BOB SHOWS HIS NERVE
The blood-hounds stood still for a second on catching sight of Bob and
Frank.
Then, as if scenting the blood on Frank’s face, both made a dash for
the young man.
“Help me!” cried Frank. For the time being he seemed to be fairly
paralyzed with terror.
“Jump into the tree!” returned Bob, quickly.
The tree he mentioned stood but a few feet away. The lower limbs were
not far from eight feet from the ground and almost directly over
Frank’s head.
With a desperate spring the young man caught one of the limbs and drew
himself up just as one of the blood-hounds reached the spot where he
had been standing.
Baffled, the hound let out a deep growl and then stood up on his hind
legs, followed by his mate.
Then Bob thought of the pistol he carried and produced it.
Crack! Bob pulled the trigger of the pistol and one of the blood-hounds
fell back, shot through the heart.
“Here, stop that!” roared Raymond, from the door-way of the barn.
“I told you to keep them chained,” returned the youth as coolly as he
could. “Better call the other one in.”
The second hound turned at the shot, and backed several paces. Then he
looked at his mate as though surprised at what had happened.
“Good for you!” cried Frank. “Wait till I finish the other.”
He drew his own pistol and fired, but his aim was poor, and the bullet
merely grazed the blood-hound’s back.
With a howl of rage the hound sprang away from the tree. Then with set
teeth and gleaming eyes, he turned to attack Bob.
“Go for him, Leo!” cried Raymond.
He was in a rage and would have liked nothing better than to see the
hound tear Bob to pieces.
Bob again took aim and pulled the trigger. But for some reason the
weapon failed to go off.
The next instant the young photographer was knocked flat on his back by
the blood-hound.
Seeing this, Frank leaped down from the tree and rushed forward.
“Get back there!” he yelled at the hound, and fired his pistol at the
same time.
But the beast paid no attention to the command. He snapped at Bob, and
it was only by a quick movement to one side that the young photographer
kept himself from having his arm torn to shreds.
“Go for him!” cried Raymond.
Lying on his back, Bob made another attempt to shoot the blood-hound.
He pulled the trigger again, and this time the pistol went off, and
with a shrill yelp the beast keeled over and lay on his side with a
bullet through his head.
“I’ll fix you for that!” screamed Raymond.
He gave a shrill whistle, but already half a dozen men came running
from the bar-room of the hotel, anxious to know what the firing was
about.
“Is that you, Raymond?”
“What’s up?”
“These fellows are prowling about the place,” returned Raymond.
“That so?”
“They are up to no good. This one just shot both my dogs.”
“Don’t say! Why, those dogs were worth a hundred dollars.”
“Every cent of it. Boys, will you help me capture them?”
“Certainly we will. Hi! stop there!”
“Come on,” whispered Frank to Bob. “We can’t stand up against such a
crowd. The best we can do is to run away and summon the authorities.”
“The constable don’t amount to a hill of beans,” returned the young
photographer. “Yet if you say go, we’ll skip. I was principally after
Casco.”
“Come ahead this way.”
“Lead ahead.”
The young man turned to a lane which ran to the south of the barn, and
Bob came close behind. It was then that one of the men yelled for them
to stop, but he was not heeded.
“Where is Casco?” asked Frank, as they scurried along.
“Got away across the brook. I wonder if any of those fellows will
follow us.”
“It’s not likely, after they see the way you treated the hounds,”
laughed Frank. “By Jove! Bob, you are a crack shot.”
“I used to go hunting with old Peter Thompson’s gun when I wasn’t any
higher than a rail fence,” returned the young photographer. “Which way
now?”
“There is a customer of mine lives up a side road not far from here. We
might go to his house. I can’t go much farther with this head of mine.”
“Does it hurt very bad?”
“It aches fearfully.”
“Let me tie it up with a wet handkerchief.”
Bob got out his handkerchief and, wetting it in the brook, tied it over
the wound. Frank, declared this relieved him considerably, and the two
continued on their way at a more rapid pace than ever.
“I don’t believe they are following,” said Bob, as, after five minutes
of running, they paused to listen. “I believe that was only a bluff to
get us off.”
“Raymond is fearfully mad over the loss of those blood-hounds. He set
great store by them. That is one reason the authorities never cared to
go there to serve him with papers.”
“It was a pity to kill them, but it couldn’t be helped. I am glad the
shots were such lucky ones.”
“So am I. Here we are at Larchmond’s place. I suppose he will think it
awfully queer to be roused up at this time of the night.”
They now entered a neat garden, and walking up a gravel path ascended
to the porch. There was no bell, but a brass knocker instead, and this
Frank used vigorously.
A minute of dead silence followed. Then an upper window was shoved open
and a head covered with a night-cap appeared.
“What do you want?”
“Is that you, Mr. Larchmond?”
“Yes.”
“I am Frank Landes, the collector and agent.”
“Gracious! What business do you want this time of night? I sent that
consignment of eggs off----”
“The eggs are all right, Mr. Larchmond. I have other business of a more
serious nature----”
“Gracious, you don’t mean it!” and the old man’s voice actually
quivered.
“Shet the winder, you’ll catch yeour deth o’ cold, Thomas!” came in a
shrill female voice.
“I’ll be down in a minit,” said Larchmond, and bang, down came the
window.
Several minutes passed. Then a light appeared in the hall, and they
heard the old man nervously unlock and unbolt the door.
“Come in an’ tell me the trouble,” he said. “Why, who’s this?” he
added, looking at Bob.
“This is my friend, Bob Alden. We have just come away from Raymond’s
Hotel----”
“Is somebody killed there?” put in Larchmond, quickly. “I always
allowed as how some day they would have a fight and----”
“No one is killed but Raymond’s two blood-hounds,” laughed Frank.
“Do tell!”
“My friend Bob shot them. But we have had serious trouble, and we want
your advice as to what is best to do.”
“Come into the sittin’-room. It’s all right, Mirandy!” called Larchmond
up the stairs.
“I’m comin’ down!” returned Mrs. Larchmond, and presently she appeared,
fully dressed.
The story of the happenings at Raymond’s Hotel was soon told. Old
Larchmond and his wife listened with interest, the old man shaking
his head repeatedly, and the old lady putting in a “do tell” at every
opportunity.
“And now we want to know what is the best to do,” said Frank after all
the facts had been related.
“Yeou can’t do nuthin’,” replied Mrs. Larchmond, promptly.
“We can’t?” cried Bob.
“No, yeou can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s this way,” said the old man, by way of explanation.
“Raymond is the wust feller in the whole deestrict. The law can’t tech
him, nohow. I tried to sue him onct, but the constable couldn’t serve
the papers, nohow.”
“Did you have Dilmer?”
“Yes, I had Dilmer, an’ I had Vincent, too; but it wuz no ust--them
dogs kept ’em at a safe distance.”
“But the hounds are now dead.”
“It don’t make no difference. Raymond can’t be teched, nohow. Anybody
in Kentown will tell you the same thing.”
“That’s a nice state of affairs,” cried Frank. “A man like that to
terrorize the whole neighborhood!”
“Well, you see, Raymond has lots of relations around here, an’ they
all stick up for him. If it wasn’t for that, somethin’ might be did,
although I doubt it, bless me if I don’t.”
“Thomas is right,” put in Mrs. Larchmond. “If your money is safe, you
better go about your affairs and say nuthin’.”
“Oh, the money is safe enough,” returned Frank. “I grabbed that up and
put it in my pocket the first thing.”
As the young man spoke, he put his hand into his coat pocket to make
sure that the eighteen hundred dollars were still there. Then he turned
pale.
“It’s gone!” he gasped.