JIMMY ON THE TRAIL.
King Jimmy the First had thrown aside the robes of royalty for the time.
He was on the trail! He was also in disguise! From his bosom he had
removed the ensign of his exalted station, he had turned up his
coat-collar, and his old hat was pulled far down over his eyes, while
upon his upper lip was a smooch of charcoal that was intended to
represent a mustache. He was now Old Ferret, the Sleepless Detective.
Already his investigations had revealed that the name of the man with
whom Frank Merriwell had departed from the railway-station was
Cunningham. Cunningham—ha! why, that was the name of the desperate Blue
Ridge outlaw! S’death! Here was a clue! It was enough for Old Ferret.
The Sleepless Detective would track the outlaw to his lair. The victim
of the outlaw’s perfidious machinations should be rescued at all
hazards.
So Old Ferret set about his task of tracking the outlaw down. He found
that the man’s associates in town were a most disreputable set, indeed;
but he went among them boldly and told them that he had been given an
important letter to deliver to Mr. Cunningham. It was not Jimmy Lee, of
Charlottesville, who told this falsehood, mind you; it was Old Ferret,
the Sleepless Detective, and he did it for a good cause.
One man offered to take the letter to Cunningham, but Old Ferret
declined to transfer such an important message into the care of any
other person. He must deliver it himself as a sacred duty. Then somebody
told the detective that Cunningham hung out at Ben Shannon’s a great
deal. Where was Ben Shannon’s? The information was obtained, and the
Sleepless Detective took the trail afoot and alone.
On the way the great sleuth made inquiries, and he learned that a man
driving such a team as Cunningham’s and accompanied by a smooth-faced
youth had passed along that road. Farther on he also learned that the
team had run away on that road, and the beardless youth had leaped
astride one of the horses and pulled the animals down to a walk.
Ah, but this was information, indeed! It was the heart of Jimmy Lee, of
Charlottesville, that thrilled with delighted admiration when he heard
of this daring feat of his idol; but it was Old Ferret, the detective,
who muttered, “He cannot escape me, for I’ll not rest night or day till
he is in the toils!” And he was referring to Cunningham, not Frank
Merriwell, when he muttered those words.
Sometimes the trailer paused to examine with a critical eye the tracks
on the dusty road, and the look of wisdom on his charcoal-mustached face
would have done you good to see. When he met a wayfarer, he turned his
collar still higher, pulled his hat still lower, and so, safe in his
disguise, passed on. Perchance the wayfarer smiled at him; but what of
that so long as he was not recognized as the great detective, Old
Ferret!
And so, at last, he came to the strip of timber in which he had learned
was the home of Ben Shannon, standing at a considerable distance from
the public road. And in due time he arrived at what he knew without
doubt was the private road that led to Shannon’s, the lair of the
outlaw.
Even a great detective must be cautious, and so Old Ferret slipped into
the woods at a distance from the private road, the course of which he
pursued without venturing into it.
At times he stopped and crouched in the shelter of some shrubbery bushes
or behind the bole of a tree, while he peered through the forest and
listened. Being satisfied with his investigations, he went on till he
saw through the trees the ramshackle resort of the outlaw.
What was to be done now? Already midday was long past. The sun was in
the western sky. Old Ferret had not eaten since early morning, but
little cared he for that. His iron frame gave no heed to fatigue or
hunger while he was on the trail.
Should he wait in hiding until night and see what he could do then?
Night! Why, that would be too late, for then the base design of the
outlaw would be accomplished. Beyond a doubt that design was to keep
Frank Merriwell from the ball-field that afternoon. There could be no
delay. Onward, Old Ferret, to the rescue!
The house looked silent and deserted. There were not even dogs around
it, for which the great detective was thankful enough, for dogs always
raise a rumpus at the wrong time.
However, while Old Ferret was meditating on the next move, a colored man
came out of the house, leaving the front door open as he did so. He was
singing thickly to himself, and his steps were not quite steady as he
walked toward some distant sheds. Before he reached the sheds he paused,
took a bottle from his pocket, and drank from it.
“Ha!” hissed the watchful sleuth. “Methinks I smell something!”
It would not have been the contents of the bottle, for he was much too
far away.
However, as intoxicated colored men are seldom seen coming from the
front door of the homes of white people in Virginia, it is possible that
Old Ferret did smell something, metaphorically speaking. And that
something gave him great encouragement to move without delay.
Nevertheless, he waited till the colored man had disappeared in the
shed. Then he worked round till he was very near that shed. After a time
he slipped up to the door and peered in.
The colored man was fast asleep on some straw in a corner, his bottle by
his side. Standing in the shed were two horses. They were the very ones
Cunningham had driven when, with Frank Merriwell at his side, he left
the railway-station that day.
Old Ferret was well satisfied. Thus far he had not made one false step.
Now he surveyed the house.
Still, as before, there were no signs of life about it. It was strangely
silent and deserted.
The daring detective slipped up close under the shelter of its walls,
and, with one ear pressed against the moss-grown shingles, he listened
as a physician listens to the beating of a patient’s heart.
No sound from within.
Still thinking how that colored man who was sleeping in the shed had
issued from the front door, which he had left ajar, Old Ferret was led
to advance round the corner and approach the sagging steps.
