[Illustration: 0332]
IT was between eleven o'clock and midnight when McGlory and his
companion returned to Van Deelen's; it was between ten and eleven of
this same Thursday night when Axel Lindquist was taken sick on the road,
not a long walk from his father's house.
In less than an hour Beveridge and his companions reached a turn in
the road and found themselves at the top of the slope,--it was hardly
a hill,--with Van Deelen's bridge a little way below them, and the
farm-yard beyond. Beveridge extinguished the lantern. “Look there!”
Wilson exclaimed.
“Where?”
“At the house yonder. Don't you see there's a light burning?”
“That's a fact. We 'll move a little quietly, boys. Bert, you step around
between the house and the barn and keep an eye on the back door. Harper
will be with you.”
They started down toward the bridge while Beveridge was speaking. When
they had crossed over, Harper stopped.
“Can you wait just a minute? I've got a stone in my shoe.”
“We 'll go ahead. Come on as soon as you can and join Bert out by the
barn.” And the three passed on, leaving Pink on a log at the roadside.
Beveridge and Smiley went up to the front door and knocked. There was
no response. But for the light in one window, the house might have been
deserted. Beveridge knocked again. “Open up in there!” he shouted. But
no one answered. Smiley turned and looked around the dim clearing with a
shudder. “Lonesome, isn't it?” he said. “What a place to live!”
Beveridge's mind was bent on getting in. “So they won't answer, eh?
We 'll see.” He stepped back to the ground, picked up a length of
cord-wood, and struck a heavy blow on the door. At this, a head appeared
in an upper window.
“Who's there?”
“Open your door and I 'll tell you.”
“Tell me who you are, first.”
“A special agent of the United States Treasury Department.”
“What do you want me for?”
“I don't care anything about you. I want the men you have hidden here.”
“There ain't nobody here but my wife and me.”
“Will you open, or shall I break in your door?”
“Wait a minute! Don't break it! How do I know you're what you say you
are?”
“Smiley, fetch a rail, will you please?”
“Hold on there! I 'll be down in a minute.” The minute was not a quarter
gone when the same voice was heard through the door, saying, “You
haven't told me your names yet.”
“Are you going to open this door?”
“Yes, yes. Don't get impatient now.” The bolt slid back, and the door
opened a few inches. These inches were promptly occupied by Beveridge's
foot.
“What's your name, my friend?” asked the special agent.
“Van Deelen. I don't see what you want here. There ain't nobody here but
us.”
“We 'll see about that.” Beveridge, as he spoke, threw his weight on
the door and forced it open so abruptly that the farmer was thrown
back against the wall. He entered with Smiley close at his heels. “Of
course,” he went on, as he shut it behind him, “if there isn't anything
really the matter here, you won't mind my looking around a little.”
“Why, no--oh, no--only--”
“Only what?”
“My wife's down sick, and any noise or excitement might upset her.”
“Nervous trouble, maybe.”
“Yes, something of that sort.”
“Has to keep her room, I suppose?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Room shut up so noise won't disturb her?”
“Yes, we keep it shut.”
“Place got on her nerves a little, maybe. Should think it would be sort
of monotonous here. No doctor, I suppose?”
“No, not this side of Hewittson.”
“How long has she been troubled?”
“Why--”
“Sudden attack, to-day or yesterday? Sick headache, and all that?”
“Yes--she has a bad headache.”
“Good deal of nausea, too? Sight of food distasteful?”
“Oh, yes, she doesn't want anything to eat.
“Can't keep anything on her stomach? Lost interest in living--no
enthusiasm for anything? Is that the form it takes?”
“Why, yes--yes--”
“Curious thing. Seems to prevail in this neighborhood. Young Lindquist,
back up the road, has the same trouble.”
Van Deelen's stolid face wore a puzzled expression. He seemed not to
know how far to resent this inquisition. “Say,” he asked, “what do you
want?”
“I want to know if you always receive folks with a shot-gun?”
