The Crimson Flash Part 20

"What's what?" drawled Pant.

"I thought I saw a flash."

"He evidently thought something of the sort," Pant replied, poking his thumb at the black cat.

"Well, you guys better move on. This ain't no place for spinnin' yarns."

"That's all right," drawled Pant, "but let me tell you, friend; if anything ever happens to this circus, a fire, a cyclone, a train wreck, or anything like that, you get that cat. Get that black cat!"

"What d'you know about him?"

"Plenty that I don't tell to strangers."

Pant lifted the wall of the tent and stepped out into the moonlight, followed by Johnny.

"You didn't finish," suggested Johnny.

"There's not much more to tell. You have to hand it to that doctor, though. When I didn't come back in the morning, he tried to organize a party to search for me. No one would go. They were scared cold by the black cat. So he came alone. He found me there, too weak to move, and he carried me all the way back and put me in a bed I'd helped him to buy.

"The natives went for the black cat and brought him back to the village in triumph.

"When I was better a trader came to me and offered me the price of a tiger's cub for the black cat. I laughed in his face, and told him I'd take the cat to the States myself. That's what I did. I got five thousand dollars for him, and sent it all back to the doctor so he could buy beds, and absorbent cotton, and medicine for his hospital."

"That was good of you," said Johnny.

"Who's good?" demanded Pant. "Didn't he teach me sense when I didn't know anything but cats? Didn't he carry me out of the jungle on his back when no one else dared to go in?"

For a time they were silent. Then, gripping Johnny's arm, Pant whispered: "But, Johnny, we're after worse cats than the black one. We're after human tigers. Tigers that destroy man's faith in man; that make life little worth the living. And, Johnny, we're on their trail, close on their trail. Perhaps to-morrow, perhaps the day after, you shall see--well, you shall see what you shall see."

CHAPTER XIV IN TOM STICK'S HOUSE

That same night, by the dull glow of a half burned out camp fire on the bank of a river, Pant told Johnny of his plans as a Secret Service man on a big case, and how they had worked out thus far.

"You remember the crimson flash in the animal tent, and how it frightened a lot of the colored boys into jumping their jobs?" he chuckled. "Well, that helped me, helped me a lot; for you see some of the boys that quit were working for this bunch of counterfeiters that has Black McCree as its head. Some of the boys that were hired were already getting pay from Uncle Sam for helping me. Some of them now are getting triple pay, once from the circus, once from me and once from the counterfeiters. See how it works?"

Pant chuckled again.

"These boys with the three pay checks have helped me a lot, but not enough. They can't get back far enough. They know only the men who pa.s.s the bonds on to them, and those men are just helpers like themselves.

They pa.s.s the goods on, but the real man is still back in the shadows; too far back for me to see him. He's the man I want; the man and his outfit; and let me tell you, Johnny, that's some outfit. There's never been anything like it before. It's a danger. Where and when they operate is more than I know. They could hardly do it in one of the tents. They might do it in one of the cars, and it might be Tom, the midget clown, doing it in his house on wheels."

"I've talked with him," said Johnny quickly. "I don't believe he's in on it."

"Don't be too sure. Take no chances. If he's especially friendly, that may mean that he is onto the fact that you're working with me and that I'm after them. A bunch like that would stab you in the back in a second."

For a few minutes there was silence, then Pant continued: "We are making some progress. We know about how much of the 'queer' they are peddling in these towns, and take my word, it's a plenty. They are planting it thick.

We've got to get 'em, and get 'em quick. Have you talked with Andy McQueen, the steam kettle cook, yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Do it to-morrow. He may be important. And Johnny," Pant leaned forward with an impressive gesture, "Johnny, watch your step. You're in danger every moment. They may know you're with me; probably do, and if they do, they'll get you if they can. That's all. Goodnight."

Rising, he stretched himself like a cat, then went slouching away into the darkness.

For a long time Johnny lay there on the sand dreamily gazing into the fire. It was, indeed, a tangled web of mystery the unraveling of which he had let himself in for, and one which, as Pant had suggested, might at any moment suddenly break and let him down with an awful fall.

