Daney readily discovered in a pool-hall the man he sought. "Dirty Dan"
O'Leary was a chopper in the McKaye employ, and had earned his
sobriquet, not because he was less cleanly than the average lumberjack
but because he was what his kind described as a "dirty" fighter. That
is to say, when his belligerent disposition led him into battle, which
it frequently did, Mr. O'Leary's instinct was to win, quickly and
decisively, and without consideration of the niceties of combat, for a
primitive person was Dirty Dan. Fast as a panther, he was as equally
proficient in the use of all his extremities, and, if hard pressed,
would use his teeth. He was a stringy, big-boned man of six feet, and
much too tall for his weight, wherefore belligerent strangers were
sometimes led to the erroneous conclusion that Mr. O'Leary would not
be hard to upset. In short, he was a wild, bad Irishman who had gotten
immovably fixed in his head an idea that old Hector McKaye was a
"gr-rand gintleman," and a gr-rand gintleman was one of the three
things that Dirty Dan would fight for, the other two being his
personal safety and the love of battle.
Daney drew Dirty Dan out of the pool-hall and explained the situation
to him. The knowledge that The Laird had, in his extremity, placed
reliance on him moved Dirty Dan to the highest pitch of enthusiasm and
loyalty. He pursed his lips, winked one of his piggy eyes craftily,
and, without wasting time in words of assurance, set forth in search
of the man he was to follow and protect. Presently he saw Donald
entering the butcher shop; so he stationed himself across the street
and watched the young laird of Tyee purchase a fowl and walk out with
it under his arm. Keeping his man dimly in view through the gloom,
Dirty Dan, from the opposite side of the street, followed on velvet
feet to the outskirts of the town, where Donald turned and took a path
through some vacant lots, arriving at last at the Sawdust Pile. Dirty
Dan heard him open and close the gate to Caleb Brent's garden.
"Oh, ho, the young divil!" Dirty Dan murmured, and immediately left
the path, padding softly out into the grass in order that, when the
door of Caleb Brent's house should be opened, the light from within
might not shine forth and betray him. After traversing a dozen steps,
he lay down in the grass and set himself patiently to await the
reappearance of his quarry.
In response to several clearly audible knocks, the front door failed
to open, and Dirty Dan heard Don walk round the house to the back
door.
"The young divil!" he reiterated to himself. "Faith, whin the cat's
away the mice'll play, an' divil a worrd o' lie in that! Begorra, I'm
thinkin' the ould gintleman'd be scandalized could he know where his
darlin' bhoy is this minute--here, wait a minute Daniel, ye gossoon.
Maybe, 'tis for this I've been sint to watch the lad an' not for to
protect him. If it is, faith 'tis a job I'm not wishful for, shpyin'
on me own boss." He pondered the matter. Then: "Well, sorra wan o' me
knows. What if the young fella do be in love wit' her an' his father
have wind of it! Eh? What thin, Daniel? A scandal, that's what, an',
be the toe-nails o' Moses, nayther The Laird nor his son can afford
that. I'll take note o' what happens, but, be the same token, 'tis not
to Misther Daney I'll make me report, but to the ould man himself.
Sh--what's that?"
His ear being close to the ground, Dirty Dan had caught the sound of
slow, cautious footsteps advancing along the little path. He flattened
himself in the grass and listened, the while he hoped fervently that
those who walked the path (for he knew now there were more than one)
would not leave it as he had done and at the same point. Should they
inadvertently tread upon him, Dirty Dan felt that the honor of the
McKaye family and the maintenance of the secret of his present
employment would demand instant and furious battle--on suspicion.
The unknown pedestrians paused in the path.
"Ah done tol' you-all Ah'm right," Dirty Dan heard one of them say.
"Ha!" thought Dirty Dan. "A dirrty black naygur! I can tell be the
v'ice of him."
One of his companions grunted, and another said, in accents which the
astute Mr. O'Leary correctly judged to be those of a foreigner of some
sort:
"All right. W'en he's come out, we jumpa right here. Wha's matter,
eh?"