“Why--”
“Bad characters in the neighborhood, maybe. Have they been giving you
trouble to-night?”
“Who're you talking about?”
“McGlory and the rest. When did they come?”
“There hasn't anybody been here.”
“Oh, all right. That's first-rate--would you mind stepping up and
telling your wife the doctor has come?”
“You ain't a doctor.”
“Come, my friend, don't contradict. I'm afraid we 'll have to take a look
into her room.”
“Oh, you will!”
“Yes. We 'll walk around this floor a little first. Will you entertain
him a minute, Smiley?”
Beveridge slipped away, leaving the two standing at the foot of the
stairs. He moved from room to room, carrying a lamp which he had found
in the front room and had lighted. Soon he returned, set down the lamp
where he had found it, and joined Smiley and the farmer. “So Estelle's
had her hair cut,” he observed.
Van Deelen shot a glance at him, but Beveridge went easily on. “Now
we 'll go upstairs, Dick.”
Van Deelen, gun in hand, retreated upward a few steps and barred the
way. Beveridge looked at him, then he stepped quickly up and seized the
gun by barrel and stock. The farmer could easily have shot him, but he
made no attempt. And now the two men silently wrestled there, Van
Deelen in the more advantageous position, but Beveridge showing greater
strength than his figure seemed to promise. Finally, with a quick
wrench, the special agent got possession of the weapon and passed it
down to Smiley. “Now, Mister van Deelen,” he said, “will you please
stand aside?”
For reply the farmer began retreating backward up the stairway, always
facing Beveridge, who followed closely. Dick drew the shells from the
gun, tossed it into the front room, and came after. The upper hall was
square, and of the three doors around it only one was closed. Beveridge
stepped into each of the open rooms, and then tried the door of the
third, while Van Deelen stood sullenly by.
“Will you open this door?” Beveridge asked, with the beginnings of
impatience.
No reply from the farmer. Smiley drew Beveridge aside and whispered,
“Maybe it's true that she's sick in there.”
“Not much.”
“But we haven't found her anywhere around the house.”
“If she _is_ there, she isn't alone.”
“But I kind of hate to break into a woman's room this way.”
“Don't get chicken-hearted, Dick.” He turned to the farmer and asked
again, “Will you open this door?”
There was no reply.
Without another word Beveridge threw himself against it; but it was
stoutly built and did not yield. All three heard a gasp of fright from
within.
“Hold on, Bill,” Smiley exclaimed. “No use breaking your collar-bone.
I 'll get a rail.”
He said this with the idea of bullying either the farmer or the persons
within the room into opening the door, but Van Deelen remained sullen
and motionless. Beveridge, however, caught up the idea; and with a “Wait
here, Dick,” he ran down the stairs. In entering the house they had
closed the door after them, and now Beveridge had to stop and fumble a
moment with the lock.
But it was only a moment, and pulling it open he plunged out.
A breathless man with his hat pulled down was starting up the steps.
Beveridge stopped short; so did the breathless man. For an instant they
stood motionless, one staring down from the top step, the other staring
up from the bottom. Then Beveridge saw, in the shadow of the hat-brim,
a black mustache; and at the same instant the owner of the mustache
recognized the figure above him.
Not for worlds would Beveridge have called out. He had McGlory fairly in
his hands,--the moment he had been hoping for, almost praying for,
had come,--and he could never have resisted the desire to take him
singlehanded. McGlory was heavy, muscular, desperate--these were merely
additional reasons. Beveridge had known little but plodding work for
weeks and months--here was where the glory came in. And glory was
what he craved--a line in the papers, the envy of his associates, the
approbation of his superiors.
And so, when he saw McGlory before him in the flesh, silently tugging
at something in his hip pocket, he not only sprang down on him as a
mountain lion might leap on its prey,--not only this, but he took pains,
even in this whirling moment, to make no noise in the take-off. McGlory
got the revolver out, but he was a fifth of a second too late. Just as
he swung it around, the special agent landed on him, caught his wrist,
gripped him around the neck with his other arm, and bore him down in the
sand of the dooryard. Neither made a sound, save for occasional grunting
and heavy breathing. They rolled over and over, Beveridge now on top,
now McGlory. McGlory was hard as steel; Beveridge was lithe and quick.