He knew he was taking his life in his hand when he ventured into the
retreat of a desperado like Cunningham, the outlaw, but what recked he
of that! Had not his life been in peril thousands of times as he tracked
down the minions of crime!
And at the very foot of those sagging steps, lying on the ground, Old
Ferret found something to cause his eyes to glitter. He quickly stooped
and picked it up.
It was a knot of dark-blue ribbon, the same modest knot that had been
worn by Jimmy Lee when the train bearing the Yale team drew in at the
railway-station that day.
There was now no longer the least doubt but that the great detective was
on the right track. However, the most desperate and daring part of his
work lay before him.
It must be confessed that his heart was performing queer capers in his
bosom as he mounted those steps and paused to peep into the hall that
the partly open door revealed.
It was a forbidding-looking hall, too. No wonder he felt like drawing
back. Unpapered, unpainted, and dirty it seemed on close examination.
But Old Ferret bethought himself of his disguise and turned not back. If
he were seen, he would have recourse to his ready wit to get himself out
of the scrape. Any detective could do that, and when did the ready wit
of the real detective ever fail him in time of emergency!
Into the hall he slipped, with the velvet tread of the panther. Never
mind if one of his shoes did squeak a little, it was just the same, “the
velvet tread of the panther.” Great detectives always walked that way in
a place like this.
Still the silence of the place was unbroken. He wondered greatly at it,
and he longed to call to Frank Merriwell. This inclination to shout,
however, he knew was very unprofessional, and he sternly repressed it.
From room to room he went with the same cautious tread, peering into
first one and then another. Apparently all were empty save of the
battered old furniture. There seemed to be no woman about the place.
Plainly Ben Shannon was not partial toward women.
The lower part of the house was explored. There was no cellar. Even Old
Ferret, for all of his wonderful nerve, might have hesitated in the
teeth of a dark cellar that abounded with rats.
There being no cellar, it was necessary for him to proceed to the upper
story of the house. The stairs complained and tried to shout a warning,
and it must be that their vociferousness caused him to pause several
times in the ascent.
But at last the top was reached, and then, as he halted there to survey
his surroundings, he distinctly heard a sound that made him crouch with
every nerve strained and every separate hair threatening to kick his hat
off.
A strange and awesome sound it was, coming from whence he could not
tell. A shuddering, nerve-trying sound, like the growl of some fierce
wild beast preparing to leap upon its prey.
What could it be? Was it possible the outlaw was guarded by tame lions?
Even that thought was not enough to break the iron nerve of Old Ferret,
although it must be confessed that it gave his nerve a mighty wrench.
Then he heard it again.
It was a snore!
The tenseness went out of the great detective’s body, his hair permitted
his old hat to settle back upon his head, and he straightened up with a
deep sigh of relief.
“Well,” he said, “this seems to be about the sleepiest place I ever
struck. Everybody is taking a snooze. That’s first-class! I like it.”
But even then, knowing some one was near, it was some time before he
could summon his strength to go on. He saw an open door, and, still with
his professional panther-tread, he slipped up to it.
The room into which Old Ferret peered was the same one in which Frank
Merriwell had caught a glimpse of two men who were sitting at a table
and playing cards. The table was there, the men were there; but they
were not playing cards. On the table were empty bottles that had once
contained moonshine whisky, but which were empty now. Glasses were also
there. One man lay sprawled forward on the table, though still seated on
a chair. He was sound asleep and snoring. Another man had slipped from
his chair and lay beneath the table in a most uncomfortable position,
which he did not seem to mind in the least.
In a corner lay yet a third man, and this was the mighty outlaw himself,
although—ye gods!—what a face he had! He was recognizable more by his
red hair and beard than anything else. His face was battered and
disfigured by blood, which had run down upon his clothes, and, taken all
together, he was a most pitiful-looking object.
Old Ferret stared when he saw this fellow. What did it mean? Something
had happened to Cunningham, and it had happened very much, too!
“I know!” thought the detective, in triumph. “Jiminy goshfry! Didn’t
Frank Merriwell give it to him good! Oh, say! Um-um! Didn’t he just
paralyze Mr. Outlaw! I’d give fourteen thousand dollars just to have
seen that scrap!”
Then came a horrible and blood-chilling thought. What had happened to
Frank Merriwell?
Old Ferret shivered in his boots, only they were not exactly boots, and
they had holes enough in them to cause anybody to shiver.
Where was Frank Merriwell? Had these ruffians killed him? This was the
fear that caused even the freckles of the great detective to turn pale.
“If he is dead, I will avenge him!” vowed Old Ferret, through his
clenched teeth.
Then he resumed his search, though it was with his heart filled with
dread at what he expected to discover.
Almost the first room he peered into contained the object of his search.
Not dead! Not dying!
Bound hands and feet and tied to the floor, spikes having been driven
down to hold the ropes. Bound and gagged!
Old Ferret hopped into that room and softly closed the door behind him.
He felt like whooping for joy, but no great detective ever whooped, so
he did not whoop.
But he said, “Ha! I have accomplished me purpose!” and his unutterable
satisfaction was shown on his face.