Out of a Labyrinth Part 54

"Here," says Gerry, with aggravating ceremony, "is Mr. Long, with sentinel number two, namely: Mr. Dimber Joe Blaikie, late of Sing Sing."

"And very soon to return there," adds Jim Long, emphatically. "What shall we do with these fellows?"

"We must keep everything quiet to-night," I say, quickly. "If you and Gerry think you won't go to sleep over the precious scamps you might take them to the barn and let them pa.s.s the night where they have hidden so many horses. We will take them there now, and bind them more securely. Then one of you can look after them easily, while the other stands guard outside. All must be done quietly, so that they may not take 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 be unparliamentary, gentlemen, but you should not object to that. If you give us any trouble, we will convince you that we have inherited a little brief authority."

Ten minutes later we have carried out our programme. The two prisoners are safely housed in the hidden asylum for stolen horses, with Jim Long as guard within, and Gerry as sentinel without, and I, seated in the light buggy from which I have unceremoniously dragged Arch Brookhouse, am driving his impatient roadster southward, in the wake of the honest coal wagons.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

CAUGHT IN THE ACT.

It is long past midnight. A preternatural stillness broods over the four corners where the north and south road, two miles north from Clyde, intersects the road running east and west, that bears westward toward the coal beds and the river.

There are no houses within sight of these corners, and very few trees; but the northeastern corner is bounded by what the farmers call a "brush fence," an unsightly barricade of rails, interwoven with tall, ragged, and brambly brush, the cuttings, probably, from some rank-growing hedge.

The section to the southwest is bordered by a prim hedge, thrifty and green, evenly trimmed, and so low that a man could leap across it with ease.

And now the silence is broken by the sound of wheels coming from the direction of Clyde; swift running wheels that soon bring their burden to the four corners, and then come to a sudden halt.

It is a light buggy, none other than that owned by Mr. Larkins, of Clyde, drawn by his roans that "go in no time," and it contains three men.

"There!" says the driver, who is Larkins himself, springing to the ground, and thrusting his arm through the reins, "here we are, with nothing to do but wait. We always do wait, you know."

"Yes, I know," a.s.sents a second individual, descending to the ground in his turn. "We're always on time. Now, if a man only could smoke--but he can't."

And Ed. Dwight shrugs his shoulders and burrows in his pockets, and shuffles his feet, as only Ed. Dwight can.

"Might's well get out, Briggs," says Larkins, to the man who still sits in the buggy.

"Might's well stay here, too," retorts that individual, gruffly. "I'm comfortable."

Larkins sniffs, and pats the haunch of the off roan.

Dwight snaps a leaf from the hedge and chews it nervously.

The man in the buggy sits as still as a mummy.

Presently there comes again the sound of wheels. Not noisy wheels, that would break in upon midnight slumbers, nor ghostly wheels, whose honesty might be called in question, but well oiled, smooth running wheels, that break but do not disturb the stillness.

These also approach the cross roads, and then stop.

The first are those of a coal wagon, drawn by four handsome horses; the second, those of a vehicle of the same description, drawn by two fine steeds.

Two men occupy the first wagon; one the next.

As the foremost wagon pauses, Larkins tosses his reins to the silent man in the buggy, and advances, followed by Dwight.

"Anything wrong?" queries Larkins.

"Not if _you_ are all right," replies a harsh voice, a voice that has a natural snarl in it.

"All right, Cap'n; give us your orders."

The two men in the wagon spring to the ground, and begin to unharness the foremost horses. The other wagon comes closer.

"You and Briggs are to take in these two teams. Tom is to go on with the Morgans. Dwight is to take us back to Trafton," says the rasping voice.

Dwight comes closer, and then exclaims:

"By George, Captain, it's _you_ in person."

"Yes, it's me," shortly. "Simpson failed to come, and I wanted to have a few words with you and Larkins. Hark! _What's that?_"

Wheels again; swift rushing, rattling wheels. Six heads are turned toward the north, whence they approach.

Suddenly there is a whistle, short and shrill.

Men are bounding over the low hedge to the left! Men are rising up from the long gra.s.s by the roadside!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Men are bounding over the low hedge to the left! Men are rising up from the long gra.s.s by the roadside!"--417.]

Oaths, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns, cracking of pistols, plunging of horses--

"The first man who attempts to run will be shot down!"

I hear these words, as I drive the Brookhouse roadster, foaming and panting, into the midst of the melee.

In spite of the warning one man has made a dart for liberty, has turned and rushed directly upon my horse.

In spite of the darkness his sharp eyes recognize the animal. What could his son's horse bring save a warning or a rescue?

He regains his balance, which, owing to his sudden contact with the horse, he had nearly lost, and springs toward me as my feet touch the earth.

"Arch!"

Before he can realize the truth my hands are upon him. Before he can recover from his momentary consternation other hands seize him from behind.

The captain of the horse-thieves, the head and front and brains of the band, is bound and helpless!

It is soon over; the horse-thieves fight well; strive hard to evade capture; but the attack is so sudden, so unexpected, and they are unprepared, although each man, as a matter of course, is heavily armed.