BLACK HOLLOW.
"What was it?--WHO was it?" cried Harper Elliston, seizing the arm of
Dyke Darrel, and penetrating him with a keen glance.
"It does not matter."
"It does. I have had a suspicion."
"Well?"
"He uttered the name of Harry Bernard."
"How could you guess that?"
"Because I have felt it in my bones," answered the tall New Yorker.
"Harry Bernard acted queerly before he left Woodburg the last time,
and I have since arrived at the conclusion that he was engaged in some
unlawful work."
"Well, I never entertained such a suspicion," was all the detective
vouchsafed in reply. Then he glanced at the man on the ground.
"See, the fellow is dying."
It was true. Sam Swart, the miserable outlaw, was swiftly passing
away. Half an hour later, when Elliston and the detective returned to
their buggy, the would-be murderer of Dyke Darrel lay cold in death
under the farmer's shed.
A serious expression pervaded the face of Dyke Darrel, and he scarcely
spoke during the drive back to town.
"Did you find your man?" queried the landlord, when our friends
returned.
"Yes."
Elliston entered into an explanation, while Dyke Darrel went up to his
room and threw himself into a chair in a thoughtful attitude. His brow
became corrugated, and it was evident that the detective was enjoying
a spell of the deepest perplexity.
"It must be that the fellow's mind wandered," mused Dyke Darrel. "Of
course I cannot accept as evidence the ragged, half-conscious
utterances of a dying man. He spoke of Nick and the boy. There may be
something in that. The boy? Who could that be but Martin Skidway? I've
suspected him; he is capable of anything in the criminal line. It may
be well for me to go to Chicago and visit Martin's Aunt Scarlet. How
that woman hates me, simply because I was the means of breaking up a
gang of spurious money makers, of whom old Dan Scarlet was the chief.
Well, well, the ways of the world are curious enough. By the way, I
haven't sent that line to Nell yet. The girl will feel worried if I
don't write."
Then, drawing several postals from his pocket, Dyke Darrel wrote a few
lines on one with a pencil, and addressed it to "Miss Nell Darrel,
Woodburg."
Just then Elliston entered.
"When does the next train pass, Harper?"
"In twenty minutes. Will you go on it to Chicago?"
"Not to Chicago. I shall stop half a hundred miles this side, or more.
I wish to do a little more investigating."
"Don't you accept what the dying Swart said as true?"
"Not wholly."
"Would a dying man be likely to utter a falsehood?"
"I can't say. What is your opinion?"
There was a peculiar look in the eyes of Dyke Darrel, as he put the
question.
"I should think there could be no doubt on the subject."
"Indeed; then you consider that the last name that fell from the lips
of Sam Swart was that of the man who instigated the wicked crime on
the midnight express?"
"Certainly, that is my opinion."
Dyke Darrel drew out a cigar and lit it, his friend refusing to take
one.
"I can't feel so sanguine as you seem to, Harper. Will you go on?"
"I shall go to Chicago."
"You do not care to remain with me longer?"
Dyke Darrel regarded his friend closely through a cloud of smoke.
"You forget that I left urgent business to keep you company last
night," answered Mr. Elliston, a tinge of rebuke in his voice.
"I do not. You have my hearty thanks for your disinterested kindness,
Harper," returned Dyke Darrel. "If the delay has cost you anything---"
"See here, old chum, don't insult me," cried Elliston, as the
detective drew out a well-filled wallet. "I am able and willing to pay
my own bills, I hope."
"Certainly. I meant no offense."
"It is time we were on the move, Dyke, if we do not wish to miss the
up train."
Dyke Darrel realized the force of his friend's words, and at once made
preparations for departure. A little later the two were on board the
morning express, speeding Northward. Dyke Darrel informed the
conductor of the fate of Sam Swart, the outlaw, but did not intimate
that the fellow was a member of the gang of train robbers, whose deed
of blood had sent a shudder of horror and indignation throughout the
nation.
When the train halted at Black Hollow, the station at which the
terrible crime of a few days previous had been discovered, Dyke Darrel
arose to go.
"When shall I see you again, Dyke?" questioned Mr. Elliston.
"I am not sure. I shall be in Woodburg next week."
"I will see you there, then."
"Very well."
The detective left the train, and stood alone on the platform of the
little station. There were not a dozen houses in sight, and it was not
often that the express halted at this place. Here the daring deed of
robbers had been discovered. It could not be far from here that the
outlaws left the express car, doubtless springing off and escaping in
the darkness as the train slowed up to the station.
Not a soul in sight.
Dyke Darrel entered the depot, to see a man standing at the window who
had been watching the moving train as it rushed away on its northern
course.
"No public house here, sir," said the man, who proved to be the
railway agent, in answer to an inquiry from the detective.
"Then I must find some one who will keep me for a short time,"
returned Dyke Darrel. "I am looking for a location in which to open a
gun-shop."
"Guns would sell here, I reckon," said Mr. Bragg. "I guess maybe I can
accommodate you with a stopping-place for a day or two."
"Thanks. I will pay you well."
"I'm not a shark," answered the agent. "You see that brown house up
yonder, in the edge of that grove?"
"Yes."
"That's my place. I can't go up just now; but you may tell my wife
that I sent you, and it will be all right."
Dyke Darrel sauntered down past several dingy-looking dwellings until
he came to the house of Mr. Bragg. It was really the most respectable
dwelling in the place, which could not have been famous for its fine
residences.
The aspect about was not calculated to prepossess one in favor of the
country. Somehow, it seemed to the detective that Black Hollow was
half a century behind the age. Mrs. Bragg was a shy, ungainly female,
and not at all communicative.
Darrel occupied the remainder of the day in exploring the country in
the vicinity. A creek crossed the railroad and entered a deep gulch,
the sides of which were lined with a dense growth of bushes.
An ill-defined path led down the steep side of the gulch, and was lost
to sight in the dense growth at the bottom.
Dyke Darrel followed this path, and soon found himself in a dense wood
that seemed to cover a strip of bottom land. Moving on, the deep
shadows soon encompassed him on every side.
A solemn stillness seemed to pervade the place, and a feeling of
loneliness came over the detective.
"What a splendid place for secreting plunder, or hiding from officers
of the law."
It was almost dark ere the detective turned to retrace his steps. The
narrow path grew indistinct, and it was only with the utmost
difficulty that Dyke Darrel kept his course.
The snapping of a dry twig suddenly startled him.
This sound was followed almost instantly by the whip-like crack of a
rifle. A stinging sensation on the cheek, together with the whistle of
a deadly bullet, warned Dyke Darrel of a narrow escape.