BOOK I: THE CHASE

FROM NOW ON

By Frank L. Packard

Author Of “The Night Operator,”

“The Adventures Of Jimmie Dale,” Etc.

The Copp, Clark Co., Limited Toronto

1919

TO

C. C. B.

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[Illustration: 0009]

FROM NOW ON

BOOK I: THE CHASE

I--ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS

A WILD and prolonged roar came from every quarter of the race track.

It swelled in volume. It came again and again. Pandemonium itself seemed

loosed.

Outside the enclosure, a squat, fat man, the perspiration rolling in

streams down his face, tugged at his collar with frantic, nervous jerks,

as he leaned in over the side of a high-powered car, and with his other

hand gripped at the arm of the young man in the driver's seat.

“Dave, listen to 'em! My God, listen to 'em!” snarled the fat man.

Dave Henderson, with the toe of his boot, moved the little black satchel

that the other had dropped on the floor of the car farther to one side;

and, by way of excuse for disengaging his arm, reached into his pocket

for his cigarettes.

“I can hear 'em--even a yard away out here!” he said imperturbably.

“Sounds like a great day for the bookies--not!”

The fat man secured his grip on Dave Henderson's arm again.

“I'm wiped out--every last cent--all I've made in years,” he said

hoarsely. “You get that, don't you? You know it! I'm cleaned out--and

you don't seem to give a damn!”

“Why should I?” inquired Dave Henderson calmly. “I guess it's _their_

turn, ain't it?”

Bookie Skarvan's red-rimmed little gray eyes narrowed, and he swallowed

hard.

“I've played square, I have!” he whined. “And I'm wiped out!”

“Yes--square as hell!” amended Dave Henderson.

“You don't give a damn!” shrilled Bookie Skarvan. “That's like you!

That's like the lot of you! Where would you have been if I hadn't taken

you up--eh?”

“God knows!” said Dave Henderson dispassionately. “I'm not blaming you

for trying to make a crook of me.”

An apoplectic red heightened Bookie Skarvan's flushed and streaming

face.

“Well, that's one thing I didn't make a bull of, at any rate!” he

retorted viciously.

Dave Henderson shifted his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to

the other with the tip of his tongue. There was a curious smile, half

bitter, half whimsical, on his lips, as he leaned suddenly toward the

other.

“I guess you're right, Bookie!” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I've

only just found it out myself, so if you think there's any congrats

coming to you and you're sore because you didn't get 'em before, you

know why now.”

The scowl on Bookie Skarvan's face deepened, then cleared abruptly, and

the man forced a nervous, wheezy chuckle.

“You won't feel so blamed cool about it to-morrow morning when you come

to size this up!” He was whining again, but plaintively now. “I'm wiped

out, I tell you, and it's too hard a crack for Tydeman to give me any

more backing after he's squared this up--so what are you going to do,

eh?”

Dave Henderson glanced at the car's clock. It was already after three.

“I'm going up to 'Frisco--if I ever get started!” he said brusquely.

“I've missed the train, as it is, and that means a ninety-mile run--and

we're still wasting time! Get down to cases! You got Tydeman on the long

distance--what did he say?”

“I couldn't help your missing the train!” Bookie Skarvan's voice had

grown almost ingratiating. “There wasn't any use of you going until I

knew Tydeman was at home, and unless I got hold of him before the banks

closed, was there? And if I'd been able to get him at once we might have

had time to arrange it by wire with a bank here--if they were carrying

that much in ready cash--and you wouldn't have needed to go at all. But

I didn't get him until just a few minutes ago. You know that! I couldn't

help it, could I--and the run won't hurt you. You can grab the evening

train back. I can stave this gang of wolves off until then by telling

'em Tydeman's making good.”

“All right!” Dave Henderson was apparently much more intent upon the

starting mechanism of the car, than he was upon either his companion

or his companion's words. The engine was already purring softly when he

looked up at Bookie Skarvan again. “Well, what's the arrangement?”

“Tydeman will have the money in cash at his house--one hundred thousand

dollars. You go there and get it, and bring it back on the train

to-night.”

“Anything else?”

“No; that's all.” Bookie Skarvan mopped at his face with the back of his

sleeve, glanced in the direction of another sudden outburst of delirious

cheering, and mopped at his face again. “That'll be another long

shot--everybody's playing 'em--damn 'em! For God's sake, don't miss that

train back, Dave! It leaves at nine o'clock. Some of these pikers that

never turned a red in their lives before 'll be laying me out if I don't

flash the long green then. You get me, Dave? I'll have all I can do to

stave 'em off that long. I wish I could go with you and get out of here,

but they'd think I was running away, and----”

“I get you!” said Dave Henderson. “They all love Bookie Skarvan! Well,

it's your car, and you've got a right there, but get off the step

unless you're coming!” He threw in the clutch, and the car shot forward.

“So-long, Bookie!” he flung out over his shoulder.

An hour passed. Out in the free sweep of country, the car was running

at terrific speed. And now, from the road ahead, Dave Henderson's dark

eyes, cool and self-reliant, strayed to the little black handbag at his

feet as they had done many times before, while the tight lips parted

slightly in a smile; and suddenly, over the rush of the wind and the

roar of the speeding car, he spoke aloud.

“One hundred thousand dollars--_in cash_,” said Dave Henderson

meditatively. “Well, it looks like the chance I've been waiting

for--what? Only I can't go and let old Tydeman hand it over to me and

trust me with it, and then beat it and give him the doublecross, can

I? Once he shoves it at me, and says, 'Dave, my boy, take this back to

Skarvan,' I'm stung, and there's nothing doing! That's right, ain't it?

Well then, what's the answer?”

The broad, muscular shoulders set a little more rigidly over the

steering wheel, and the square jaws clamped in a sort of dogged defiance

in the face of his self-propounded problem. His mind, as though

seeking therefrom the solution he demanded, was reviewing the facts

and circumstances that had placed that little black hand-bag, with its

suggestive possibilities, at his feet. It had been a bad day for the

bookmakers, and a particularly bad day for Bookie Skarvan--for it was

the culmination of several extremely bad days for Bookie Skarvan.

Shots at odds that were staggering had won again and again. There was

absolutely no question but that the man was wiped out--a good many

times over. True, Tydeman was coming to the rescue, but that did not

put Bookie Skarvan on his feet again; it only paid the bills, and saved

Bookie Skarvan from being used as a street cleaning device in the shape

of a human mop! The curious thing about it was that Tydeman was in

any way connected with Bookie Skarvan! Everybody knew that Skarvan was

crooked from his boot soles up--except Martin K. Tydeman. But that was

Tydeman's way! Tydeman must have been told often enough, but Tydeman

wouldn't believe it. That was Tydeman's way! Once, years ago, Skarvan

had tipped Tydeman off that one of his string was being “doctored.” It

did not matter that Skarvan had juggled his information, and had

tried first to play both ends to the middle by blackmailing and then

doublecrossing the man who had done the “doctoring”--Tydeman did not

know that--and Tydeman from that moment was unshaken in his belief that

there was no squarer man on the circuit than Bookie Skarvan. It had

resulted in Tydeman becoming a silent partner of Bookie Skarvan--and the

betting fraternity had been not a little pleased, for Tydeman's

millions went up on the board better than even against Bookie Skarvan's

trickiness.

Dave Henderson nodded his head. It was quite true. Martin K. Tydeman

was getting to be quite an old man now, but Martin K. Tydeman was still

hailed as the squarest, garnest sporting gentleman California had ever

known--and it would be a little rough on that king of sports. It was too

bad that it wasn't Bookie Skarvan! Skarvan was crooked from the ground

up--and who knew it any better than he, Dave Henderson, who had worked

for Skarvan for several years now? But, as it was, Tydeman would simply

have to cough up a second hundred thousand out of his millions, that

was all. No, it wasn't all! It depended entirely upon whether he, Dave

Henderson, could get his hands on the money without accepting it as a

trust from the old millionaire.

“You're a poor fool!” Dave Henderson informed himself, with a sharp

laugh. “What's the difference? You pinch it either way, don't you?”

He shook his head, as the car tore forward.

“Mabbe,” he muttered, “mabbe I am, and mabbe there ain't any

difference--but there's nothing doing that way. I got a little

reputation myself--left. No guy ever put a bean in my mitt that he

didn't get a square deal on, and that's on the level--in spite of

Skarvan! Damn Skarvan! He wouldn't have had a look-in on a two-bit

bet for more seasons than one if I hadn't been running the cases for

him--nobody'd have trusted him!”

