A DESPERATE ENCOUNTER.
"How far do we have to go?" queried August, after the hack had rattled on
for some minutes in silence.
"Eh?"
"How far do we go?"
"How far?"
"Yes," cried the young engineer impatiently, not relishing the apparent
obtuseness of the man outlined before him.
"Excuse me," said the man; "I was in a brown study and did not catch on
to your remark. If you will please repeat it, I will then try to answer."
"Aren't you the gentleman who sent the note?"
"Certainly."
"Then you must know how far it is to the place where Silas Keene is lying
wounded and dying."
"Certainly I do. Mr. Keene is about four miles from your place, at a
small cabin in the woods--"
"Indeed! How did he come to be in such a place?"
"He was on somebody's trail."
"You are acquainted with Mr. Keene?"
"Yes."
"Your name is Henry Jones?"
"It is."
"Why did you not come for me in person without writing the letter?"
"That might have been the proper way, but I am not like other people, Mr.
Bordine. I am considered a peculiar man. It was a freak of mine, I
suppose, that I did not do as you say. Fact is, I did not think it
possible for me to leave Keene at the time I wrote the letter."
"You afterward found him better?"
"Slightly, yes."
"Is he badly hurt?"
"He will die."
"In what manner was he injured?"
"He was flung from a horse."
"In the city?"
"No, in the woods while he was in pursuit of a burglar."
"Indeed!"
Then the young engineer fell to thinking deeply. He was not exactly
satisfied with the situation of affairs. He was well assured of one
thing, however, and that was that something had happened to Silas Keene,
and it seemed that the mystery of the detective's disappearance was
likely to be revealed this night.
After a time the lights of the city disappeared and the hack rattled on
over a country road.
When at length it came to a halt, intense darkness surrounded them.
Mr. Jones rose and opened the door.
The two alighted.
Jones paid the driver for his services, and then the two men stood alone
beside the road, with the dying rattle of swift-flying wheels in their
ears.
"What now?"
This question fell from the lips of August Bordine as he gazed about him
in the darkness.
"This way."
A hand fell to the shoulder of Mr. Jones. "See here," cried the engineer,
"I am not fully satisfied with these proceedings."
"Aren't you?"
"I am not."
"You can return if you like, only it will be hard on the poor man who
lays on a rude cot in the shanty over yonder, dying. He said you was his
friend."
"An acquaintance only."
"Very well, you can do as you choose about continuing the journey. I have
acted in good faith all along."
"How much farther is it?"
"About half a mile."
"Go on, I will follow."
And then the two men moved from the road, following a path into the
woods.
August began to suspect something wrong, but he felt that he had gone too
far to turn back now, and with his hand on the butt of his trusty
revolver, he went forward, resolving to see the adventure through to the
end.
Every now and then a bush would brush the face of Bordine, showing that
the path was narrow and the wood dense.
Presently a light flashed through the darkness, and soon our two
pedestrians found themselves in front of a log cabin, that stood a few
yards back from a narrow, brawling creek, whose waters were lashed to
foam over rocks and stones.
"This is the place."
Mr. Jones pushed open the door and bade his companion enter.
"Go on; I will follow."
Thus urged, the man walked into a dimly-lighted room, which was almost
entirely bare of furniture.
August followed and gazed about the cabin, not a little surprised to find
it empty. A light burned on a shelf at one side of the room--a tallow
dip--that sputtered and threatened soon to leave the place in total
darkness.
The cabin presented no evidence of having been inhabited of late.
One glance about the room, then August regarded his guide for the first
time in the light.
He started involuntarily.
He had seen the man before. It was the same person he had seen in the
carriage with the woman on the day that he first noticed the placard
announcing a reward for the capture of Victoria Vane's murderer.
He had heard him called Mr. Brown.
This fact at once roused the suspicions of the young engineer to
fever-heat. He believed now that he was the victim of a deep-laid plot.
With his hand on his revolver, he looked the bearded stranger squarely in
the face, and said:
"Mr. Brown, what does this mean?"
But the man addressed thus abruptly was not looking at August. Instead,
he gazed beyond, into the depths of the night outside, the door standing
open.
There was the sound of a step outside.
Bordine turned quickly.
A stalwart form was framed in the narrow door--the form of Perry Jounce,
the tramp!
There was the gleam of a devil in the man's eye, and in his right hand he
clinched the haft of a huge knife.
Instantly the young engineer realized that murder was intended.
Self defense is the first law of nature, and Bordine acted upon it with
the quickness of lightning. His right hand shot forward, a bright flash
followed, and the next instant the burly form of Perry Jounce disappeared
from the doorway.
He had fallen, bleeding, to the ground, from the bullet August Bordine
sent hurtling into his face.
Before the young engineer could turn, a pair of strong arms encircled his
waist, and he was crushed to the floor under the weight of the man
calling himself Henry Jones.
Our young engineer had not yet regained his full strength since his hurt
in the runaway accident, and taken at a disadvantage, he labored in vain
to throw off his antagonist.
"Confound you!" hissed the man in a voice full of intense wrath, "I'll
fix you so you won't shoot any more honest men."
He clutched his antagonist by the throat, and attempted to throttle him.
August prevented this, turned suddenly, and hurled his foe backward
against the wall.
With a leap like a tiger the engineer came to his feet.
"Hold up!" yelled Jones, whose face was bleeding from scratches received
in the scuffle.
Panting from exertion, August leveled his revolver and fired.
His hand was unsteady, and the bullet flew wide of the mark.
At this moment a sound behind him warned Bordine to guard his rear. He
turned to see the man he supposed dead once more on his feet, with bloody
face and flowing eyes, clutching at the side of the door to steady
himself.
The sight startled the young engineer, and deeming it best to seek safety
in flight, he turned, dealt the reeling tramp a tremendous blow in the
face that swept him from his feet, and dashed swiftly into the blackness
of the night.
The man in the shanty sprang swiftly after, anxious now to prevent the
escape of his intended victim.
If Bordine escaped them the country would ring with the news of the
attempted tragedy. Dashing with the swiftness of a deer, Jones passed
over the bulky form of Perry Jounce, and caught the outlines of the
fleeing engineer moving directly toward the foaming creek.
He had him now.
With the creek before, and a determined man with a cocked revolver
behind, it did not seem possible for the engineer to escape.
"Halt!"
Was Harry Jones anxious to capture his man alive?
Evidently not, yet the call to halt had the effect desired. Bordine came
to a momentary pause on the bank of the brawling creek--long enough for
his mad pursuer to take aim and fire.
With the flash and report came a loud cry, as of a human being in pain.
Instantly, on firing, Jones darted forward.
He was just in time to see the engineer plunge headlong into the boiling
waters of the creek!
"Good by, young chap. I reckon you won't trouble your betters again,"
cried the elated homicide. "The Alstine fortune shall yet be
smine--selah!"