About one o'clock on Thursday afternoon, William Walson, manager of the
great Oceanic Coal Company, stepped out of the Fairmont Banking House in
the Monongahela mining regions of West Virginia. It was pay-day at his
mine, and he carried a black leather satchel in his hand containing
twenty thousand dollars in bills. At this time the gigantic plant of
this company was doing an enormous business. The labor unions of the
vast Pennsylvania coal regions were out on the bitterest and most
protracted strike of all history. The West Virginia operators were
moving the heavens in order to supply the market; every man who could
hold a pick was at work under the earth day and night.
The excitement was something undreamed of. The region was overrun with
straggling workmen, tramps, "hobos," and the scum criminals of the
cities, and was transformed as if by magic into a hunting-ground where
the keen human ferret stalked the crook and the killer with that high
degree of care and patience which obtains only with the man-hunter.
William Walson was tall, with short red beard and red hair, black eyes,
and rather a sharp face; his jaw was square, bespeaking energy, but his
expression was rather that of a man who won by the milder measures of
conciliation and diplomacy. For almost a month he had been taxing his
physical strength to the uttermost, and on this afternoon he looked worn
and tired out utterly. He walked hurriedly from the bank door to the
buck-board, untied the horse, raised the seat, and put the satchel down
in the box under the cushion, then climbed in and drove away.
The great plant of the Oceanic Coal Company was on a branch of the
railroad, some considerable distance from the main line by rail, but
only a few miles over the hills from the Fairmont Junction. William
Walson struck out across the country road. The sun shone warm. He had
lost so much sleep that presently he began to feel drowsy, and as the
horse jogged along he nodded in his seat.
About a mile from the town, at the foot of a little hill in the woods,
a man stepped suddenly out from the fence and caught the horse by the
bridle. Walson started and looked up. As he did so the stranger covered
him with a revolver and bade him put up his hands and get out of the
buck-board. The coal dealer saw in a moment that the highwayman meant
what he said, and that resistance would be folly. He concluded also
that he was confronted by one of the many toughs at large in the
neighborhood, and that the fellow's intention was simply to rob him of
his personal effects and such money as he might have in his pockets; it
was more than probable that the man before him had no knowledge of the
money hidden under the seat and would never discover it.
"Tie your horse, sir," said the highwayman.
Walson loosed the hitch strap and fastened the horse to a small tree by
the roadside.
"Turn your back to me," said the robber, "and put out your hands behind
you." The coal dealer obeyed, thinking that the fellow was now going
through his pockets. To his surprise and astonishment the man came up
close behind him and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.
"What do you mean by this?" cried Watson, whirling round on his heels.
The big man with the revolver grinned. "You will find out soon enough,"
he said. "Move along; the walking is good."
William Watson was utterly at sea. He could not understand why this man
should kidnap him, and start back with him to the town. What could the
highwayman possibly mean by this queer move? At any rate it was evident
that he had no knowledge of the money, and Walson reasoned shrewdly
that, if he remained quiet and submissive, the vast sum in the
buck-board would escape the notice of this erratic thief.
The two men walked along in silence for some time; the highwayman was
big, with keen gray eyes and a shrewd face; he seemed curiously elated.
When the two came finally to the brow of the hill overlooking the town,
Walson stopped and turned to his strange captor; he was now convinced
that the fellow was a lunatic.
"Sir," he said, "what in Heaven's name are you trying to do?"
"Introduce you to your fellows in Sing Sing, my friend," answered the
highwayman. "The gang will be glad to welcome Red Lead Jim."
It all came to the coal dealer in a moment "Oh, you miserable ass!" he
cried, "what an infernal mistake! My name is William Walson, I am the
manager of the Oceanic Coal Company, there is twenty thousand dollars in
that buck-board. I must go back to it or it will be lost. Here take off
these damned handcuffs, and be quick about it." And he literally danced
up and down in the road with rage.