Again Dave Henderson relapsed into silence. He drove in a purely

mechanical way. His mind was rankling now in a sort of bitter

speculation over the years that reached back as far as he could

remember. They were not an altogether pleasing memory; and that was why

he wanted, and not only wanted, but had made up his mind to have--one

hundred thousand dollars. He did not remember either his father or his

mother. They hadn't had any money, but he had an impression that they

had been rather decent people--only they had died. He had been a kid

when it happened--he didn't know how old--just a kid. Some one had put

him in a school, an orphan school. It had been a hell of a place. And

at ten he had run away. After that, beginning by making himself useful

around one of the training stables, he had lived on the race courses

ever since--and had risen to the heights of becoming Bookie Skarvan's

clerk!

His jaws clamped hard. It was a piker life, but here was a chance to get

out of it! He had been looking for the chance--and here it was--if he

could get away with it. There had been lots of chances before, chances

for a few thousand dollars--but the bet hadn't been good enough. He

had even a little better than three thousand dollars himself, for that

matter, and it was pulling interest, too; he had loaned it to Square

John Kelly, who ran the Pacific Coral Saloon down on the Barbary Coast

in 'Frisco. And he had a couple of hundred dollars in his pocket now,

too, for that matter. But it was all chicken feed. He had won it, and

he might win as much more again some time--or he might lose it. The

game wasn't any good. It didn't get anywhere. Maybe it was the interest

coming in on that three thousand that showed up where the odds stood on

a hundred thousand. There wasn't anything else involved. Was it a

good gamble? The interest on a hundred thousand would make a blooming

gentleman of independent means out of him at one crack. Sure, it was

worth the risk! If he got caught, well then--_good-night!_ If he got

away with it, well then--_zowie!_

Yes--but how? That was the question.

If he wouldn't go to Tydeman and let Tydeman trustfully hand the money

over to him, how was he to get the cash into his possession? He was

quite willing to accept the risk of pursuit and capture, given a few

hours' start, he was quite willing to pit his wits against the machinery

of the law, that was the gambling chance he ran; and it would be very

simple to let Tydeman, in Tydeman's own library, say, assist in packing

the little black hand-bag full of money, and then, instead of taking the

train back to Stockton--to disappear. The strong jaws clamped harder.

But--. nothing doing! Not that way! He'd go the limit, and he meant to

have that hundred thousand, and he would have it, and, once decided

upon getting it, he would drop in his tracks before he would give up

the attempt, and he would drop in his tracks, if the attempt were

successful, before he relinquished his grip on the money--but that way

was _raw_. Rotten raw! To get away with a hundred thousand dollars was

a sporting proposition, a gambling and a fighting chance, but to

double-cross a man who placed that money in one's keeping in good faith

was in Bookie Skarvan's line--not his!

Well then--how?

The miles and the minutes and the half-hours passed. Tight-lipped, the

clean-shaven face set and hard, the dark eyes introspective as they held

on the road ahead, Dave Henderson sat there, almost motionless, bent

over the wheel. Once he stopped to replenish his supply of gasoline, and

then the car roared on again, rocking in its speed. He drove perilously

fast, in a sort of subconscious physical synchronism with his racing

brain. One hundred thousand dollars--that was the stake. In another hour

or so that hundred thousand dollars would be his--some way! There was no

question about that! But how? There was something ironical in the fact

that Tydeman was waiting to throw it at him, and that while he racked

his mind for a method of getting the money into his possession, he must

also rack his mind for a method that would prevent it being forced upon

him! He laughed out sharply.

“Now wouldn't that sting you!” mumbled Dave Henderson. “Say, wouldn't

that sting you!”

And then, abruptly, Dave Henderson stopped the car at the side of the

road. He had it now--almost. It had come, the germ of it, in a flash.

And now he wanted to think it out without the distraction of handling

the machine. There came a smile, and the smile broadened--and he laughed

again. There was a picture before his mind's-eye now that afforded him a

grim sense of humor. He could see the great bare dormitory in the

orphan school, a room whose walls were decorated with huge scrolled

mottoes--and there was the one on the end wall with its great red

painted letters, and the same old crack in the plaster that zigzagged

its way through the words. Sure, he could see it! “Virtue Is Its Own

Reward.” He had never taken much stock in mottoes, but it looked now as

though that one wasn't all to the bad! By refusing to allow himself to

double-cross old Tydeman, he had now found a very much better way. He

wouldn't have to take the risk of pursuit now if he had any luck, for

the very simple reason that there wouldn't be any pursuit; and instead

of it being a self-evident fact that he had got away with the money, he

would not now appear in the affair at all.

He began to elaborate the germ very carefully in his mind. He knew old

Tydeman's house well, almost every inch of it, for he had been there on

errands for Skarvan many times. Tydeman had secured the money from the

bank just before closing time, and had taken it to his home. Tydeman's

habit was to dine about half-past six. These three facts woven together

offered a most satisfactory solution to the problem. One hundred

thousand dollars in bills of the denominations that Tydeman would be

likely to call for in order to make it convenient for Bookie Skarvan's

use, would be too bulky for Tydeman to carry around in his pocket.

Therefore the money wouldn't be on Tydeman's person when the old

millionaire sat down to his high-falutin' dinner with his butler at

his elbow at half-past six. The money would be in the library most

likely--and the library was accessible--thanks to the hedge that flanked

the driveway to the house.

Dave Henderson selected another cigarette from his package, and lighted

it thoughtfully. So far, so good! And the rest wasn't so dusty either!

He had the whole thing now. As soon as he reached 'Frisco he would drive

down to that shabby little street where he kept the shabby room in which

he lived during the off seasons on the turf, and leave the car standing

in front of the house. From his room he could easily gain the shed at

the rear of the place, and from the shed he could gain the lane--and all

this without the slightest chance of being observed. He should be able

to go to Tydeman's house and return in, say, an hour, or an hour and a

half at the outside. If any one noticed the car in front it would seem

only natural that he had gone to his room to wash up and perhaps change

his clothes after a ninety-mile run, especially in view of the fact that

the train he was supposed to take back to Stockton did not leave until

nine o'clock.

He leaned back in his seat, and blew a smoke ring into the air

complacently.

“Sure!” observed Dave Henderson. “I guess I've got the odds switched--to

a little better than even money. I'll be back with that hundred thousand

and no one the wiser, but I've got to hide it somewhere--what? And I

can't make the fool play of hiding it in my room.”

Another smoke ring followed the first. Almost any place would do--so

that it was easy to get at, and at the same time would not attract

attention to him when he went back to it. Well--the shed, then? He

nodded his head suddenly. Yes, of course--Mrs. Tooler's old pigeon-cote

in the shed! It was the one place in a million! The money would be

perfectly safe there, and he could get it again any time at a minute's

notice. Again he nodded his head. The whole thing was as good as done

now. After the money was hidden, he had only to get into the car, drive

to Tydeman's house, mount the steps with the little black satchel in

his hand--and request of Mr. Martin K. Tydeman, Esquire, the money that

Bookie Skarvan had sent him for, and which he had motored a matter of

some ninety miles to obtain!

Dave Henderson's lips parted in a sudden smile, though the outthrust,

dogged jaw was in no degree relaxed. There would be one whale of

a hullabaloo! But the last man who could by the wildest stretch

of imagination have had anything to do with the robbery was--Dave

Henderson!

After that, maybe he _would_ accept a second hundred thousand from

Tydeman--and take it back to Bookie Skarvan, too! That was all he had to

do--play the game. In six months it would be soon enough to dig up and

beat it out of the West for keeps. There wasn't any hurry. Being already

a man of affairs, it would take him some time to get those affairs

settled up! There was old Square John Kelly and that three thousand

dollars, for instance. Kelly couldn't produce the cash at an instant's

notice, it was invested in Kelly's business; but if he tipped old Kelly

off that he was thinking of chucking up the West, Kelly would have it

for him at the end of a few months. There wasn't any hurry.

Dave Henderson glanced at the car's clock--and flipped the butt of his

cigarette away. It was ten minutes of five. He started the car forward

again--but now he drove leisurely. The plan he had decided upon no

longer demanded an excess of speed. He was getting in pretty close to

'Frisco, and he did not now want to reach the city until at least a few

minutes after six.