If McGlory gripped him so tight around the body that it seemed only
a question of seconds before his ribs must go, one after another,
Beveridge never slackened his hold of that bull-like neck. McGlory
struggled to turn the revolver toward Beveridge; but Beveridge held to
his wrist and bent it back--back--until any other man must have dropped
the weapon for the sheer pain of it.
The door had swung to behind Beveridge as he went out; the horse was
thrashing in the barn; and Dick, leaning against the closed door of
Mrs. van Deelen's bedroom, looking at the farmer, heard nothing of the
struggle that was going on outside. He was wondering what interest
this farmer could have in a gang of smugglers. He decided to ask. This
business of standing opposite him and exchanging the glances of two
hostile dogs was not a pleasant experience for a man of Dick's sociable
humor.
“I've been wondering, Van Deelen, what you're acting this way for.”
A suspicious glance was all this remark drew out.
“I don't believe you're mixed up with that crew, and I don't see how
you can be interested in covering their tracks. Are you sure you aren't
taking the wrong tack?”
“I ain't covering anybody's tracks. You don't know what you're talking
about.”
“Can't you see that we don't enjoy breaking into people's houses and
prying around in bedrooms?”
“What do you do it for then?”
“What do we do it for! Why, McGlory and his gang are Smugglers--they're
a bad lot. And this man with me is a government officer.”
“That ain't telling why you come _here_.”
“Now, Van Deelen, what's the use of keeping up that bluff? It doesn't
fool anybody. We know all about their coming here. We've tracked them
this far. This officer will never leave the house until he has opened
this door and seen who you've got in here. I can promise you he 'll act
like a gentleman. Now don't you think it would be a good deal better
just to open up and be done with it?”
Having no reasonable answer to this, Van Deelen fell back into his
sullen silence.
“Wonder what's taking him so long,” Dick observed. “Would he have to go
far for a rail?”
There was no answer.
Altogether, it was not a cheerful situation. Dick, who had borne up
capitally so far, now experienced a sinking of spirits. He looked first
at the glum figure before him, then at the dingy walls and ceiling, then
down into the shadows of the stairway. Seeing nothing that could prop
his spirits, he fell to humming “Baby Mine.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he broke out, interrupting himself; “maybe I'm
disturbing your wife?”
There was no answer.
“You're a hilarious old bird,” said Dick.
No answer--nothing but that glum Dutch face.
“Oh, well--go to thunder!”
Not even a gleam of anger disturbed those Dutch eyes. Dick, his feeble
struggle over, succumbed to the gloom and was silent. And such silence
as it was! The horse, over in the barn, had ceased kicking about; the
air was still. The creakings of the old house sounded like the tread of
feet. The loud breathing of the person within the closed room could be
distinctly heard.
There was a shot outside--then silence--two more shots--again the
silence. It is curious how a revolver shot, in the stillness of the
night, can be at once startling and insignificant. Curious, because it
is not very loud--no deafening report--no reverberation--but merely a
dead _thud_, as if the sound were smothered in a blanket. And yet it
was loud enough to raise goose-flesh all over Dick's body and send the
creepy feeling that we all know through the roots of his hair, as if a
thousand ants had suddenly sprung into being there. At the first report
he stiffened up; the second and third met his ears halfway down the
stairs. Van Deelen, frightened, bewildered, ran down close after him.
Dick paused at the foot of the steps and looked around. In an instant
he made out the familiar figure of Beveridge a dozen yards away. The
special agent was standing over a prostrate man, one hand gripping a
revolver, the other fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. The sweat
was glistening on his face, his collar and tie hung down his breast, his
coat was torn clear across the back.
Dick joined him, and knelt over the man on the ground.
