scrubbing at one of the big insurance buildings on Broadway, left the
youngster with his charge on the roof, screaming back strict injunctions
to the boy to keep the baby amused. To this task Shingles addressed
himself with an ardor born of the beautiful day and the necessity for
some occupation for the long hours that stretched between now and
supper-time. What could he do to amuse the baby and incidentally himself?
Why, “play fire,” of course. His engine house experience, joined to
his observations from the roof, had given him a familiarity with the
fire laddies’ modes of operation that resulted in the most stirring
realism. The baby seemed pleased, and listened with open-mouthed wonder,
while big brother imitated the clatter and clangor of the engine gong
or the hoarse shouts of the firemen, and gazed with special delight at
Tim’s astonishing climb up an imaginary ladder as foreman of the Rescue
Corps. Indeed, he was so much amused by this new game that he did not
wince while Shingles tied one end of the clothes-line around the tiny
figure, puffing and blowing laboriously for imaginary smoke the while.
Baby even thought it great fun, until brother bore him over to the edge
of the roof and began to let him down, down,—a tiny morsel of humanity
dangling five stories above the pavements of Miggles’ Alley. Then fun
changed to fright, and baby set up a lusty howl. It was this scream that
aroused Shingles from his realistic play to the grim earnestness of
the situation. There was no ladder waiting below; there were no brave
comrades,—only himself, a mite of ten, clutching in his small hand the
very end of the rope from which dangled the helpless figure of his
tiny brother. Real fear gripped at the little fellow’s heart. Slowly,
painfully, he began to pull in that endless length of line. Inch by
inch he brought that tiny, swaying figure nearer to the housetop. Then
suddenly a knot in the rope caught in the iron railing. Cold perspiration
rolled down the little fellow’s cheeks. Already his strength was failing
him. To slacken a single foot meant to loosen his hold altogether. He
tried to call for help, but the shrill little voice attracted no more
attention than had the baby’s feebler wail. In the neighborhood of
Wiggles’ Alley children lift up their voices in lamentation so often
that nothing short of an alarm of fire or murder excites special notice.
Suddenly, in this moment of agonizing terror, the boy was seized by an
inspiration. On his left rose a large chimney. Around this the little
fellow drew the taut rope, making it fast to the clothes-hook in the
masonry. Then he rushed to the edge of the roof, and shouted, “Fire,
fire, in Miggles’ Alley!”
At this sound the firemen lounging in the street below leaped to their
feet. Looking up, they recognized the figure on the roof’s edge as that
of their little comrade, and, convinced that this was no false alarm,
rushed into the engine house. A moment later the street below resounded
with the rumble of trucks, the whang of gongs, and the rush of the
surging crowd. In this focal point of cosmopolitan New York, where a
quarter of a million people are located within a stone’s throw of a
common center, the elements of a stirring scene are always at hand. At
the sound of the alarm, Chinamen crept from their basement bunks in Mott
Street,—reeking with opium, and dazed by the noise; long-haired Hebrews
tumbled into the alley from their sweat shops; swarthy Italians came
pell-mell from their hovels; and the Arab lost his fez, which, in the
surging crowds, was trampled under foot. By the time that the engines
and hook-and-ladder company reached the alley they found it jammed with
a mass of excited humanity, whose eyes were focused upon a tiny white
bundle that swayed in mid-air, seventy feet above the pavement. At once
the firemen realized that they had been duped; but the necessity for
effort did not escape them. Up shot the great ladders, one above another,
and then an agile rescuer began the swift ascent. The crowd cheered in
a babel of tongues; but as the climber reached the last few rounds, and
began creeping out over the slender threads towards the precious prize,
a hush fell upon the multitude. Now he was almost there—now he stood
directly under the dangling mite—now he put forth his hand with extremest
caution. The crowd stood on tiptoe. Not a soul breathed. Then, just as
the strong hand touched the hem of the little frock, the child began
struggling once more, this time so violently that, in the very moment of
apparent safety, it slipped from the noose and fell.
In that moment even the hardened faces of the multitude below, accustomed
to sights of all degrees of danger and wickedness, blanched with terror;
eyes bleared by drink or opium were shudderingly averted from the awful
scene that seemed inevitable. Meantime the tiny bundle of humanity, in
its wild plunge downward, struck a rope stretched across the alley,
hanging full of wet clothes. The strand broke with the strain, and the
child was lost in the flying mass of white. A few stray rags fluttered
down—but the baby—? It had disappeared like a wraith. Strong arms
outstretched to make a desperate effort to catch the flying waif fell
helpless at many a side. The vast crowd stood speechless, dumfounded.