There was something superbly insouciant about the man, as, far back in

his seat, his hands rested in a sort of masterful negligence upon the

steering wheel. Of ethics Dave Henderson knew little, and cared much

less--ethics had been missing from the curriculum of the school in which

he had been brought up. He wanted a hundred thousand dollars, because

with a hundred thousand dollars he was fixed for life; and, having

weighed the betting odds that stood between him and his goal, and having

decided to accept those odds, it became simply a question of winning,

or of being wiped out. If he got wiped out, he would neither whimper nor

whine--he would simply swallow his medicine. He was taking a sporting

chance--he was staking his liberty, quite possibly his life, against

Martin K. Tydeman's hundred thousand dollars. And Tydeman could afford

to lose. He wasn't for putting Tydeman, or any one else, on the rocks;

that wasn't the sort of game he had any use for--but a hundred thousand

to Tydeman was street-car fare. He admitted that he would have preferred

it should have been some one other than Tydeman, in the sense that he

possessed an unbounded admiration for Tydeman--for Tydeman, even though

he was too old to take much of an active part in anything, was still the

gamest sport on record. But it _was_ Tydeman, it happened that it _was_

Tydeman; and so, well---- Dave Henderson shrugged his shoulders.

“Step up, gentlemen, and place your bets!” murmured Dave Henderson

softly. “And take a tip from me--bunch your wads on the dark horse!”

II--THE THEFT

IT was in front of a shabby frame house in a shabby street that Dave

Henderson stopped the car. It was five minutes after six. He lifted up

the seat, and, leaning down, surreptitiously conveyed to his pocket

a cold-chisel from the car's complement of tools. Lacking any of the

accessories of a professional burglar, the chisel would make a most

excellent substitute for a steel jimmy. He replaced the seat, picked

up the little black hand-bag, alighted, entered the house, and from the

musty hallway, after unlocking the door, stepped through into a room

on the right. He closed the door behind him, and stood surveying his

surroundings in a sort of half grim, half quizzical contempt.

It was possible that old Tooler upstairs, on hearing the car, and

hearing him, Dave Henderson, enter the house, might come down; on the

other hand, it was quite equally possible that old Tooler would not. It

was, however, wise to wait a few minutes and see. That was part of the

plan. He, Dave Henderson, was supposed to be here in his room while

some one else made that little raid on Martin K. Tydeman's library! If,

therefore, Tooler should come down, and find no one---- A shrug of his

shoulders completed the obvious deduction.

His eyes traveled around the room. This was his home--that is, if

he could claim a home anywhere, this was his home. It was dingy,

comfortless and uninviting. There was only the one window that faced the

street, and the window was inadequate, and the light seemed to be imbued

with a niggardly hesitation about coming in at all--which was perhaps

just as well. The furnishings weren't out of any prize collection!

He dug his hands impulsively into his side-pockets--and, one hand

encountering the chisel, he smiled with a kind of cool, composed

satisfaction. Between this barren and God-forsaken hole and this bit

of steel there had been been a connection that was both intimate and

pertinent. For nine years, ever since he had run away from school, the

kind of existence this place stood for had got his goat--that was the

reason why he had put the chisel in his pocket.

The room had served its purpose better than any other place of like

circumstances and surroundings would have served him--he had, indeed,

chosen this particular room very carefully--but the place had always

got his goat. He had had to have a room somewhere--he had taken it here.

There were many reasons why he had selected this one. It was cheap; and

it was among the only class of people with whom he had ever had a chance

to associate--the hangers-on of the race-tracks, the dance-hall crowd

of the Barbary Coast, the night world of 'Frisco. He knew every one

here--he knew the crooks and the lags of the underworld. These latter

had time and again even tried to inveigle him into active membership in

their fraternity. They wanted him. They had even paid him the compliment

of telling him he would make the slickest crook in the United States. He

had refused. The game didn't look good enough. It was all piker stuff.

It wasn't morality that had held him back... his morality was the

morality of his environment... nine years of it... what was morality

anyhow?... as far as he could make out it was simply a question of

whatever you do don't get caught. And he had seen some of the upper

crust playing at morality, too! Sure, he knew what morality was--he had

seen a lot of it in his nineteen years!

“Well, what do you know about that!” said Dave Henderson aloud, in a

sort of surprised voice. “Sounds like I'm arguing with myself whether I

ought to do this or not. Say, wouldn't that sting you! There's nothing

to it! It's what you get for waiting--a lone hand that cops the

sweepstakes, and sets you up for keeps like a nabob!”

He went to the door, opened it slightly, and listened. Upstairs he could

hear Tooler moving about. That was another reason why he had, having

once taken the room, remained on as the sole lodger in this house.

Tooler minded his own business--and Mrs. Tooler couldn't help minding

hers. Mrs. Tooler was a paralytic. They were a couple well beyond middle

age, and, having been thrifty in their early days, had purchased this

house here some fifteen years ago. The neighborhood, even if still a

cheap neighborhood at that time, had been a little more refined in those

days. It had changed for the worse since then, but having invested their

savings the subsequent changes had to be borne, that was all. It hadn't

apparently affected Tooler very much. The man was naturally sour anyhow,

and Mrs. Tooler's illness hadn't changed him into what might be called,

by any stretch of the imagination, genial! He was a mechanic of some

sort; but his work had been spasmodic--Mrs. Tooler could not always be

left alone.

Dave Henderson frowned. Tooler evidently wasn't coming down; but Tooler,

for all that, must, if the necessity arose, be the means of establishing

an alibi, and that required something of at least a definite recognition

by Tooler of his, Dave Henderson's, presence. He stepped abruptly out

into the hall.

“Heh, Tooler!” he called. “Tooler!”

A door opened somewhere above.

“Hello!” snapped a gruff voice.

“It's me,” announced Dave Henderson.

“I heard you!” grunted Tooler.

“I just came in for a wash-up,” explained Dave Henderson. “Came up in

Skarvan's car. I'm going back to-night by train.”

“All right!” Tooler grunted again.

“How's the wife?”

The only answer was the closing of a door upstairs. Dave Henderson

smiled pleasantly, and re-entered his own room. When it came to

sociability Tooler was a star! Well, so much the better! He had no

complaint to register on that score--especially to-night! He crossed

to where his trunk stood against the wall at the lower end of the room,

opened the trunk, lifted out the tray, and from somewhere in the lower

recesses possessed himself of an automatic pistol and a generous supply

of reserve ammunition. With this in his pocket, he closed the trunk

again, and, sitting down on the edge of the bed, unlaced and removed his

shoes.

And now Dave Henderson, silent as a cat in his movements, his shoes

tucked under one arm, the black hand-bag under the other, made his

way out into the hall. The car standing in front of the house was mute

evidence that he was still in his room. Later on, when he returned, in

the course of an hour, say, he would call up to Tooler again to say that

he was going. It was a perfectly good alibi!

He crept on along the hall, reached the back door, opened it cautiously

without a sound, and stepped through into the shed that connected with

the house. Here, he spent several minutes in a careful examination of

the old pigeon-cote. He had never been very much interested in Mrs.

Tooler's abandoned pigeon-cote before--he was very much interested in it

now! There was a small side window in the shed, and it gave just light

enough to enable him to see. It was many years since Mrs. Tooler had

kept any pigeons, or anything else, save the bare threads of her life

together; but the old pigeon-cote was still here at the end of the shed,

just above the door that opened on the lane. It wasn't anything very

elaborate, just a sort of ceiling platform, boarded in, and with a

little door in it. Standing on the ground he could just reach up to the

door, and he opened it tentatively. Yes, it would serve excellently. It

was instantly accessible at any time, either from the house or from the

lane, and certainly Mrs. Tooler's long-forgotten shelter for her bygone

pets was not a thing to excite suspicion--especially in view of the fact

that there never would be any suspicion excited on any score as far as

he was concerned!

He put on his shoes again, and, opening the shed door at the rear,

stepped out into the lane--and a moment later was walking quickly along

a side street away from the house.

Martin K. Tydeman's house was on the Hill. Dave Henderson smiled a

little grimly at the airy lightness of the empty black bag in his hand.

It would be neither as light nor as empty on the way hack--if he had any

luck! He pulled the slouch hat he was wearing a little farther down over

his eyes. A man carrying a bag wasn't anything out of the ordinary, or

anything to attract particular attention--he was much more concerned in

avoiding the chance of personal recognition. And, anyway, the bag was a

necessity. If the money, for instance, was in customary banded sheaves

of banknotes, and loose, how else could he carry it? Not in his

pockets--and he couldn't very well make a parcel of them in Tydeman's

library! Of course, the bank might have made up a sealed package of

the whole, but even then a sealed package would have to be kept out of

sight.

The slouch hat was drawn down still a little lower, and by the less

frequented streets Dave Henderson made his way along. At the expiration

of some twenty minutes he had emerged, a block away, on the street upon

which the millionaire's home fronted. The hurried pace was gone now, and

he dropped into a leisurely and nonchalant saunter. It was a very select

neighborhood. There was little or no traffic, and the majority of

the houses possessed, to a greater or less extent, their own grounds.

