HANK JONES AGAIN.
Hot with fever, August Bordine lifted his aching head for the dozenth
time to listen for the returning tread of the queer old peddler.
A glad bark from Tige was the first announcement the sick young man had
of the return of his queer friend.
"Tired waiting?" queried Shanks, as he burst through the bushes and
confronted the engineer.
"Very tired," moaned the feverish lips.
Then August put his head upon his hand and regarded the peddler with a
look of anxious inquiry.
"Did you bring a horse?"
"No, I didn't," answered the peddler abruptly.
"Then you have deceived me," and the sick youth sank back with a groan.
"Nothing of the kind," answered Shanks. "I've learned some tremendous
news since I went from here this morning."
"News?"
"Yes. Twon't be safe for you to go back to the city."
"Not safe? What do you mean?"
"This is what I mean," said the peddler, sinking to his knees and
adjusting the black patch carefully over his eye. "The whole burgh is in
a state of excitement over the discovery of the murderer of Victoria
Vane."
"He has been discovered then?"
"Wait. A squad of police went to your house this morning and hunted high
and low for you. The papers say that August Bordine murdered the
Ridgewood girl, and that he fled last night from the city to escape
arrest. What do you think of that?"
"It's all false."
"I suppose so, but if you should fall into the hands of the officers just
now, you wouldn't be given half chance for your life."
"But who started this yarn?"
Bordine was deeply interested, and he sat up now and forgot for the time
his aching head and weakened body.
"It seems to be the murdered girl's brother who is engineering the
search. He is determined that his sister's murderer shall be brought to
justice."
"That is right of course."
"Yes, but the evidence points strongly to you. I think, with a speedy
trial, you could be convicted, I vow I do, Mr. Bordine. Dare you go back
and risk it?"
"I am innocent--"
"True, but you _seem_ guilty. The girl, they say, was stabbed--"
"Yes, with a small dirk."
"Exactly," with a start.
Perhaps he was wondering how the young engineer knew so much if he was
guiltless.
"Can you tell me what kind of a knife it was?"
The single eye of the questioner was fixed in a keen gaze upon the face
of August Bordine.
He seemed growing suspicious again.
"It was apparently a two-edged blade."
"Apparently?"
"Yes. Of course I could not tell exactly, since the wound was not easily
examined."
"I see. Then you have not seen the knife--the dagger that found the life
of Victoria Vane?"
"Certainly not."
"And yet it was found in your room."
"Impossible!"
"It is true. That evidence alone might hang you."
"My soul! what does, what _can_ this mean?" groaned the young engineer,
sinking back to the rough blanket, weak as a rag under the revelation of
this strange man.
"It means that a plot exists for your destruction, and the elevation of
another," answered Hiram Shanks, slowly and with deliberation. "Doubtless
your journey last night was a part of the plot. I confess that some
things puzzle me, yet I am assured that your death is necessary to the
successful issue of a plot."
"I cannot understand it."
"Nor I, fully."
Then a short silence fell between the two men, during which the eyes of
Bordine examined the face of the queer little peddler keenly. At length
he said:
"Mr. Shanks, will you answer me a question?"
"A dozen, if you like."
"Only one?"
"Well?"
"Who are you?"
"Hiram Shanks."
"Yes, but you are no ordinary man."
"Why do you think that?"
"To look at you, one would think--"
Then the engineer came to a sudden pause, and seemed embarrassed.
"I understand what you would say," remarked the peddler, with the
faintest smile imaginable. "You imagine I will feel offended if you speak
the truth, and say that I look like a battered, old tramp, but I should
not. I will tell you the truth, young man. I have seen better days, but
misfortunes came upon me, not singly, but in platoons, until I found my
life a wreck. A wicked woman, poor whisky, and a reckless heart have
brought me mighty low. I do not expect to rise again, but I have resolved
to reform and pass the remainder of my days in honest endeavor.
"I turned to peddling from a natural liking to handle goods. I lead a
wandering life now, and expect to till I die. I mean, however, to help
you all possible, since I am assured that you are a good man and innocent
of crime. My advice was once listened to; may I not hope that it will be
again? Heed what I gay, trust me, and all will yet come out right. What
do you say?"
"That I am unable to disobey at the present time, at any rate," answered
the engineer. "Which may prove to be a blessing in disguise, after all."
Then queer Hiram Shanks came to his feet, and gazed sharply about him.
"I am not sure that this is the safest place that could be found," he
said, "yet it isn't a place that people hunting for criminals would be
apt to look. On the whole, I think you had better remain here until
night, at least."
Then the peddler whistled to his dog, and walked away, leaving the sick
man alone in the fisherman's shanty.
"Who is guilty? that's the question," muttered Hiram Shanks when once out
of hearing of the sick man. "Bordine certainly doesn't act like a guilty
wretch, and I, for one, believe him innocent. I must run down the guilty
dogs, however, if I would save an innocent man and win the five thousand
dollars reward."
Then the peddler hurried from the vicinity, accompanied by his dog.
Bordine fell into a troubled slumber, from which he was awakened by a
sound from the murmuring creek.
Instantly his senses were on the alert.
He felt anxious to be at home, to alleviate the fears that he knew his
mother must undergo on account of his continued absence.
"Somebody is coming," he thought.
Then he listened as he could with the beating fever in his head.
The dip of a paddle!
It was this that had wakened him.
He roused to a sitting posture and gazed through the open side of the
shanty down toward the water.
A man had just landed from an Indian canoe, and stood on the bank,
regarding him in evident astoundment. August could scarcely repress a
cry.
And no wonder.
In front of him, not ten yards distant, stood the man who attempted to
murder him the night before in the lone cabin near the creek falls.
The astoundment was mutual.
Evidently the man was none the worse for the fright he had received over
the grave of his victim in the shanty cellar. He stared at the reclining
form in the fisherman's shanty as though doubting his senses.
After a moment he advanced, and gazed fixedly into the face of
fever-stricken August.
"So!" he exclaimed, and in that one word there was an immense amount of
meaning.
Then he walked up to the bunk and stood within a few feet of the sick
man.
"Hank Jones, what are you doing here?"
"Well, that's a nice question," sneered the villain as he thrust his hand
to his hip pocket. "How in nature did you escape from the creek? Didn't I
hit you when I fired?"
With the words the villain drew a revolver.
"It seems not."
"Then I'll make sure of it this time."
"This is unfair," remonstrated August, feeling that he was at the mercy
of his enemy, and anxious to gain time, for night was fast falling, and
with it the peddler and his dog would doubtless come.
"All is fair in war my friend."
"Why did you attempt to murder me last night?"
"For purposes of my own."
"You concocted a falsehood about Silas Keene and led me into a trap."
"Not entirely false," returned the villain. "The detective was hurt, and
has since died."
"Since last night?"
"No, before that, but I will not palaver with you. I set out to rid the
earth of my rival in business, and this is the way I do it."
The speaker thrust forward his revolver and fired.