"Suits me," the negro replied. "Let's set down, an' fo' de Lawd's
sake, keep quite 'twell he come."
Dirty Dan heard them move off to the other side of the path and sit
down in the grass.
"So 'tis that big buck yeller naygur from Darrow an' two o' the
Greeks," he mused. "An' God knows I never did like fightin' in the
dark. They'll knife me as sure as pussy is a cat."
Decidedly, the prospect did not appeal to Dirty Dan. However, he had
his orders to protect The Laird's son; he had his own peculiar notions
of honor, and in his wild Irish heart there was not one drop of craven
blood. So presently, with the stealth of an animal, he crawled
soundlessly away until he judged it would be safe for him to stand up
and walk, which he did with infinite caution.
He reached the gate, passed like a wraith through it, and round to the
side of Caleb Brent's home, in momentary dread of discovery by a dog.
He breathed a sigh of relief when, the outcry failing to materialize,
he decided the Brents were too poor to maintain a dog; whereupon he
filled his pipe, lighted it, leaned up against the house, and, for the
space of an hour, stood entranced, for from Caleb Brent's poor shanty
there floated the voice of an angel, singing to the notes of a piano.
"Glory be!" murmured the amazed Daniel. "Sure, if that's what the
young fella hears whin he calls, divil a bit do I blame him. Oh, the
shweet v'ice of her--an' singin' 'The Low-backed Car'!"
Despite the wicked work ahead of him, Dirty Dan was glad of the ill
fortune which had sent him hither. He had in full measure the Gael's
love of music, and when, at length, the singing ceased and reluctantly
he made up his mind that the concert was over, he was thrilled to a
point of exaltation.
"Begorra, I didn't expect to be piped into battle," he reflected
humorously--and sought the Brent wood-pile, in which he poked until
his hard hands closed over a hard, sound, round piece of wood about
three feet long. He tested it across his knee, swung it over his head,
and decided it would do.
"Now thin, for the surprise party," he reflected grimly, and walked
boldly to the gate, which he opened and closed with sufficient vigor
to advertise his coming, even if his calked boots on the hard path had
not already heralded his advance. However, Dirty Dan desired to make
certain; so he pursed his lips and whistled softly the opening bars of
"The Low-backed Car" in the hope that the lilting notes would still
further serve to inculcate in the lurking enemy the impression that he
was a lover returning well content from his tryst. As he sauntered
along, he held his bludgeon in readiness while his keen eyes
searched--and presently he made out the cronching figures.
"The naygur first--to hold me, whilst the Greeks slip a dirk in me,"
he decided shrewdly.
He heard the scuttering rush start, and, with the shock of combat, his
carefully prearranged plan of battle quite fled his mercurial mind. He
met the charge with a joyous screech, forgot that he had a club, and
kicked viciously out with his right foot. His heavy logger's boots
connected with something soft and yielding, which instinct told Mr.
O'Leary was an abdomen; instinct, coupled with experience, informed
him further that no man could assimilate that mighty kick in the
abdomen and yet remain perpendicular, whereupon. Dirty Dan leaped high
in the air and came down with both terrible calked boots on something
which gave slightly under him and moaned. On the instant, he received
a light blow in the breast and knew he had been stabbed.
He remembered his club now; as he backed away swiftly, he swung it,
and, from the impact, concluded he had struck a neck or shoulder. That
was the luck of night-fighting; so, with a bitter curse, Dirty Dan
swung again, in the pious hope of connecting with a skull; he scored a
clean miss and was, by the tremendous force of his swing, turned
completely round. Before he could recover his balance, a hand grasped
his ankle and he came down heavily on his face; instantly, his
assailant's knees were pressed into his back. With a mighty heave he
sought to free himself, at the same time flinging both long legs
upward, after the fashion of one who strives to kick himself in the
small of the back; whereupon a knife drove deep into his instep, and
he realized he had not acted a split second too soon to save himself
from a murderous thrust in the kidneys--a Greek's favorite blow.