Tydeman's house, for example, was approached by a short driveway that

was flanked on both sides by a high and thick hedge. Dave Henderson

nodded his head complacently. He had pictured that driveway a dozen

times on the run up from Stockton, and particularly he had pictured that

hedge! It was a most convenient hedge! And it was exceedingly thoughtful

of Martin K. Tydeman, Esquire, to have provided it! If one crouched low

enough there was nothing, unless some one were especially on the watch,

to prevent one reaching the library windows at the side-rear of the

house, and of accomplishing this without the slightest chance of being

seen.

He was close to the driveway entrance now, and his eyes swept narrowly

up and down the street. For the moment there appeared to be no one in

sight--and, with a quick side-step, he slipped suddenly in from the

street under the shelter of the hedge.

He moved swiftly now, running, half bent over. It was a matter of but a

few seconds--and now, darting across the driveway where it branched off

to circle around to the front entrance, he gained the side wall of

the house, and crouched, listening intently, beneath the window of the

library.

A minute passed, another--there was no sound. He raised himself

guardedly then to an upright position, pressing close against the wall,

but keeping well back at one side of the window. The window sill was

shoulder high, and now, edging forward inch by inch, he obtained a

diagonal glance through the pane. The room, as far as he could see, for

the portières within were but partially drawn, was unoccupied. It was

what he had counted upon. Tydeman, if the millionaire were following his

usual custom, was at dinner, and the dining room was on the other side

of the house. No one of the household, either family or servants,

would ordinarily have any occasion to be in the library at this hour.

Ordinarily! A glint came into the dark eyes, and the eyes narrowed as in

a dogged, uncompromising challenge--and then the shoulders lifted in

a debonair shrug. Well, that was the chance he took! He was gambling

anyhow!

His fingers crept to the window-sash, and tested it quietly. It would

not move. Whether it was locked above or not, he did not know--the

slight pressure that he was able to exert from the outside was at least

not sufficient to lift it--but the improvised steel jimmy would quickly

remedy that defect. He worked hurriedly now. The Western summer evenings

were long and it was still light, and every minute he stood there was

courting discovery. The edge of the chisel slipped in between the sill

and the window-sash, and with the leverage the window was raised an inch

or two. His question was answered.

It had not been locked at the top.

And now his fingers came into play again--under the window-sash. There

was not a sound. The window went up easily and silently; and with a

lithe, agile spring Dave Henderson swung himself up over the sill,

dropped with a soft _pad_ to the floor, and stood motionless, shrouded

in one of the portières.

The room was empty. The door leading from the library, he could see as

he peered out, was closed. From the other side of the door, muffled,

there came a laugh, the murmur of voices, indeterminate little sounds.

The set, straight lips relaxed a little. The way was quite clear. The

chances in his favor were mounting steadily. The family was undoubtedly

at dinner.

He made no sound as he stepped quickly now across the room. The rich,

heavy pile of the velvet rug beneath his feet deadened his footfalls.

And now he reached the massive flat-topped desk that stood almost in the

center of the room. It was the most likely place, the natural place, for

Tydeman to leave the money. If it was not here--again there came that

debonair shrug--well then, he would look further--upstairs in Tydeman's

bedroom, if necessary--or anywhere else, if necessary. One thing only

was certain, and that was that, having started on the job, he would get

the money, or they would get him--if he couldn't fight his way out. It

was quite natural! Of course, he would do that! What else would he do?

He had always done that! He had been brought up to it, hadn't he? Win

or lose--he had always played win or lose. Cold feet and bet hedging was

piker stuff--and that was in Bookie Skarvan's line, too, not his!

Keen, alert, his ears were sentinels against the slightest external

sound. He was gnawing now in a sort of grim impatience at his lower lip,

as he pulled open, drawer after drawer. Strange how his mind worked!

The slickest crook in the U. S. A., they had said he would make. Well,

perhaps he would, but, even so, it neither allured nor interested him.

This was his first job--and his last. There was enough in this to see

him through for the rest of his life. It wouldn't have been worth the

risk otherwise, and he wouldn't have tackled it. Once East, and he could

pretend to amass money little by little until no one would be surprised

that he was worth a hundred thousand dollars. That was the trouble with

the bunch he knew! Some of them had brains, but they worked their brains

overtime--on small stuff--and they had to come again--to keep the living

expenses going--and sooner or later they came once too often--and then

it was the jug for theirs!

He bent down suddenly to a lower drawer that was locked--the only one

that he had found locked--and pried it open with the cold chisel.

“Sure!” said Dave Henderson imperturbably under his breath. “I guess

this looks like it--what? And all done up in a nice little package, too!

Even more thoughtful of 'em than I had hoped!”

He took out a parcel from the drawer. It was securely tied with stout

cord, and heavily sealed with great blobs of red wax that bore a

bank's impression. There could indeed be but little doubt concerning the

contents; but Dave Henderson, nevertheless, made a slight opening in

one end of the wrapping paper--and disclosed to view crisp piles of

brand-new yellowbacks. He nodded pleasantly to himself, as he consigned

the package to the little black hand-bag.

It was what he had come for--and got--one hundred thousand dollars.

He closed the drawer, and knelt for an instant to examine it. Closed, it

did not show enough of the chisel's work to attract attention; open, it

at once became very apparent that the drawer had been forced. He smiled

in satisfaction. That was exactly what he wanted! When, a little later,

he drove up in Skarvan's car to the front door and requested the money,

it was only then that it was likely to be missed for the first time; and

certainly under such circumstances the last man on earth against whom

any suspicion could arise would be himself. He had told himself that

before. Well, why not repeat it? It was true, wasn't it?

He retreated to the window, lowered himself to the ground, and regained

the street. The thing was done. He was in possession of one hundred

thousand dollars. There had not been the slightest difficulty or

obstacle. He hummed an air under his breath, as he went along. It had

been very simple--more so even than he had expected. It had been almost

tame!

III--THE TRAP

DAVE HENDERSON lost no time on his return journey. Within some fifteen

or twenty minutes after leaving the residence of Mr. Martin K. Tydeman,

he slipped into the lane at the rear of the shabby house on the shabby

street that he called his home, and, entering the shed, closed the door

softly behind him. Here, it was but the work of an instant to take the

sealed package of banknotes from the black hand-bag, reach up, slide

the package in through the little door of the old pigeon-cote, push the

package over into one corner, cover it with the chaff and old straw with

which, relics of bygone days of occupancy, the bottom of the pigeon-cote

was littered, and to close the little door again.

He stooped then, and, unlacing his shoes quickly, removed them. He had

only one thing to guard against now, and his alibi was perfect, his

possession of one hundred thousand dollars secure. Tooler must not hear

him entering the house. Tooler must be morally convinced that he, Dave

Henderson, had never left the house. As soon as he got back to his room

again, he would put on his shoes, call up to Tooler that he was going,

and, with the empty black hand-bag, get into his car--and drive up to

Martin K. Tydeman's!

“Some uproar!” confided Dave Henderson to himself. “When I ask old

Martin K. to fill the li'l old bag, and he goes for the cash, there'll

be------”

His mental soliloquy ended abruptly. He had opened the door noiselessly

that led into the house, and was creeping without a sound along the

hallway toward the door of his room at the front of the house--and now

suddenly he stood rigid and motionless. Was it fancy, his imagination

playing tricks upon him, or had Tooler come down-stairs? It seemed as

though he had caught the sound of a lowered voice; and it seemed as

though it had come from his own room there along the hall.

And then he smiled sarcastically at himself, and began to creep forward

again. He had complained of the whole thing being tame, and now he was

getting an attack of nerves when it was all over! How could he have

heard a lowered voice through the closed door of his room? It was a

physical impossibility. And Tooler, in any case, was not in the habit of

talking to _himself_ Tooler never talked to any one if he could help it.

The man always seemed to be nursing a perennial grudge that he hadn't

been born a mute!

Dave Henderson's smile broadened at his little conceit--and the next

instant vanished entirely, as his lips compressed suddenly into a hard,

straight line. He had halted for the second time, hugged now close

against the wall. The door of his room was _not_ closed, and it was

_not_ Tooler--and it was _not_ nerves. The door was slightly ajar;

and the words came quite audibly; and the guarded voice had a haunting

familiarity about it:

“Sure, I grabbed the train, an' Bookie stalled on being able to get old

Tydeman on the long-distance until after the train--an' me on it--was on

our way. Tumble?”

Dave Henderson did not move. Into his face there had come, set in a

grayish-whiteness, a look that mingled stunned amazement and a gathering

fury. He had recognized that voice now--and, in a flash, what that

voice meant. It was Runty Mott, a miserable little red-haired rat of

a race-course tout and hanger-on. Runty Mott--Bookie Skarvan! He

remembered very well indeed that Bookie Skarvan could not get Tyde-man

on the long distance until after the train was gone!