An instant later a deaf old Irish woman in the second story tenement
looked up from her work and gave a shrill cry of surprise as she saw
crawling through the window that led from the fire-escape where she had
just laid her feather-bed to air, an almost naked child with scarlet bars
around its little body. “By all the saints together!” she cried, dropping
on her knees, “if thot kid didn’t rain down from heaven oi’ll niver say
another _pather noster_ as long as I live!”
And it took the combined eloquence of Shingles and his distracted mother
to convince the old lady of the child’s earthly origin.
[Illustration]
The Missing Link.
BY JAMES BUCKHAM.
When it was announced that Frederick Henderson had given twenty-five
thousand dollars towards founding a library in Woodville, his fellow
townsmen were not merely surprised, but amazed. Every one knew that
Henderson was in receipt of only a fairly comfortable salary, that he
had no private fortune, and that he had received no recent bequest.
They knew, also, that he, with his wife and children, occupied a rented
house, kept no servants, and, in short, lived after the usual fashion of
small clerks’ families. Where, then, could he have obtained twenty-five
thousand dollars, and why did he give it for a library instead of using
it to feather his own nest? For five days town gossip buzzed about this
mystery like bees in a clover patch, until finally, on the sixth, one
man, bolder than the rest, went to Henderson and asked pointblank the
meaning of his strange munificence.
To him the founder of the Woodville Library told the following story:—
“There were five of us who went, early last June, for a camping trip in
the Flat-top Mountains, away up in the northwest corner of Colorado.
We were all young fellows—the oldest still considerably on the frisky
side of forty—and it is hardly necessary to say that the object of our
expedition was a good time. Incidentally, of course, we expected to
acquire a surplus fund of health and enough game to make our friends glad
to welcome us home again. Furthermore, I hoped to bring back as much of
the scenery of Northern Colorado as could be sandwiched between some two
hundred photographic plates.
“Our outfit for camping was complete. We had a canvas-covered mountain
wagon, drawn by two horses, and filled with nearly a ton of provisions
and baggage. In addition, every man was mounted and equipped in true
cowboy fashion,—furnished with everything _en regle_, from rifle and
revolver to ‘slickers’ and lariat.
“For two weeks we journeyed leisurely up through that wonderful mountain
country northwest of Denver. In the clear, dry, bracing air the very
breath of life was an infinite joy. Our eyes feasted continually upon
some of the most marvelous scenery and atmospheric effects in that
wonderland of the West. Our route lay over Berthold Pass into Middle
Park and Twenty-mile Park, great successive terraces of rolling woodland
and prairie, shut in by higher and ever higher ranges of the Rockies. By
gradual stages we reached Steamboat Springs, six thousand feet above the
level of the sea; then Trapper’s Lake, four thousand feet higher, its
clear, cool waters rippling at the base of volcanic cliffs, seamed and
stained by centuries of conflict with frost and storm. Ever higher and
higher we climbed, through grand and gloomy cañons, shaded by forests
which had never echoed with the woodsman’s axe,—on and up, till at last
we reached the second step of the mighty mountain stairway. And here we
camped, on a fair meadow, at the foot of the last and highest range of
the Flat-tops. On all sides save one our little meadow was surrounded by
an almost impenetrable timber-fall. On the left the land lay open, and
sloped steeply up to the crowning range of cliffs.
“On that last and loftiest plateau the first chapter of a strange story
began.
“We had been in camp a week or more, and had shot a couple of deer and
caught several goodly messes of trout, when one day the impulse seized
me to take my camera, climb to the top of the last and highest range of
Flat-top Mountains, and capture some bird’s-eye views of the surrounding
country. I started early one morning, carrying with me only my camera,
three double plate-holders, and some lunch.
“The ascent proved longer and harder than I had anticipated. I was
obliged to make my way up to the level of the last plateau through a
deep and tangled ravine, down which brawled a mountain stream. There was
no sign of path. The high and thickly wooded sides of the ravine made
a perpetual twilight, and as I toiled upward the way grew steeper and
narrower, till at last there was scarcely room for the roaring brook.