In battle, Dirty Dan's advantage lay always in his amazing speed and
the terrible fury of his attack during the first five minutes. Even as
he threw up his feet, he drew back, an elbow and crashed it into his
enemy's ribs; like a flash, his arm straightened, and his sinewy hand
closed over the wrist of an arm that struggled in vain to strike
downward. Holding that wrist securely, Dirty Dan heaved upward, got
his left elbow under his body, and rested a few moments; another
mighty heave, and he tossed off the Greek, and, whirling with the
speed of a pin-wheel, was on top of his man. He had momentarily
released his hold on the Greek's wrist, however, and he had to fight
for another hold now--in the dark. Presently he captured it, twisted
the arm in the terrible hammer-lock, and broke it; then, while the
Greek lay writhing in agony, Mr. O'Leary leaped to his feet and
commenced to play with his awful boots a devil's tattoo on that
portion of his enemy's superstructure so frequently alluded to in
pugilistic circles as "the slats." After five or six kicks, however,
he paused, due to a difficulty in breathing; so he struck a match and
surveyed the stricken field.
The big mulatto and two Greeks, lay unconscious before him; in the
nickering light of the match, two blood-stained dirks gleamed in the
grass, so, with a minute attention to detail, Dirty Dan possessed
himself of these weapons, picked up his club, and, reasoning shrewdly
that Donald McKaye's enemies had had enough combat for a few weeks at
least, the dauntless fellow dragged the fallen clear of the path, in
order that his youthful master might not stumble over them on his way
home, and then disappeared into the night. Half an hour later, smeared
with dust and blood, he crawled up the steps of the Tyee Lumber
Company's hospital on his hands and knees and rapped feebly on the
front door. The night nurse came out and looked him over.
"I'm Dirty Dan O'Leary," he wheezed; "I've been fightin' agin."
The nurse called the doctor and two orderlies, and they carried him
into the operating-room.
"I'm not the man I used to be," Dirty Dan whispered, "but glory be, ye
should see the other fellers." He opened his hand, and two
blood-stained clasp-knives rolled out; he winked knowingly, and
indulged in humorous reminiscences of the combat while he was being
examined.
"You're cut to strings and ribbons, Dan," the doctor informed him,
"and they've stuck you in the left lung. You've lost a lot of blood.
We may pull you through, but I doubt it."
"Very well," the demon replied composedly.
"Telephone Judge Alton to come and get his dying statement," the
doctor ordered the nurse, but Dirty Dan raised a deprecating hand.
"'Twas a private, personal matther," he declared. "'Twas settled
satisfacthory. I'll not die, an' I'll talk to no man but Misther
Daney. Sew me up an' plug me lung, an' be quick about it, Docthor."
When Andrew Daney came, summoned by telephone, Dirty Dan ordered all
others from the room, and Daney saw that the door was closed tightly
after them. Then he bent over Dirty Dan.
"Where's Donald?" he demanded.
"That's neither here nor there, sir," Mr. O'Leary replied evasively.
"He's safe, an' never knew they were afther him. T'ree o' thim, sir,
the naygur and two Greeks. I kidded thim into thinkin' I was Misther
McKaye; 'tis all over now, an' ye can find out what two Greeks it was
by those knives I took for evidence. I cannot identify thim, but go up
to Darrow in the mornin' an' look for a spreckled mulatter, wan Greek
wit' a broken right arm, an' another wit' a broken neck, but until I
die, do nothin'. If I get well, tell them to quit Darrow for good
agin' the day I come out o' the hospital. Good-night to you, sir, an'
thank ye for callin'."
From the hospital, Andrew Daney, avoiding the lighted main street,
hastened to the Sawdust Pile. A light still burned in Caleb Brent's
cottage; so Daney stood aloof in the vacant lot and waited. About ten
o'clock, the front door opened, and, framed in the light of the
doorway, the general manager saw Donald McKaye, and beside him Nan
Brent.
"Until to-morrow at five, Donald, since you will persist in being
obstinate," he heard Nan say, as they reached the gate and paused
there. "Good-night, dear."
Andrew Daney waited no longer, but turned and fled into the darkness.