Another voice chuckled in malicious assent.

“Take it from me”--it was Runty Mott again--“Bookie Skarvan's got some

head! _Some_ head! He was wiped out all right, but I guess this puts

him on Easy Street again. Fifty thousand for him, an' we split the

rest. Bookie says to me, he says, 'If Dave goes an' gets that money,

an' disappears afterwards,'-he says, 'it's a cinch, with the ragged

reputation he's got, that he stole it, an' beat it for parts unknown,

an' if them parts unknown,' he says, 'is a nice little mound of earth

somewheres in the woods about six feet long an' four feet deep, due

to Dave having collided with a blackjack, I guess the police'll be

concluding after a while that Dave was smart enough to give 'em the

slip, an' get away with the coin for keeps. You grab the train for

'Frisco, Runty,' he says, 'an' wise up Baldy Vickers to what I say. You

got a good two hours,' he says, 'to set the stage up there before Dave

blows in.'”

Came that malicious chuckle again.

“An' the poor boob went an' cracked the crib himself!” ejaculated Runty

Mott's companion--and chuckled once more.

“Sure!” said Runty Mott. “Bookie called the turn all right on the guy's

reputation--he was born a crook. Well, it makes it all the easier, don't

it? It might have been harder to get him when we wanted him if he'd just

gone up there an' got the money on the level. As it is now, he's ducking

his nut, trying to play innocent, an' he comes back here to make a nice

fresh start up to old Tydeman's again. Only he didn't reckon on any

one trailing him from the minute he got out of his car! I guess we got

him--good. Spike telephoned ten minutes ago that Dave was on his way

back. If he comes in by the shed, the boys'll see he don't get out

that way again; an' if he comes in by the front he'll get a peach of

a welcome home! Tumble? This is where he croaks--an' no noise about

it--an' you look out that you swing the lead so's you won't have to

swing it twice. We can carry him out through the shed, an' get the

mortal remains away in a car with no one the wiser.” Runty Mott was

chuckling now quite as maliciously as his companion. “Can't you see the

headlines in the papers! 'Promising Young Man Succumbs to Temptation.'

Say, it's the safest thing that was ever pulled, an'------” He stopped

suddenly. A low whistle sounded from the street in front. “Keep quiet!”

cautioned Runty Mott. “He's coming in by the lane.”

It was silent in the house--only the silence began to pound and throb,

and become a world of riot and dismay, and make confused noises of its

own. Crouched against the wall, Dave Henderson raised his hand to his

forehead--and drew his hand away damp with beads of moisture. There was

an overmastering rage, a tigerish ferocity upon him; but his brain, most

curiously, was deadly cold in its composure, and was working now swift

as lightning flashes, keen, alert, shrewd, active. The words he had just

heard meant--_murder_. His murder! The very callousness of the words

but lent a hideous sincerity to them. Also he knew Baldy Vickers--if any

further proof was needed. Baldy Vickers was a gangster to whom murder

was a trade; and Baldy Vickers with stakes in the thousands, when he

would have committed any crime in the decalogue with greedy haste for a

hundred-dollar bill, meant--murder.

He was stooping now, silently, with the utmost caution, slipping on his

shoes. And now from the rear there came a faint sound, a low creaking,

like the stealthy rending of wood. He knew what it meant: They were

forcing the shed door--to follow him in here--to cut off his escape, and

to assist if necessary in the work those two were waiting to perform in

his room, which he was expected to enter.

His face was set, drawn in lines as hard as chiselled marble. And yet he

could have laughed--laughed out in the bitterest mockeries. The game was

up--even if he saved his life. He would be “wanted” for the theft of one

hundred thousand dollars. He could not cover that up now. If he escaped

Baldy Vickers and his pack, he would still be a fugitive from the law.

And, worse still, he would be a fugitive empty-handed, chased like a

mangy dog who had risked his all for a bone--and had dropped the bone in

his flight! God, if he could only get back there and get that money!

But there were footsteps coming now--his straining ears could hear

them--they were coming nearer and nearer to the door that opened

from the shed into the rear of the house. Fury surged upon him again.

Skarvan! Bookie Skarvan! It was Skarvan, not Baldy Vickers, not that

miserable, red-headed rat of a tout in there, that he would have sold

his soul at that instant to settle with. It was Skarvan, the dirty

Judas, not the others, who, smug and safe, had planned his, Dave

Henderson's, murder in deliberate, coldblooded hellishness! Well, if he,

Dave Henderson, lived, Bookie Skarvan would pay... an eye for an eye...

that was God's law, wasn't it?... well, as certainly as God lived,

Bookie Skarvan would pay... it was another incentive for him, Dave

Henderson, to live now....

The brain works with incredible speed. Those footsteps had not yet quite

reached the door leading into the hall. His shoes were on now; and now

his eyes fell upon the empty black hand-bag which, to facilitate his

movements in putting on his shoes, he had set down on the floor beside

him, and there came, flickering suddenly over the tight-pressed lips, a

curious smile. He might not get through; there was only one way to

get through--his car out there in front--a dash for it, though it was

certain that there would be others of Baldy Vickers' crowd lurking out

there, too; he might not get through, but if he did, there was a way,

too, to save that hundred thousand dollars, or, at least, to keep it

from Bookie Skarvan's claws!

Into the dark, narrowed eyes there came a glint of humor--but it was

grim, deadly humor. They believed, of course, that he had the money in

the bag, since he would be credited with no object for having already

disposed of it, the natural presumption being that, with the money once

in his possession, he would make a run for it--and they must continue to

believe that--be given no reason to believe otherwise. It was dangerous,

an added risk, but if he pretended to fall unwarily into their trap,

pretended to be unconscious that there was, for instance, a blackjack

waiting for him in his room, their suspicions would never be

aroused--and neither they nor any one else would ever suspect for an

instant that the money was not still in the bag as he dashed from the

house.

He was creeping forward again silently toward the door of his room. That

was logical. They would expect that. They would expect him to creep in

silently and stealthily, on account of Tooler upstairs--or, if they did

not exactly expect it, it would explain itself in that very logical way

to them afterwards.

Behind him now the door leading into the hall was being opened

cautiously, so cautiously that he would not have heard it if he had not

been listening for it, expecting it. But he was just at the edge of the

jamb of his own door now. He straightened up, his hand reached out

for the door handle, and, still retaining his grasp upon the knob and

standing in full view upon the threshold, he pushed the door open to the

extent of his outstretched arm.

The slickest crook in the United States, they had said he would make! He

would try and not disappoint them!

His eyes swept the interior in a flash. A burly figure was crouched

low down against the wall within striking distance of the door, an ugly

looking, leather-covered baton in his hand--Runty Mott was not in sight.

It was for the fraction of a second that he stood there--no more--not

long enough for that crouching figure to recover from its surprise.

“My God!” gasped Dave Henderson, in well-simulated dismay; and, leaping

backward, pulled shut the door, and dashed for the door to the street.

There was a yell from the room; it was echoed by a shout, and the pound

of racing feet from the rear of the hall. Dave Henderson wrenched the

front door open--and slammed it behind him. A figure rose before him on

the steps. His left hand, free, swung with all his body weight behind

it, swung with a terrific blow to the point of a scrubby jaw that

blocked his way--and the figure crumpled, and went down with a crash on

the doorstep.

It was but a yard to the curb and his car. He threw himself into the

driver's seat. Pandemonium seemed loosed now from the house. Up above,

a second-story window was raised violently, and Tooler's head was thrust

out; below, the front door was flung wide open, and, the red-headed

little tout in the van, four men were racing down the steps. And then,

over the chorus of unbridled blasphemy, there rose a shrill yell from

Runty Mott, which was answered from somewhere down the street.

The car, like a mad thing stung into action, shot forward from the curb.

A hand grasped at the car's side, and was torn loose, its owner spinning

like a top and pitching to the sidewalk. Dave Henderson flung a glance

over his shoulder--and his jaws clamped suddenly hard together. Of

course! That shout of Runty Mott's! But he had not underestimated either

Baldy Vickers' cunning, or Baldy Vickers' resourcefulness. He had rather

expected it. A big, powerful gray car had swept around the corner of

the first street behind him, and, slowing for an instant, was picking up

Runty Mott and his companions.

And now Dave Henderson laughed a little in a sort of grim savagery.

Well, the race was on--and on to a finish! He knew the men too well in

that gray car behind him to delude himself for a moment with any other

idea. They wanted that little black hand-bag, and they would get it if

they could; and they would get him, if they could, at any cost. Again

he laughed, and now with the laugh came that debonair lift to his

shoulders. His brain was working in swift, lightning flashes. The only

hope of shaking them off was in the open--if his car were the faster.

