DYKE DARREL'S DANGER.
Martin Skidway was an old offender, and through the efforts of Dyke
Darrel he and his uncle had been detected in crime and sent to the
Missouri State prison for a term of years. It was a mere accident that
the detective came upon the escaped young counterfeiter, or rather it
was through the young villain's own foolhardiness that he was again in
durance vile.
"I will not serve my time out, you can bet high on that," asserted the
young prisoner in a confident tone.
Dyke Darrel more than half suspected that the young counterfeiter knew
something of the late crime on the midnight express, and during the
ride to St. Louis he did all that he could to worm a confession from
the prisoner.
"It is possible that you may get your freedom at an early day," said
the detective. "I have heard of men turning State's evidence, and
profiting by it."
"I suppose so."
"I would advise you to think on this, Martin Skidway."
"Why should I think on it? Do you think I'm a fool, Dyke Darrel?"
"Not quite," and the detective smiled. "I know you have been pretty
sharp, young man, but not keen enough to escape punishment. You have
five years yet to serve, at the end of which time you may be arrested
and hung for another crime."
"You are giving me wind now."
"I am not. A terrible crime was committed four and twenty hours since,
and on this road; a midnight crime that the whole country will work to
punish. It will we impossible for the express robbers to escape."
"You are a braggart!"
"I do not say that _I_ will be the one to bring these villains to
justice, but I do say that justice will be done, and I expect to see
the murderers of Arnold Nicholson hung." The keen eyes of Dyke Darrel
fixed themselves on the face of his prisoner, with a penetrating
sharpness that fairly made the fellow squirm in his seat. On more than
one occasion had the railroad detective brought confession from the
lips of guilt, through the magnetism of his terrible glance.
He tried his powers on the man at his side, and found him yielding to
the pressure, when Skidway suddenly turned his face to the window, and
refused to encounter the gaze of his captor.
By this means he was able to defy the magnetic powers of the
detective.
"Martin Skidway, you may as well admit that you know something of this
latest villainy. Even if you were not connected with it, you know WHO
was?"
The prisoner remained silent.
Dyke Darrel proceeded:
"You said that you were a brakeman on the train on which poor
Nicholson found his death. Was that the truth?"
"It was."
"It is now for your own good that you make confession, Martin
Skidway!"
"I've nothing to confess."
"Be careful!"
"You can't scare me into telling a lie," said the prisoner, with an
assumption of bravado that he did not feel. "I don't know anything
about the express robbers, only what I've told you; you can make the
most of that."
"I mean to do so," assured Dyke Darrel. "I shall not leave the trail
until the perpetrators of that crime are secured and punished. In that
day you may wish that you had not been so obstinate."
"I have told all I know."
"I hope you have!"
"You believe I am lying, Dyke Darrel?"
"It doesn't matter what I believe," retorted the detective. "Of
course, you are not of the sort who believe in telling facts when a
falsehood will serve you better. I did not expect anything different."
Arrived at the Southwestern metropolis, Dyke Darrel turned his
prisoner over to the proper officers, warning them of the dangerous
nature of young Skidway, and then he turned his thoughts and feet in
another channel.
Dyke Darrel went to the office of the railroad company on whose road
the midnight crime had been committed, and consulted with one of the
officers in regard to the same.
"It is a terrible affair," said Mr. Holden, the officer in question.
"I telegraphed our folks in Chicago to employ detectives in that city,
and expect to have the best talent in the country look into this."
"Of course. Any clew discovered?"
"None."
"I believe the villains covered their tracks well," said Dyke Darrel.
"The express messenger who was murdered was a personal friend."
"Your friend?"
"Yes; one I had known for years, which explains my interest in the
case. I suppose I have your good wishes in hunting down the outlaws?"
"Well, of course; but it is a task that may tax the coolness and
ingenuity of skilled detectives. Amateurs have no place on this case,
I assure you."
"Admitted," returned the young detective, with a smile. "You have
heard of Dyke Darrel?"
"I should think I had. He is the best detective in the West, now that
Pinkerton is gone; he was a trusted friend of Allan Pinkerton, too."
"He was."
"I've telegraphed for our people to see about employing Dyke Darrel. I
shan't be content without."
Again a smile swept the face of the young detective.
"It seems that you never met Dyke Darrel, Mr. Holden."
"Never; but---"
"You see him now at any rate."
"What?"
"_I_ am Dyke Darrel."
"YOU?"
"The same."
"Dyke Darrel, the railroad detective; the fellow who captured the
brute Crogan, and broke up the counterfeiters' nest near Iron
Mountain; the man who has sent more criminals over the road than any
other detective in the wide West--YOU?"
"The same, at your service," and Darrel bowed and smiled again.
"Well, I AM astonished."
Nevertheless the incredulous railway official seemed pleased at the
last, and shook the young detective warmly by the hand.
"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Darrel, and hope we can induce you to take
up this case. A great many suspects have been reported, but I take
stock in none of them. I trust the whole affair (the management of it,
I mean) to you. Will you go into it, Mr. Darrel?"
"Certainly."
Some time longer the detective and official talked, and the lamps in
the streets were lit when Dyke Darrel left the presence of Mr. Holden,
and turned his steps toward a hotel.
"I must send a line to Nell," mused the detective, as he moved along.
"I shall remain a short time in St. Louis, as I may pick up some
points here that will be of use to me. I am of the opinion that either
this city or Chicago holds the perpetrators of this latest railroad
crime."
The detective did not see the shadowy form flitting along not far
behind. A man had shadowed the detective since his departure from the
railway office. Dyke Darrel, in order to make a short cut, had entered
a narrow street, where the lights were few and the buildings dingy and
of a mean order.
Moving on, deeply wrapped in thought, the detective permitted his
"shadow" to steal upon him, and just as Dyke Darrel came opposite a
narrow alley, the shadow sprang forward and dealt him a stunning blow
on the head.
The detective reeled, but did not fall. Partially stunned, he turned
upon his assailant, only to meet the gleam of cold steel as a knife
descended into his bosom!