Out of a Labyrinth Part 17

"Trafton Bandits! you mean--"

"Thieves! Robbers! Ku Klux! They've made another big haul."

"Last night?"

"Last night, Cap'n."

"Of what sort?"

Jim chuckled wickedly.

"The right sort to git money out of. Hopper's two-forty's, that was in trainin' for the races. Meacham's matched sorrels. 'Squire Brookhouse's bay Morgans."

"What! six blooded horses at one haul!"

"Eggszactly."

Jim's coolness was aggravating; I turned away from him, and mingled with the group about the clerk's desk.

"Meacham'll suicide; he refused a fancy price for them sorrels not two weeks ago."

"Wonder what old Brookhouse will do about it?"

"There'll be some tall rewards offered."

"Much good that'll do. We don't get back stolen horses so easy in this county."

"It'll break Hopper up; he had bet his pile on the two-forty's, and bid fair to win."

"One of 'em was goin' to trot against Arch Brookhouse's mare, Polly, an'

they had big bets up. Shouldn't wonder if Arch was glad to be let out so easy. Polly never could outgo that gray four-year-old."

"Think not?"

"Brookhouse has telegraphed to his lawyers already, to send on a couple of detectives."

"Bully for Brookhouse."

"Don't yell till yer out of the woods. Detectives ain't so much more'n common folks. I don't go much on 'em myself. What we want is vigilants."

"Pooh! neither detectives nor vigilants can't cure Trafton."

These and like remarks greeted my ears in quick succession, and furnished me mental occupation. I lingered for half an hour among the eager, excited gossippers, and then betook myself to the dining-room and partook of my morning meal in solitude. With my food for the body, I had also food for thought.

Here, indeed, was work for the detective. I longed for the instant presence of Carnes, that we might discuss the situation, and I felt no little annoyance at the thought of the two detectives who might come in upon us at the bidding of 'Squire Brookhouse.

Carnes was in the office when I again entered it, and giving him a sign to follow me, I went up to my room. It was situated in a wing of the building most remote from the office, and the hum of many voices did not penetrate so far.

The stillness seemed more marked by contrast with the din I had just left, as I sat waiting.

Presently Carnes came in, alert, quick of movement, and having merged the talkative Irishman in the active, cautious detective.

"This looks like business;" he began, dragging a chair forward, and seating himself close to me. "I chanced to wake up a little after sunrise, and heard some men talking outside, near my window. They were going through the lane, and I only caught the words: "Yes, sir; stolen last night; six of them." Somehow the tone, quite as much as the words, convinced me that something was wrong. I got up and hurried out, thinking it hardly worth while to disturb you until I had learned more of the fellow's meaning. Well, sir, it's a fact; six valuable pieces of horseflesh have been taken from under our very noses."

"Have you got any particulars?"

"Well, yes, as much as is known, I think. Hopper, as you remember, lives on the hill just at the edge of the town. His man sleeps in the little office adjoining the stable. It seems the fellow, having no valuables to lose, let the window swing open and slept near it. He was chloroformed, and is under the doctor's care this morning. Meacham's stable is very near the house, but no one was disturbed by the robbers; they threw his dog a huge piece of meat that kept his jaws occupied. I heard Arch Brookhouse talking with a lot of men; he says the Morgans were in a loose box near the rear door of the stable, and that two men were sleeping in the room above the front wing. He says they have telegraphed to the city for detectives."

"Yes, I'm sorry for that, but it's to be expected."

"What shall we do about it?"

"As we are working for our own satisfaction and have little at stake, I am in favor of keeping quiet until we see who they bring down. If it's some of our own fellows, or _any one_ that we know to be skillful, we can then turn in and help them, or retire from the field without making ourselves known, as we think best. If the fellows are strangers--"

"Then we will try the merits of the case with them," broke in Carnes. "I tell you, old man, I hate to quit the field now."

"So do I," I acknowledged. "We must manage to know when these new experts arrive, and until we have found them out, can do little but keep our eyes and ears open. It won't do to betray too much interest just yet."