And if it were not the faster? Well then, yes--there was still a

chance--on a certain road he knew, the road he had traveled that

afternoon--if he could make that road. It was a chance, a gambling

chance, but the best chance--to win all--or lose all. There would be

no hedging--it was all or nothing--win or lose. They would not dare use

their revolvers here in the city streets, they could only cling close on

his trail; and neither of them here in the city could put the respective

speed of their cars to the test--but in the open, in the country----

He looked over his shoulder again. The big gray car, some fifty yards

in the rear, held five passengers. He could distinguish the little

red-haired tout in the front seat beside the man who was driving, a

short, thick-set man, whose cap was pulled down over his eyes--Baldy

Vickers. He nodded his head. His glance had measured something else. By

leaning forward in his seat and crouching low over the wheel, the back

of his car seemed high enough, not to afford him absolute immunity, but

to afford him at least a fair chance of protection once he elected to

invite the shots that would be fired from the car behind.

Then the thought came that by one of a dozen ways, by leaping from his

car as he turned a corner, for instance, and darting into a building, he

might give his pursuers the slip here in the city. But it was no good!

The game was up! He was not only a fugitive from Baldy Vickers and his

wolves, he was a fugitive now from the police. And if by some such means

as that he managed to give Baldy Vickers the slip, there was still the

police--and with a police drag-net out he cut his chances of escape by

better than half if he remained in the city. It would not be long now

before Tydeman, in view of his, Dave Henderson's, non-appearance, would

become aware of the theft; and, granting that he eluded Baldy Vickers,

the gangster, eager for revenge, would be the first to curry favor with

the police--Baldy Vickers had only to state that one of his pals saw

him, Dave Henderson, crawling out through Tydeman's library window.

There was nothing to it! The game was up--even if he saved his life.

Thanks to Bookie Skarvan! His jaws clamped again, and the knuckles of

his hands stood out in white knobs as they clenched in sudden passion on

the wheel. Thanks to Bookie Skarvan! By God, that alone was worth living

for--to settle with Bookie Skarvan!

Like some sinister, ominous thing, silently, attracting no attention

from the passers-by, the big gray car maintained its distance fifty

yards behind. That grim humor, deadly in its cold composure, was upon

Dave Henderson again. He meant to be taken by neither Baldy Vickers, nor

by the police; nor did he intend that a certain package containing one

hundred thousand dollars in cash should fall into the hands of either

Baldy Vickers or the police! Some day, even yet, he might find use for

that particular package himself!

Block after block was traversed, corner after corner was turned, as Dave

Henderson threaded his way through the streets, heading steadily for

the outskirts of the city, and the road on which he had already traveled

ninety miles that day. And fifty yards behind came on that big gray

car. They were well content, no doubt--the occupants of that car! He was

playing their game for them! He was playing the fool! In the city their

hands were tied! Out in the country they would be free to do something

more than merely follow silently behind him! Well, that was all quite

true--perhaps! But out in the country, if he got away from them, he

would not at least jump from the pot into the fire and have the police

at his heels the very next instant; and, besides, there was that

hundred thousand dollars! The further away he got from 'Frisco the more

inviolate became Mrs. Tooler's old pigeon-cote!

Fifty yards! He glanced behind him again. It was still fifty

yards--_start_. Well, fifty yards was fifty yards, and he might as well

take it now. He was well in the outskirts, the houses were becoming

scattered, an open road was ahead, and----

He bent suddenly low over the wheel, and flung the throttle wide. The

car leaped forward like a thoroughbred answering to the spur. There was

a burst of yells from behind--and then silence, save for the rush of the

wind, the creak of the swaying, lurching car, and the singing throb of

the sixty horse-power engine, unleashed now, in full stride under the

lash.

A mile, two miles--the speed was terrific. There was no sound from

behind--just the roar of his own car in his ears. The houses were fewer

now--it was the open country. Another mile! He was at his absolute

maximum of speed now. He straightened up slightly, and shot a quick

glance over his shoulder. The big gray car was fifty yards behind.

A shot rang out--and then a fusillade of them. He was low over the wheel

again, his jaws set rigidly. Was it fifty yards? He was not sure, he was

not sure but that it was less--he was only sure that it was not more.

The shots ceased for a moment. A car, coming in the opposite direction,

had taken to the extreme edge of the road, half into the ditch. He had a

flash of a woman's face, as he swept by--great dark eyes that stared out

of a death-white face--a beautiful face even in its terror--it haunted

him, that face.

A furious, sustained racketing, like a thousand echoes reverberating

through a rocky, high-walled canon, stilled the roaring sweep of the

wind, and the roaring of his car. He shot through the main street of a

town like a meteor, and laughed out like a madman. A dog escaped by the

fraction of an inch, and, tail down, scurried with a sharp yelp for the

sidewalk; there was a dash for horses' heads at the curbs; people

rushed to doorways and windows, peering out; women screamed; men yelled

hoarsely; a fat woman, retreating wildly as she was about to cross the

road, dropped a laden basket-to shake her fist in panic fury. It was

kaleidoscopic--it was gone.

The shots came again. Another town was passed--still another. The big

gray car was not fifty yards behind now--it was less than thirty--so

near that now there came from time to time an exultant yell.

Dave Henderson's face was drawn, tense, its lines hard, sharp, strained;

but in the dark eyes was still that smoldering light of grim, debonair

humor. The race was almost at an end--he knew that now. He knew now that

he could not shake off that gray streaking thing behind. It gained only

by inches, they were well matched, the two cars, and it was a good race;

but a few more miles would end it as those inches lengthened into feet

and yards.

Well, then, since he could not escape this way, there was still the

other way; and if that failed, too, in the last analysis he had a

revolver in his pocket. But it was not likely to fail, that other way.

He had banked on it almost from the moment he had made his escape from

the Toolers' house. As between himself, Dave Henderson, and the hundred

thousand dollars, Baldy Vickers, if Baldy Vickers could not get both,

would very obviously and very earnestly prefer the hundred thousand

dollars. His lips tightened in a sort of merciless irony. Well, Baldy

Vickers would have a chance at least to exercise his preference! A few

miles farther on, just a few miles, the road, in a wooded tract, made an

abrupt, almost right-angled, turn. He remembered that turn--and he had

banked on that, too, if by then speed alone should have failed him!

He could hold out that much longer. The inches did not accumulate fast

enough to overtake him before he reached that turn--he was not afraid of

that--but every one of those inches made of him a better target.

He was motionless, like a figure carved in stone, as he hung over the

wheel. The car rocked to the furious pace--but it did not swerve. A

swerve meant the gift of another of those inches to that gray thing

behind. He held the center of the road, driving with all the craft and

cunning that he knew, his arms like steel bands, his fingers locked in

an iron grip upon the wheel.

He did not look behind him now. It was useless. Nearer and nearer the

gray car was creeping up, he was well aware of that; but, also, nearer

and nearer came that wooded stretch ahead. He could see it now--a mile

down the road. But a mile at this rate of speed did not take long to

cover.

The shouts grew more exultant behind him; the shots came thicker.

Murderers! The angry hum of a bullet past his ear roused a fury in his

soul that was elemental, primal, and he cursed now under his breath.

Murderers... six feet of earth... in cold blood... or if they winged

him, the car, amuck, slanting from the road to up-end itself, would do

their bloody work for them... Bookie Skarvan... some day, if he lived

through this... Bookie Skarvan... it was strange that all their shots

had missed... even if the back of his car was a protection... they

wouldn't have many more chances... the woods and the turn of the road

were just ahead now, and...

There was a crash, the splintering of glass, and a bullet shattered

the wind-shield scarcely a hair's-breadth to the right of his head. A

demoniacal yell of triumph went up from behind. They had him now--and,

with him, one hundred thousand dollars! Again that grimace of merciless

irony was twisting at Dave Henderson's lips. It was the psychological

moment, not only because that wood was just ahead, but because,

realizing that his chances were desperate now, he would logically be

expected to sacrifice anything--even that hundred thousand dollars--to

save himself.

Something, like the flick of a fiery lash, bringing a hot, burning

sensation, was laid suddenly across his leg above the knee. It did not

hurt very much--a bullet deflected probably from the rim of the steering

wheel--but they had hit him at last. He laughed savagely--and snatched

at the empty black hand-bag, and hurled it with all his might far out

across the side of the road.

A chorused yell answered his act. He looked back--and laughed again. It

had not failed! They were stopping. Wolves! Again he laughed. And like

wolves with slavering fangs they were after their prey! It would give

him a minute, perhaps two--but that was enough!