There was the ring. Gwen had it that morning; Millie had it two days before; perhaps Mitzi had it at this very moment. He was still surprised at himself because of his action of that morning. Well, he must have that ring. This, if for no other reason, must hold him to his surprising circus career. He wondered if Gwen were serious about the clown stunt and, if so, whether she would soon have it arranged. He thought again of Pant's problem, and wondered for the hundredth time if he should have any part in its solving.

But the greatest mystery of all was the crimson flash. He had seen it leap down from the air and turn the tiger, loose in the big tent, blood red. He had seen it do the same thing in the animal tent. In his suggestion regarding the direction of the sun's rays in the Arctic, Pant had intimated that rays of light could be made to follow crooked paths.

If this could be done, if Pant held within his fertile brain the secret of this terrible power, what a wonderful fellow he was! How it would transform modern life, modern warfare! Trenches would be utterly useless once a light might be thrown upon them from any angle. Many things that were dark, secret and hidden in every day life would be clear as the light of day. What dark corner, what secret rendezvous, would be safe from the glare of those crooked rays of gleaming light?

Johnny pondered until his head whirled, then, rising and shaking himself, he made his way to the sleeping car in which he now bunked. The circus would soon be on its way to the next small city.

That next small city, if Johnny had but known it, was only ten miles from the home of the grandparents of the millionaire twins. They had ridden cross country for a visit to their grandparents. Along the roads they had seen glaring posters announcing the coming of the circus. They had decided at once that now was the time to join that circus. Their circus riding clothes were in the trunk, which had been sent on by express. Even as Johnny rose from beside the fire, the twins, in their beds at their grandfather's rambling, old house, were planning how, on the morrow, they would slip on their circus garb underneath their dresses, and ride away to discover their old friend, Johnny, and join the parade.

Morning broke bright and clear on the old fair grounds of Rokford, which was the place of the great circus' next one day stand. When Johnny had eaten breakfast, he strolled past the cooking tent and, having paused to admire the row of shining copper steam kettles, he thought of his promise to get in touch with the manager of these kettles. The cook was not in sight at that moment, so Johnny paused to study these great vats, which resembled nothing so much as giant kettle drums.

"Just a twist of the valve and the steam does the rest," he murmured to himself.

"Great, ain't they?" a voice said at his elbow.

"Sure are." Johnny turned about. It was the cook. A tall, slender man, well past middle age, with a drooping mustache, and a wrinkled smile, he studied Johnny from head to toe.

"You're a boxer," he said, getting his smile into operation. "Saw you box a conman once. Been wonderin' ever since how such a small fellow could pack such a wallop."

"I don't mind tellin' you," said Johnny. "It's absurdly simple. Instead of just getting the force of your arm muscles into the blow, or the push of your shoulder, you leap as you strike, and that puts the whole of your body back of your mitt. That's easy, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is, after you been doin' it a few thousand times; easy as fryin' flapjacks."

"How long have you been cooking with steam kettles?" asked Johnny.

"Only five or six years. But I've been cookin' all my life. I was cook for a surveying outfit when the Union Pacific was built. Boy! Those were the days of real sport. Used to run out of fuel and everything."

A humorous twinkle lurked about the man's eyes, as he lighted his pipe and sat down on an upturned bucket.

"I mind one time," he mused, "when we was plumb out of wood, and nothin'

but gra.s.s; prairie all 'round us. Just enough fire to make coffee; not enough to fry flapjacks, and the nearest supply station thirty miles away."

"What did you do?" asked Johnny.

"Well, sir," the cook removed his pipe and spat on the ground, "I said, 'Boys, there'll be flapjacks for breakfast just the same.' I mixed 'em up as usual in a big tin bucket. I gave the bucket to one of the boys, and a hunk of bacon rind to another, and told 'em all to follow me. I struck a match and set the prairie gra.s.s on fire; then I held my fryin' pan over it until it was hot. I baked the first flapjack and tossed it out of the pan over my shoulder. Some fellow caught and ate it. I did another and another the same way, and kept that up until every fellow in the bunch was satisfied."

Johnny smiled. The cook smiled, spat on the ground, then concluded his story. "When we got through breakfast we were ten miles from camp.

Prairie fire travels. So did we."

Johnny laughed; then he thought and laughed again. After a time he rose and went on his way.