I was obliged to enter its bed and wade, sometimes knee-deep in the icy
water, climbing now and then over some slippery rock that blocked the
way, at infinite pains lest I should drop my camera or my precious plates.
“Finally, however, I reached the top of the slope and came out into a
grove of scattered pines, through which I could see a clearing that lay
just beyond. I was about to leave the fringe of trees and step into the
open ground, when a rifle-shot not far away startled me. It was followed,
in a minute or two, by another shot from a slightly different direction.
The next moment a wounded deer bounded into the little mountain meadow,
sprang with convulsive leaps across it, and fell dead on the opposite
edge.
“Scarcely had the deer fallen, when a hunter, rifle in hand, came running
through the clearing to the spot. Just as he drew his knife to bleed
the animal a second hunter appeared. He also was running, but stopped
as he saw the other man bending over the deer, and approached him more
leisurely. All this took place in a very brief space of time, while I
stood watching, just within the edge of pines.
“I saw the first hunter, who had finished bleeding the deer, rise and
confront the other man as he approached. Then I heard excited and heated
talk between them. As they stood wrangling over the little gray mound
on the edge of the forest, the sudden inspiration seized me to take a
picture of the vivid scene. Up to this moment I had been a perfectly
passive observer. I had not even removed the tripod of the camera from my
shoulder. So great had been my surprise at seeing the deer bound across
the clearing and fall dead, and then the two strange hunters rushing in
to claim it, that for a few minutes I totally lost the consciousness of
self. My whole being was absorbed in wonder and curiosity. But when the
quarreling hunters began to wrangle the spell was broken, and I said to
myself, ‘There is a forest picture worth taking!’
“Screened by the overhanging trees, and with no further thought than to
add to my collection a unique bit of backwoods life, I hastily swung
the tripod from my shoulder, affixed the camera, focused, inserted a
plate-holder, made the exposure, and secured a view of the two hunters as
they stood wrangling over the fallen deer.
“Suddenly, as if moved by ungovernable anger, the men locked arms and
began to struggle fiercely. My first impulse was to rush out and separate
the angry contestants. My second impulse—when I realized that I was
unarmed and alone—was to slink away into the shadow of the woods and
let the men settle their own difficulty. My third impulse (a compromise
between the two, but cowardly still,) was to take advantage of the
absorbing passion of the contestants and possess myself of another and
still more striking photograph,—a phase of real life seldom presented to
the manipulator of lenses. This, accordingly, I did.
“What followed almost froze the blood in my veins. I saw the smaller but
more active of the two men, by a sudden and swift backward motion of the
right hand, draw a flashing knife from his belt. The next instant it was
buried in the breast of his antagonist. The stricken man tottered, took a
step backward, and fell, apparently tripping over the horns of the deer.
The long arms, thrown backward, remained outspread in the grass; the
body, after a few convulsive movements, lay still. I could see the shaft
of the murderer’s knife sticking out of the breast of the dead man’s coat.
“I can hardly explain the impulse which led me, at this point, to slip
another plate-holder into my camera, and with trembling hand remove
the cap! The former pictures had been taken chiefly from curiosity,
though that feeling was combined, in the second instance, with a certain
restless mental recoil from the inertia of cowardice. But the third
photograph was due to an entirely unaccountable impulse. I do not know
what inspired me to take it. I hardly understand how I was able to break
the spell of horror which had seized me as I saw the murderous blow of
the knife and the fall of the dying man. I seemed to perform the act
under a kind of hypnotic influence. I obeyed dreamily, as under the spell
of another’s will.
“The moment of exposure for the third plate was strangely opportune. The
slayer bent over quickly and withdrew the knife from the heart of his
victim. In the very instant consumed by the act my camera did its work.
This was proved by the subsequent development of the plates.
“As quickly as possible I reversed the plate-holder and exposed another
plate. The murderer had gathered his rifle under his arm, and, half
averted in the attitude of flight, stood looking back at his victim. The
pause was but momentary, yet long enough for swift-registering light to
record. Then the guilty man turned and ran rapidly away through the woods.
“I calmly took the second plate-holder from the camera and replaced it in
the box. Then I did what some men of more physical bravery than I possess
would, perhaps, have shrunk from doing. I walked out into the presence
of Death—alone in that great listening, mysterious wilderness—knelt
down, and placed my finger upon the pulse of the murdered man. I knew,
before I did it, that he was dead. His flesh was still warm, but the last
fluttering spark of life had departed.