The car swept on, and rounded the turn, and the trees blotted out the

view of the road behind. He jammed on the brakes, slewed the car half

around, full across the road, and leaping from it, dashed in amongst the

trees. The foliage was thick. He ran on. He was safe for the moment here

in the woods; and presently it would be dark, and he would make across

country to the railroad, and work his way East.

The roar of the gray car coming on again at full speed reached him.

He laughed as he ran, harshly, without mirth. They wanted vengeance

now--vengeance because he had not let them murder him! Well, he did not

mean to disappoint them! He had disappointed them once--with an empty

bag! He would not disappoint them again! It was perfectly logical that

there should be--vengeance. There was hardly room to stop that car

around the turn!

A wild cry, echoed by another, and still another, shrill in terror, rang

out from the road over the roar of the speeding car--and then a terrific

crash--a scream--silence.

He had stopped mechanically. The wolves wouldn't bother him any more. It

wasn't Baldy Vickers now, that smash would have taken the fight out of

Baldy Vickers, if it hadn't taken anything more--it was the police. He

clenched his hands in sudden, passionate fury. He was safe from Baldy

Vickers here in the woods, anyhow; but, for all that, he had played and

lost. He was a hunted man now. He was not whining, he had played and

lost--only he had played against stacked cards. The face of Bookie

Skarvan rose before him, and his hands clenched the tighter. He swept

a knotted fist fiercely across his eyes. What was the use of that--now!

Not now! He had something else besides Bookie Skarvan to think of now;

there was the police, and--yes--his leg! It was burning hot, and it hurt

now. He glanced downward. His trouser-leg was soaked with blood. His

teeth gritted together--and he plunged on again through the woods.

IV--TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS' REWARD----DEAD OR ALIVE

THREE days, and four nights--was that it?

It was hard to remember. It hadn't even been easy to get the little food

he had had; it had been impossible to get his wound dressed, save in the

rough, crude, wholly inadequate way in which he had been able to dress

it himself--with pieces torn from his shirt and underclothing. They

had hunted him like a mad beast. Those cursed police placards were

everywhere! Everywhere! TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS' REWARD--DEAD OR ALIVE. The

police had acted quickly, quicker than he had ever thought they could

act! Joe Barjan, Lieutenant Barjan of the 'Frisco plain-clothes squad,

would have had a hand in this. Queer! He'd given Barjan tips on the

races, straight tips, honest tips, in the old days--not this kind of

a race. Barjan and he used to get along all right together. Funny

business!

It was dark, pitch black--save only for a moon-ray-that flickered and

danced across the flooring of the bouncing, jolting boxcar, and that

came in through the half-open, rattling door. He should have closed that

door more tightly when he had crawled in. It had got loose again. Well,

no matter! It couldn't do any harm for the moment, except for the noise

it made, a noise that beat a devil's tattoo on his aching head. But that

didn't matter, either. It wasn't as bad as the clatter and jangle and

damnable everlasting creaking of the car--and he couldn't stop the car

from creaking anyhow. When the train began to slow down for the next

stop, he would go over and shut the door again. It was an effort to

move--uselessly--before he had to.

Three days, and four nights--was that it? It was hard to remember.

But he must have put many miles, hundreds of them, between himself and

'Frisco. And he had lived through hell--alternately beating his way in

some boxcar such as this, and hiding in the woods, or where he could.

But the boxcars were mostly for the night--mostly for the night--it was

safer. Damn those police circulars, and that reward! Every one was on

the hunt for him--every one--two thousand dollars. How far East would he

have to go and not find one of the haunting things nailed upon a

station wall! The drag-net _couldn't_ reach out all the way--there was a

limit--a limit to everything.

His brain caught at the last phrase--a limit to everything. His lips

were cracked and dry, and he touched them with his tongue.

“No!” He shook his head, whispering hoarsely a dogged defiance. “No

limit--win or lose--all the Way--no limit.”

Through hell! The whole countryside was hell! They wouldn't even let

him buy food. Well, he had stolen it--what he had had. They had

nearly trapped him the second time he had tried to buy food--the night

following his escape--in a little grocery store--a big, raw-boned,

leering man who ran the place--the man hadn't got the two thousand

dollars' reward--no, not much of a fight--he had knocked the man out,

and run for it--that was all. After that he hadn't tried to buy any

food--he had stolen it--only he hadn't stolen very much. It was hard

to get. It was even hard to get water, a drink of water sometimes.

It didn't run everywhere. There weren't ponds and lakes and rivers

everywhere. He couldn't ask anybody for a glass of water. There had been

a ditch that afternoon. It had been muddy and slimy. Since then there

had been nothing. He would have sold his soul for a few of those drops

that had splashed in lavish abundance from the spout of the water-tank

at the station earlier that night when he had crawled into the car

here--he had seen the fireman on the back of the tender manipulating the

spout, and he had heard the water splash.

He spoke hoarsely again.

“I'm shot full of fever, that's what I am,” he said. “I'm shot full of

it.”

Sprawled out on the floor of the car, he shifted his position a little;

and, tight-locked though his lips were, there came an irrepressible

moan of pain. God, how his eyes burned; how hot his head was, and how it

throbbed and ached! The throbs kept devilish time, marching time, like

the tramp of feet to the beat of the drum, to that ceaseless, brutal

throbbing in his leg. He hadn't looked at his leg to-day--it had been

bad enough yesterday. What was the use! He couldn't do anything. He

hadn't even any water--there wasn't any use dressing it with that slimy,

muddy stuff he had drunk. It would have to get better--or worse.

He touched his lips with his tongue again. There didn't seem to be

any moisture on his tongue; it was thick and big in his mouth, so it

couldn't be dried up, but there wasn't any moisture on it. Would the car

never stop its jolting, and that infernal _clack-clack, clackety-clack!_

There was abominable pain in every jolt, it seemed to shake his leg the

way a mold of jelly would shake; it seemed to shake and vibrate to the

bone itself. Sometimes it brought nausea and faintness.

Perhaps there _was_ a limit! He had lain exhausted for a long time,

bathed in sweat from his exertions, when he had climbed and clawed his

way into the car. He remembered now--that was why he hadn't shut the

door tightly. He must be getting pretty near his limit to go down like

a lump of putty just through climbing from the track into a boxcar.

He clenched his hands in fierce denial. No! No limit--it was win or

lose--no hedging--it was all the way--even against stacked cards.

Stacked cards! The pain was gone momentarily in a sweep of fury that

brought him up from his back to sway like a pendulum upon his elbows

with the swaying of the car. He owed Bookie Skarvan for this. He owed

it to Bookie Skarvan that he was a hunted, wounded thing. He owed every

thrust of pain that caught at and robbed him of his breath to Bookie

Skarvan. He owed it to Bookie Skarvan that he was an outcast for the

rest of his life. He owed Bookie Skarvan for as damnable and callous an

attempt to murder him as was ever hatched in a human brain. And they had

left Bookie Skarvan to him! His laugh rang loud and hollow, a bitter,

sinister sound, unbridled in its deadly passion, through the car. They

had left Bookie Skarvan to him! It was good to think of that--very good,

like a drink of water, icy water, with the beads frosting on the long

glass. They had left Bookie Skarvan to him. Well, he would not change

the story they had told! He would promise them that. Not by a word! They

had left Bookie Skarvan to him!

He knew the story. Last night in a switchman's shanty in a railroad yard

he had found a newspaper--the story was there. Baldy Vickers and Runty

Mott, who had been sitting in the front seat of the big gray car, were

in the hospital from the smash; the others had not been much hurt.

Bookie Skarvan's car had been identified, what there was left of it, and

that formed an implicating link between him, Dave Henderson, and Baldy

Vickers' crowd. Runty Mott and Vickers, being forced therefore to

explain, had told a story that was almost true--but they hadn't split

on Bookie Skarvan--they had left Bookie Skarvan out of it. The story was

enough of a confession, smacked enough of State's evidence to let them

out of any criminal proceedings, even if there had been any really

definite charge that could be brought against them. They hadn't stolen

the money! The story rang true because it was _almost_ true--only they

had left Bookie Skarvan out of it.

Runty Mott, according to the newspaper, had been the spokesman.

