Brookhouse heaves a sigh of relief, gathers up his reins, and chirrups to his horse.

But the animal does not obey him. Arch leans forward; is there something standing by the horse's head? He gives an impatient word of command, and then,--yes, there is some one there.

Arch utters a sharp exclamation, and his hand goes behind him, only to be grasped by an enemy in the rear, who follows up his advantage by seizing the other elbow and saying:

"Stop a moment, Mr. Brookhouse; you are my prisoner, sir. Gerry, the handcuffs."

The man at the horse's head comes swiftly to my a.s.sistance, Arch Brookhouse is drawn from his buggy, and his hands secured behind him by fetters of steel. Not a captive to be proud of; his teeth chatter, he s.h.i.+vers as with an ague.

"Wh--who are you?" he gasps. "Wh--what do you want?"

"I'm a city sprig," I answer, maliciously, "and I'm an easy fish to catch. But not so easy as _you_, my gay Lothario. By-and-by you may decide, if you will, whether I possess most money or brains; now I have more important business on hand."

Just then comes a long, low whistle.

"Gerry," I say, "that is Long. Go down to him and see if he needs help."

Gerry is off in an instant, and then my prisoner rallies his cowardly faculties, and begins to bl.u.s.ter.

"What does this a.s.sault mean? I demand an explanation, sir!"

"But I am not in the mood to give it," I retort. "You are my prisoner, and likely to remain so, unless you are stolen from me by Judge Lynch, which is not improbable."

"Then, y--you are an impostor!"

"You mistake; I am a detective. You shot at the wrong man when you winged Bethel. You did better when you crippled widow Ballou's hired man."

"What, are you?--" he starts violently, then checks his speech.

"I'm the man you shot, behind the hedge, Mr. Brookhouse, and I'll trouble you to explain your conduct to-morrow."

My prisoner moves restlessly under my restraining hand, but I c.o.c.k my pistol, and he comprehending the unspoken warning, stands silent beside his buggy.

Presently I hear footsteps, and then Gerry comes towards me, lighting the way with a pocket lantern, which reveals to my gaze Dimber Joe, handcuffed and crest-fallen, marching sedately over the ground at the muzzle of a pistol held in the firm clutch of Jim Long, upon whose countenance sits a look of grim, triumphant humor.