Carnes wheeled about in his chair and turned his eyes toward the street.

"I wish this thing had not happened just yet," he said, moodily. "Last night our plans were laid so smoothly. I don't see how we can even follow up this grave-robbing business, until these confounded detectives have shown their hand."

"Carnes," I replied, solemnly, "do be a philosopher. If ever two conceited detectives got themselves into a charming muddle, we're those two, at present. If we don't come out of this escapade covered with confusion, we shall have cause to be thankful."

My homily had its intended effect. Carnes wheeled upon me with scorn upon his countenance.

"The mischief fly away wid yer croakin'," he cried. "An' it's lyin' ye know ye are. Is it covered wid confusion ye'd be afther havin' us, bad cess to ye? Av we quit this nest we'd be drappin' the natest job two lads ever tackled. Ye can quit av ye like, but I'm shtayin', avan if the ould boy himself comes down to look intil the bizness."

By "the ould boy," Carnes meant our Chief, and not, as might be supposed, his Satanic majesty.

I smiled at the notion of our Chief in the midst of these Trafton perplexities, and, letting Carnes' tirade remain unanswered, took from my pocket the before mentioned note book and began a new mental calculation.

"There goes the ould identical Mephistophiles I used to see in my fairy book," broke out Carnes from his station by the window, where he had stood for some moments silently contemplating whatever might present itself to view in the street below. "Look at 'im now! Av I were an artist, wouldn't I ax 'im to sit for 'Satan'."

I looked out and saw 'Squire Brookhouse pa.s.sing on the opposite side of the street, and looking closer, I decided that Carnes' comparison was not inapt.

In the days of his youth 'Squire Brookhouse might have been a handsome man, when his regular features were rounded and colored by twenty-two Summers, or perhaps more; but he must have grown old while yet young, for his cadaverous cheeks were the color of most ancient parchment; his black eyes were set in hollow, dusky caverns; his mouth was sunken, the thin lips being drawn and colorless. His upper lip was smooth shaven, but the chin was decorated by a beard, long but thin, and of a peculiar lifeless black. His eyebrows were long and drooped above the cavernous eyes. His hair was straight and thin, matching the beard in color, and he wore it so long that it touched the collar of his coat, the ends fluttering dismally in the least gust of wind. He was tall, and angular to emaciation, with narrow, stooping shoulders, and the slow, gliding gait of an Indian. He was uniformly solemn, it would be a mistake to say dignified; preternaturally silent, going and coming like a shadow among his loquacious neighbors; always intent upon his own business and showing not the least interest in anything that did not in some way concern himself. Living plainly, dressing shabbily, h.o.a.rding his riches, grinding his tenants, superintending the business of his large stock-farm, he held himself aloof from society, and had never been seen within the walls of a church.

And yet this silent, unsocial man was a power in Trafton; his word of commendation was eagerly sought for; his frown was a thing to be dreaded; his displeasure to be feared. Whom he would be elected to office, and whom he would not, came somehow to be disapproved by all Trafton.

"He has certainly an uncommon _ensemble_," I said, looking out over Carnes' shoulder, "not a handsome man, to be sure, but one toward whom you would turn in a crowd to take the second look at. I wonder where Jim Long would place him in the scale of Trafton weights and measures?"

"Not under the head of the model Traftonite," replied Carnes, still gazing after the receding figure. "He's guiltless of the small hands and feet, perfumed locks and 'more frill to the square yard of shirt front'

required by Jim for the making of his model. By-the-by, what the 'Squire lacks is amply made up by the son. When Jim pictured the model Traftonite, I think he must have had Arch Brookhouse in his eye."

"I think so, too; a nature such as Jim's would be naturally antagonistic to any form of dandyism. Young Brookhouse is a fastidious dresser, and, I should say, a thoroughly good fellow."

"As good fellows go," said Carnes, sententiously. "But dropping the dandy, tell me what are we going to do with Jim Long?"