Runty said he had overheard Bookie Skarvan and Dave Henderson at the

race-course, when they were making arrangements to get the money from

Tydeman. He, Runty Mott, had taken the train for 'Frisco, and had put it

up to Baldy Vickers. Then they had followed Dave Henderson, meaning to

take the money from him the first chance they got. But Dave Henderson

had handed them a jolt by crawling in through Tydeman's library window,

and stealing it himself. After that they had figured the easiest place

to grab the coin was in Dave Henderson's room, when he sneaked back

there with the black hand-bag. And Dave Henderson had walked right into

their trap, only they hadn't heard him coming any more than he, in turn,

had been wise to the fact that they were there, and in the showdown he

had managed to jump through the front door and reach his car. He had the

money in the black hand-bag with him. They had chased him in the other

car that the police had found smashed up, and had nearly got him, when

he threw the black hand-bag out of the car. They stopped to pick it up,

and found out the trick he had played on them. The hand-bag was empty;

he still had the money in his car. They took up the chase again--and

crashed into the other machine where Dave Henderson had left it blocking

the road just around a sharp turn.

Dave Henderson's laugh rang with a devil's mirth through the boxcar

again. That was all! They hadn't split on a pal. They had left the pal

to him. Runty Mott had told the story--and Runty Mott's story went! He,

Dave Henderson, wouldn't change it! They didn't know, and Bookie Skarvan

didn't know, _that he knew_. They had left Bookie Skarvan to him--and

they had made Mrs. Tooler's pigeon-cote as safe as a vault.

The slue of the car on a curve flung him with a savage wrench from his

elbows to his back again, and he groaned in agony. Red flashes danced

before his eyes, and nausea came once more, and faintness--and he lay

for a long time still. It seemed as though he no longer had any power

to move; even the pain seemed to have become subordinate to a physical

sense of weakness and impotence that had settled upon him. His head grew

dizzy and most strangely light.

There came the blast of the engine whistle, the grind and thump of

buffer beams, the shriek of the brake-shoes biting at the wheel tires,

the sickening sensation of motion being unsmoothly checked. His mind did

not grasp the significance of this for a moment--and then with a frantic

effort he struggled to his feet.

The door! The car door! He must close it--he must close the door. The

train was stopping. If any one passed by outside and saw the door open,

and looked in, he was caught. He was too weak to fight any more; too

weak to run any more. He must close the door.

He could not stand. The car swayed, and bumped, and lurched too much!

No one could stand with the car jolting around in circles like that! He

dropped to his knees. He could crawl, then. The door! The car door! It

must be closed--even if he had to drag himself to it.

It wasn't far to the door--just a few feet. It was the pain in his leg

that made him faint, but he could get that far--just to the door. He

touched his lips with his tongue again. They weren't dry now, his lips,

and there was a curious taste upon them, and they hurt. They tasted of

blood. That was funny! His teeth must have sunk into his lips somehow.

But he was almost at the door now--yes, he could reach it now. Only he

couldn't close it when he was lying flat down like this. He would have

to get up--on his knees at least.

His hand swept across his eyes, and pressed fiercely upon his forehead.

The moon-ray wavered in through the door in jagged, glancing streaks--he

had to shut that moon-ray out--to make it black here in the car.

Strange! It was growing black now, even though he had not shut the

door--perhaps it was a cloud--the moon passing behind a cloud. His

body seemed to sway, to be out of control, and his knees, instead of

balancing him, crumpled suddenly beneath him, pitching him forward, face

downward, on the floor of the car--and something seemed to snap inside

his head, and it was black, all blackness.

Repose, comfort, ineffable luxuriousness, something soft and soothing

supporting his body, and a freedom from the excruciating, unbearable,

intolerable pain that he had been enduring! He was dreaming! He dared

not open his eyes. It was a dream. If he opened his eyes he would dispel

the illusion, and the pain would come again.

It seemed as though he had been upon a great journey that was crowded

with a multitude of strange, fantastic scenes and happenings. He

could not remember them all distinctly; they jumbled together in his

memory--the orphan school, the race-track, Square John Kelly and three

thousand dollars in the Pacific Coral Saloon on the Barbary Coast, all

conglomerated into one.

He remembered only one thing distinctly, and that was because it had

happened so often. He was in a great, gloomy forest, and always just

ahead of him was Bookie Skarvan. He did not know why it was, but he

could always see Bookie Skarvan in the darkness, though Bookie Skarvan

could not see him. And yet he could never quite reach that fat, damnable

figure that kept flitting around the trees. Bookie Skarvan was not

running away, because Bookie Skarvan did not even know that he was being

followed--and yet Bookie Skarvan always eluded him.

If he was dreaming now, it was at least a very vivid dream. He

remembered. He had just fallen unconscious on the floor of the car.

Well, then, he must get the door shut, if he was to escape. Yes, the

pain might come again if he moved, it would take all his will power to

shatter this blessed restfulness, and he was still very tired; but he

had no choice--it was win or lose--all the way--no limit.

He opened his eyes. He did not understand at first; and then he told

himself quite simply that of course he could not still be lying on the

floor of that lurching car, and at the same time feel these soft

things all around his body. He was in bed--in a white bed, with white

covers--and there was a screen around his bed. And around the corner

of the screen he could see other beds--white beds with white covers. It

must be a hospital ward. There was some one sitting in a chair beside

the foot of his bed--no, not a nurse; it was a man. The man's face for

the moment was turned slightly away. He studied the face. It seemed

familiar. His eyes opened a little wider. Yes, it was familiar! A cry

surged upward from his soul itself, it seemed--and was choked back. His

hands, clenched fiercely, relaxed. There came a queer smile to twist his

lips.

The man at the foot of the bed was looking at him now. It was Barjan,

Lieutenant Joe Barjan, of the 'Frisco plain-clothes squad.

The man spoke:

“Hello, Dave!”

“Hello, Joe!”

There was silence.

The other spoke again:

“Tough luck, Dave! Sorry to grab you like this. Feeling better?”

“Some,” said Dave Henderson.

Barjan nodded his head.

“It was touch and go with you,” he said. “Bad leg, bad fever--you've

been laying like a dead man since the night they found you in the

freight car.” Dave Henderson made no reply. There wasn't any door to

shut now, and he wouldn't have to move now... until he went away with

Joe there... back to 'Frisco. He wasn't squealing... stacked cards... a

new deal with a new pack perhaps... some day... he wasn't squealing...

but he couldn't fight any more... not now... he couldn't fight... he was

too weak.

“I've been hanging around two or three days waiting for you to come out

of dreamland, so's I could ask you a question,” said Barjan pleasantly.

“Come across, Dave! Where'd you put that little package you had with you

when you beat it from the car, and handed Baldy the broken ribs?”

Dave Henderson smiled. He was very weak, miserably weak, it was an

effort to talk; but his brain, because there wasn't any pain, was

clear--clear enough to match Barjan's.

“Come again?” said Dave Henderson.

“Aw, can that!” A tinge of impatience had crept into the police

officer's voice. “We got the whole story. Runty Mott and Baldy Vickers

opened up--wide.”

“I read about them in the papers,” said Dave Henderson. “They said

enough without me butting in, didn't they?”

“You mean,” said Barjan sharply, “that you won't come across?”

“What's the use!” said Dave Henderson. “Their story goes, doesn't it?

I wouldn't spoil a good story. They said I took the money, and if you

believe them, that goes. I'm through.”

“No good!” snapped Barjan. “You'd better open up on where that money is,

or it will go hard with you!”

“How hard?” inquired Dave Henderson.

“I dunno,” said Barjan grimly. “Five years.”

Five years! How long was five years? His mind was growing tired now,

too, like his body. He forced himself to the effort of keeping it

active. It was a long way from where Baldy Vickers had broken his ribs,

and where they thought he, Dave Henderson, had last had the money, to

Mrs. Tooler's old pigeon-cote! And a hundred thousand dollars in five

years was twenty thousand dollars a year--salary, twenty thousand

dollars a year. Five years! It was win or lose, wasn't it? No hedging!

Five years--five years before he could settle with Bookie Skarvan!

He spoke aloud unconsciously:

“It's a long time to wait.”

“You bet your life, it is!” said Barjan. “Don't fool yourself! It's a

hell of a long time in the pen! And if you think you could get away with

the wad when you get out again, you've got another think coming, too!

Take it from me!”

“I wasn't thinking about the money,” said Dave Henderson slowly. “I was

thinking about that story.” He closed his eyes. The room was swimming

around him. Five years--chalked up to Bookie Skarvan! His hand on the

coverlet clenched, and raised and fell impotently to the coverlet

again. He was conscious that Barjan was leaning over the bed to catch

his words, because he wasn't speaking very loud. “I was thinking it was

a long time to wait--to get even.”

A woman's voice seemed to come drifting out of space... that would be

the nurse, of course... a woman's voice....

“That's all very well! You may be a police officer, but you had

no business to make him talk. He is not strong enough to stand any

excitement, and----”

The voice drifted off into nothingness.