His companion leaned against the fence and roared with laughter. "You
are a smooth one, Red, but the job and your twenty thousand will keep."
Walson's face changed. "Come," he said, "let us get this fool business
over," and he began to run down the hill to the town, his captor
following close beside him.
Men came out into the street in astonishment when they saw the strange
pair. Walson was dusty and cursing like a pirate. He called upon the
crowd that was quickly gathering, to identify him and arrest his idiotic
kidnapper. The people explained that Mr. Walson was all right, that he
was a prominent citizen, that it was all some horrible mistake. But
the fellow hung on to his man until he got him to the jail. There the
sheriff freed Walson and demanded an explanation. The mob crowded around
to hear what it all meant. The stranger seemed utterly astonished at the
way the people acted. He said that his name was Braxton Hogarth, that
he was a New York detective, an employee of the Atlantic Agency; that he
was trailing one Red Lead Jim, a famous bank cracker who was wanted
in New York for robbery and murder; that he had tracked him to West
Virginia, and that coming suddenly upon William Walson in the road he
had believed him to be the man, had arrested him, and brought him at
once to the town in order to have him extradited. He said that if Walson
was not the man it was the most remarkable case of mistaken identity on
record. He then produced a photograph, to which was attached a printed
description. The photograph was an excellent likeness of Walson, and the
description fitted him perfectly. The coal dealer was dumbfounded and
joined with the crowd in admitting the excusableness of the detective's
mistake under the very peculiar circumstances, but he said that the
story might not be true, and asked the sheriff to hold the detective
in custody until he was fully convinced that everything was as Hogarth
said. The detective declared himself perfectly satisfied with this
arrangement, and William Walson secured a horse and hurried back to his
buck-board.
The perilous vocation of Hogarth had inured him to tragic positions.
He was thoroughly master of his hand and was playing it with quiet and
accurate precision. He asked the sheriff to telegraph the agency and
inform it of the situation and said that it would immediately establish
the truth of his statement.
That night the mining town of Fairmont was in an uproar. The streets
were filled with excited men loudly discussing the great misfortune that
had so strangely befallen the manager of the Oceanic Coal Company. It
had happened that when William Walson returned to his buck-board,
after his release by the sheriff, he found the horse lying dead by
the roadside, and the buck-board a heap of ashes and broken irons. The
charred remains of the satchel were found under the heap of rubbish, but
it was impossible to determine whether the money had been carried away
or destroyed by the fire. A jug that had lately contained liquor was
found near by. All the circumstances indicated that the atrocious
act was the malicious work of some one of the roving bands of drunken
cutthroats. But the wonder of it all was the coincidence of the
detective and the glaring boldness of the fiend "hobos."
The Atlantic Agency of New York, answered the sheriff's telegram
immediately, confirming Hogarth's statement, and referring to the
District Attorney of New York and the Chief of Police; These answered
that the agency was all right and that its statement should be accepted
as correct. Finally, as a last precaution, the sheriff and the president
of the Oceanic Coal Company talked with the New York Police Chief by
long-distance telephone. When they were at length assured that the
detective's story was true, he was released and asked to go with the
president before the board of directors. Here he went fully over the
whole matter, explaining that the man, Red Lead Jim, was a desperate
character, and for that reason he had been so severe and careful, not
daring to risk the drive back to town in the buck-board. When asked his
theory of the robbery, he said that the first impression of the people
was undoubtedly correct, that the country was full of wandering gangs of
desperate blacklegs, that the money being in paper was perhaps destroyed
by the fire and not discovered at all by the thugs in their malicious
and drunken deviltry.
The board of directors were not inclined to censure Hogarth, suggesting
that after all he had perhaps saved the life of William Walson, as it
was evident that the drunken "hobos" would have murdered him if he
had been present when they chanced upon the horse and buck-board.
Nevertheless, the detective seemed utterly prostrated over the great
loss that had resulted from his unfortunate mistake, and left for New
York on the first train.