“We've wasted time enough on him,” said Beveridge, catching his breath.
“Who--oh, it's McGlory! Is--is he--”
“Shouldn't wonder. Help me get a rail, will you?”
They started without further words toward the barn-yard fence.
“Hold on,” said Dick. “There's that cord-wood we used on the front
door.”
“That will do.”
So they went back and picked up the heavy stick. At this moment Harper
came running up, his shoe in his hand. “I didn't know you was going
to be in such a thundering hurry to begin the shooting, Mr. Beveridge.
I 'most cut my foot to pieces running up here.”
“Come along, Dick,” said Beveridge.
“Good Lord!” gasped Harper, suddenly taking in the figure of the special
agent. “What they been doing to you?”
But Beveridge gave no heed to the question. “Stay here at the steps,
Harper, and if any more come up, don't let 'em get away from you.” With
the cord-wood on his shoulder, he entered the house and started up the
stairs. But Van Deelen hurried after him and caught his arm.
“Well, what do you want?”
“You needn't use that.”
“You 'll let me in?”
“Yes.”
Beveridge promptly set down his burden on the stairs, and stood aside to
let the farmer take the lead.
Van Deelen tapped at the door, and softly, called, “Saskia!”
“What is it?”
“You have to open the door and let this gentleman in.”
“Mercy, no!”
“But you have to!”
“Then,--” the voice was very fluttery and agitated--“then wait a minute
after I unlock the door.”
The bolt was slipped, and they could hear a frantic rustling and
scampering. Van Deelen opened the door and entered the room with
Beveridge and Smiley at his heels. As they entered, another door,
evidently leading to a closet, was violently closed.
The three men stood a moment in the middle of the room without speaking,
then Beveridge walked over to the bed. The woman lying there had turned
to the wall and drawn the coverlet over her face. Beveridge bent over
and jerked it back. “Smiley,” he called, “come here and see if this
ain't your old friend, Estelle!”
The woman struggled to hide her face again, but Beveridge rudely held
her quiet. Dick would have turned away but for the special agent's
impatience. As it was he made him speak twice. Then he went slowly and
shamefacedly to the bed. “Yes, I guess this is Estelle, all right.”
They saw her shudder. Her face was flushed with fever. Dick took
Beveridge's arm and whispered, “For heaven's sake, Bill, don't be a
beast.” But Beveridge impatiently shook him off.
“Well, Estelle,” he said, “the game's up. We've got them.”
Her eyes were wild, but she managed to repeat. “You've got them?”
“Yes. You 'll never see McGlory again.”
“And Pete--have you got Pete?” Beveridge glanced inquiringly at Smiley,
who, after a moment of puzzling, nodded, and with his lips formed the
name “Roche.”
“Yes, we've got Roche. Pretty lot they were to leave you here.”
But Estelle had fainted.
“Here, Dick,” said Beveridge, “bring some water.”
Van Deelen indicated the washstand, and Smiley fetched the pitcher.
Beveridge sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her forehead with the
cool water. He asked Van Deelen for some whiskey, and forced a little
between her teeth. Finally her eyes opened.
“There,” said Beveridge, “that's better. You 'll be all right in a
minute. Now tell me why they left you.”
“Look here, Bill,” said Dick, “I can't stand this.”
Beveridge paid no attention, but went on stroking her forehead. “Tell me
why they left you, Estelle. They weren't very square with you.”
“It was Pete--” The whiskey had revived her a very little.
“Yes, I know. You were mistaken in Pete. He never meant to stand by
you.”
“He said--”
“Yes--go on.”
“He said we--we could get away--and--”
“Yes?”
“--and they were asleep and--and then we saw the house, and--oh, I can't
think--”
“Bill,--for heaven's sake!” cried Dick. “Yes, it's all right, Estelle.
You're all safe now. Try to think.”
“I guess I fainted--Pete was gone--and I--I don't know--how I got to the
house--”
“That will do. Go to sleep, Estelle. We 'll take good care of you.”