“Back to my camera, and down the steep ravine, with its brawling brook, I
went; though every step I took seemed like a step in a dream.
“It was early afternoon when I reached camp. The boys were stretched out
smoking, after their noonday meal. As I gazed into their unsuspecting,
friendly faces an impenetrable wall seemed to rise between me and the
full confession which I had intended to make. How could I tell them what
a coward I had been? Would they not turn from me? Would they not despise
me? I strove hard to overcome this reduplicated weakness—this cowardice
upon cowardice—but could not. I simply told the boys that I had found a
dead hunter, with a knife thrust through his heart, on the plateau above.
Even then they would scarcely believe me, till I had minutely described
the dead man.
“‘Why, it’s that big Chicago tenderfoot, Stetson!’ exclaimed George
Lincoln. ‘I saw him down at the settlement the other day. He is the
fellow, you know, who came out here for his health and liked it so well
that he bought up a claim and started in to ranching. He tallies with
your description of the murdered man to a T.’
“‘He must have friends in the settlement,’ I replied. ‘We must report the
case at once.’
“Two hours later George Lincoln and I rode into the little village, six
miles below our mountain meadow. We dismounted at the store, which was
the only public gathering-place in the settlement, and soon had a motley
crowd about us listening to our story,—Americans, Mexicans, Germans, and
half-breeds. There was no constable, no coroner, no public officer of any
kind in the village. But a searching party was organized, to report at
our camp next morning, at daybreak, when I was to guide them to the spot
where the murdered man lay.
“Sunrise of the next morning found us entering the gloomy pass where the
brook came foaming down from the heights above. We had to ascend the
narrow ravine on foot, as horses would have been useless in such a place.
When we reached the clearing beyond the pines I led my party directly to
the spot where man and deer lay stretched side by side in the strange
companionship of death. The dark, stern faces circled round, and for some
minutes no word was spoken. Then the storekeeper, a huge, sandy-whiskered
Yankee, exclaimed:—
“‘By God, boys, it makes my blood boil! Stetson never drawed his
knife—see it there in his belt? The damned coward that was raslin’ with
him stabbed him unawares. Some sneakin’ Mexican, I’ll bet my head!’
“One or two dark faces in the group grew darker as the impetuous Yankee
spoke. There were Mexicans in the searching party.
“‘I’ll take my oath it was Marcelino!’ continued the big storekeeper
loudly. ‘You all know he had a grudge against Stetson. He came into my
store to get some ca’tridges for his Winchester yestiddy mornin’. Said
he was goin’ out huntin’ on the Flat-tops. Him and Stetson was up here
together, and it stands to reason he done it. The’ ain’t one of ye das
say he didn’t!’
“No one dared contradict the big storekeeper, and no one cared to, for,
in spite of the lack of positive proof, we all felt that he was right.
“A litter was hastily put together, and we carried the dead man down to
the settlement. That afternoon a swift rider started for the nearest
telegraph station, to wire Stetson’s brother in Chicago. The latter
had been to see Stetson twice since he had settled down on his mountain
ranch, and was well known in the village.
“Meanwhile suspicion had fastened more and more strongly upon the
Mexican, Pedro Marcelino. As the storekeeper said, he had gone hunting
on the very morning of the murder, and in the same direction as Stetson.
Since then he had not returned.
“On the morning of the fourth day after the tragedy the murdered
man’s brother arrived, bringing with him a detective from Denver.
After attending to the obsequies of his murdered brother, and leaving
instructions with the detective to spare no expense in tracing the
murderer, Cyrus Stetson returned to Chicago.
“About a week later our party broke up camp and returned home. The
tragedy had cast such a gloom over us that we no longer had any zest for
sport. I was especially glad to get away from the spot with my oppressive
secret. The longer it was concealed, the less I felt like disclosing it,
and yet the more painful and remorseful it became.
“As soon as I reached Woodville I immersed myself in business cares, and
for a time succeeded in drowning the reproachful voice within. But one
morning, about two months after my return to the city, I picked up a
paper and was confronted by the following paragraph:—
“‘WAS HE THE MURDERER?
