Out of a Labyrinth Part 55

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 bl.u.s.ter or bribery. He maintains a dogged silence, and the others, with the exception of Dwight, who can not be still under any circ.u.mstances, 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 a.s.sault, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

"THE COUNTERFEITER'S DAUGHTER."

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 pa.s.s unanswered. "He is accused of attempted abduction."

"Abduction!" she exclaims.

"And attempted a.s.sa.s.sination."