Beveridge rose, and looked significantly toward the closet door. “Now,
Mister,” he said, addressing the farmer, “we 'll just take a look in that
closet before we go, and--”
A protesting voice, muffled by hanging garments, but shrill
nevertheless, came from the closet, and Beveridge smiled. “Is it your
wife?” he asked. Van Deelen nodded. And then, the smile lingering,
Beveridge led the way out of the room.
As they started down the stairs, Dick observed: “You were awful quiet
down there with McGlory, Bill. I'd heard your second shot before I knew
anything was happening.”
“You never heard my second shot.”
“I didn't? I'd like to know why I didn't.”
“Because I only fired once.”
“Then who did the rest of it? By Jove! Where's Wilson?”
Beveridge turned sharply at the question. “That's a fact,” he muttered.
They had reached the front steps by this time, and could see Harper
ostentatiously standing guard with drawn revolver. “Say, Pink, have you
seen Bert anywhere?”
“No. Thought he was inside with you.”
“Step around the house, quick. We 'll go this way.”
They found Wilson lying on the ground, not far from the front of the
house. He had plunged forward on his face, with his arms spread out
before him. Apparently he had been running around from the rear to join
Beveridge when the ball brought him down. In an instant the two men were
kneeling by him.
“How is it, Bill? Can you tell?”
“He isn't gone yet. Get a light, will you?” Dick ran back into the house
and brought out Van Deelen with a lamp and some improvised bandages.
Beveridge had some practical knowledge of first aid to the injured; and
the farmer seemed really to have some little skill, as a man must who
lives with his family twenty-five miles from a physician. And so between
them they managed to stanch the flow of blood while Dick and Pink were
carrying a small bed out of doors. With great care not to start the flow
again, they carried him into the front room.
“Did you notice,” said Beveridge to Smiley, when they had made him as
comfortable as they could, “where he was hit?”
“In the back, wasn't it?”
“Yes, and a little to the right. Now if he fell straight,--and I think
he did, because the way he went shows that he was running, and that he
simply pitched forward,--the shot must have come from near the bridge,
maybe from those trees a little down-stream from the bridge. Now there's
just one man could have done it, to my notion. He was an old hand,
because it was a pretty shot at the distance and in that _light_.”
“Who do you think?”
“Well, now, there's Roche. He skipped out some time ago and left Estelle
in the woods. He wouldn't have done that unless he was badly scared,
would he? Isn't he a pretty poor lot, anyway--no nerve, just bluster?”
“That's Pete. If he is fairly started running, he won't stop to-night.”
“That's about what I thought about him. It's pretty plain he would never
have come back here with McGlory after him--you see McGlory _had_
come after him,--he was chasing Roche because he had run off with
Estelle--and made such a cool shot as that was. So we 'll rule out Roche.
And McGlory is ruled out too, and Estelle.”
“Oh--”
“So that leaves just 'the boss'--Spencer.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“He has nerve enough for anything, hasn't he?”
“He looks as if he had.”
“Now I 'll tell you what we 'll do. We 'll get this Dutch woman to nurse
Bert here, and then the four of us will step down to the bridge and see
what we can make of it--or hold on; I 'll take Van Deelen and go to the
bridge, and you and Harper can go down to the creek below the barn and
work up to the bridge. What do you think of that?”
“First-rate.”
“You aren't too fagged?”
“Not me--not while the rest of you are on your pins.”
“That's the talk. I 'll see about the woman here.”
“Say, Bill, wait a minute. You aren't planning to walk right up to the
bridge, are you?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“If I was you, I'd work around through the trees a little. He may be
there yet, and we know how he can shoot.”
“What's the use? It's all a gamble anyhow. The thing to do is to go on
the run. A man is a good deal like a dog, you know. If you run right at
him and show all over you that you mean business, why, even if he thinks
he is ready for you, it's likely to bother him. Upsets his nerve--starts
him thinking he is on the losing side.”