“‘HAHN’S PEAK, COLO., Sept. 28.—The Mexican, Pedro Marcelino,
who was arrested in the southern part of the State two weeks
since and brought here for trial, on the charge of having
murdered Albert Stetson while the two men were out hunting,
last June, seems likely to escape conviction, as the case now
in progress before the County Court fails to develop evidence
sufficient to convict the suspected man. All who are acquainted
with the facts of the case believe that Marcelino was the
murderer, but, as only circumstantial evidence can be adduced
to prove his guilt, it is more than likely that he will escape
the noose. Every attempt is being made by Cyrus Stetson, the
brother of the murdered man, to obtain evidence which will lead
to the absolute conviction of the guilty party. The case,
which is the most important on the docket, will probably be
given to the jury before the close of this week.’
“By the time I had finished reading this item I was actually trembling
from head to foot. But I made a resolve. I would develop those negatives,
and if they proved to be as graphic and exact as I had every reason to
expect I would overcome my cowardly self-shielding reticence, tell my
story as an eye-witness of the murder—for to me it seemed murder, and not
manslaughter—and submit my photographs as evidence.
“I went immediately to my ‘dark-room,’ developed the negatives, and
examined them closely. They were surprising even to myself, not only in
their clearness and distinctness of detail, but in the marvelous nicety
with which they had caught and fixed the very moments of the tragedy
which would be most convincing as evidence.
“The day, fortunately, was bright, and I secured two or three good
prints from each negative in the shortest possible time, packed a small
strap-bag, and, without saying a word to anybody, took the train for
Glenwood Springs, the nearest point by rail to Hahn’s Peak. Here I
procured a good horse, and by riding all night reached the county-seat
early the next morning. I turned in at the little hotel for a few hours’
sleep, and, bidding the landlord call me without fail at half past eight
o’clock, threw myself on a bed without removing my clothes, and was
asleep inside of five minutes.
“The harsh little bell in the court-house tower was proclaiming the hour
for the morning session when I rose from my hastily eaten breakfast and
passed into the village street. Already little groups of men, coming
from all directions, were centering at the court-house. I gathered, from
scraps of conversation which I overheard, that it was the last day of the
murder trial. The last available testimony had been taken. To-day the
arguments were to be made, and the case given to the jury, who, it was
feared, could not possibly return a verdict of ‘guilty’ upon the scanty
evidence so far produced.
“I entered the court room a few minutes before nine o’clock. A group
of lawyers stood talking within the bar. I asked to have the State’s
attorney pointed out to me. He was a small man, with a plump waistcoat
and a boyish, closely shaven face. I stepped up to the bar and beckoned
him. A few moments’ conversation served to acquaint him with the purpose
of my trip and the nature of my evidence. The round, cheery face of the
State’s attorney fairly shone as I finished my story. Then the sheriff’s
thunderous rap called the court to order, and the State’s attorney had
only time to say, ‘Hold yourself in readiness to be called to the witness
stand,’ when the preliminary exercises began.
“The clerk’s monotonous monologue was succeeded by a rustling, sibilant
pause; and then began the deep, slow voice of the judge: ‘Evidence having
been completed in the case of State _versus_—’
“‘May it please your honor!’ exclaimed the State’s attorney, starting
briskly to his feet. ‘Having come into possession of new and important
evidence in the case now before the court, the counsel for the State
requests permission to submit the same before the case is closed.’
“The judge turned his keen gray eyes curiously and inquiringly upon the
State’s attorney. Every head in the room was bent forward in an attitude
of keenest attention.
“‘We have been so fortunate,’ continued the State’s attorney, ‘as to
discover, at the last moment, an eye-witness of the murder of Albert
Stetson. The evidence which this witness has to offer is absolutely
convincing in character. May it please your honor to call to the witness
stand Mr. John Henderson, of Woodville, Colorado?’
“There was a moment’s absolutely breathless pause. Then the deep tones of
the judge’s voice broke the silence:—
“‘Mr. Henderson may take the stand.’
“The prisoner at the bar eyed me keenly as I came forward. I recognized
his face the instant my eyes fell upon it. It was the same which had
looked back, half fearfully, half exultantly, at the dead man stretched
in the grass of the clearing. A moment’s uneasiness in the deep-set eyes
gave place to a stolid stare of defiance, as I took my place on the
witness-stand. What proof could the new accuser bring, beyond his own
unsupported statement?