BOB BECOMES A PRISONER
“That’s the time I caught you, you little sneak!”
It was Casco who uttered the words, and it was he who had stepped up
behind Bob and pulled him partly into the room.
Without replying the young photographer straightened up and let out
with his right arm.
The scar-faced man went backward in such a hurry that he hit the wall
opposite with considerable force.
“Help!” he yelled.
After the blow, so well delivered, Bob turned to flee, knowing full
well the danger of remaining an instant longer.
Alarmed by the sound of the row, Barker rushed out into the entry,
followed by Grogan and Raymond.
“Who is it?”
“Bob Alden! Catch him!”
“That imp! Which way did he go?”
“Out of the door.”
As he spoke, Casco managed to regain his equilibrium, and he followed
Barker and the others outside.
“There he goes!”
Barker and Grogan came after Bob, but the youth would have escaped by
outdistancing them had not just then something unexpected occurred.
Bob was making for the roadway when suddenly he ran plump into a man
who was making tracks toward the red house.
The force of the meeting was such that both went sprawling in the
mud, and before Bob could arise Barker was on top of him, and Grogan
followed.
“Here, what does this mean?” gasped the fellow Bob had knocked down.
“Good for you, Horning!” laughed Barker. “We wanted him stopped, and
you have done it.”
“Hang me if it isn’t that young fellow who tried to down me,” cried
Horning, as he sprang up and began to wipe the mud from his face.
“March back to the house,” ordered Barker to Bob. “No more escapes are
in order, understand.”
With something of a sinking heart Bob turned about and, with Barker on
one side of him and Grogan on the other, walked back and entered the
sitting-room, Horning following.
“It’s beastly weather,” muttered the latter. “I would never have
started out if I had known it was going to pour down like this.”
“Did you see anything of Mavelt?”
“Yes. He is waiting for an answer to his message. Rankin may change the
plan.”
“Pshaw! It wasn’t necessary.”
Once in the red house the whole crowd surrounded poor Bob, who was
disarmed and then bound.
“Yez sha’n’t escape me again,” said Grogan. “Oi’ll not go to slape
watchin’ yez this toime.”
“No, Mike, for the simple reason that I intend to do the watching this
trip,” laughed Barker. “You mean well enough, but you are not always to
be trusted.”
“I will take him up-stairs,” said Barker. “I want to have a talk with
him. Then I will come down, and we can decide on what we intend to do.”
As he spoke, he winked at Casco, and the scar-faced man nodded.
“Don’t be long,” said Raymond. “I want you to fix up that matter for
me.”
“All right.”
Bob was compelled to march up to the second story of the house and into
the front room.
“Now, sit down, Bob,” said Barker, as he closed the door. “I want you
to tell me something.”
Bob took a seat. He saw that Barker’s face was unusually cruel. The man
looked capable of killing him then and there.
“You followed Casco this morning, didn’t you?” began the man.
“Yes.”
“And you met Blake.”
“I did. I arrived just in time to save him from being murdered.”
“So Casco told me. Now, I want to know what Blake told you.”
“Told me about what?”
“About----” Barker hesitated an instant. “About me.”
“Supposing I don’t care to talk about that matter?”
“I want you to answer me!”
Bob remained silent. Stepping over to the defenceless youth, Barker
raised his hand and struck him in the face.
“Now will you answer me?”
“No.”
“You are mighty brave, I must say. But your bravery counts for nothing
with me.”
“And your bluster counts less with me.”
“I have you in my power.”
“I have been there before.”
“And you think you can escape again. But you will not, mark my word.”
“Maybe I will.”
Barker strode up and down the room a moment and glared at Bob.
“Did Blake tell you anything about yourself?” he asked, coming to a
halt.
“I told you I wouldn’t answer any questions. You may ask me if it is
going to stop raining soon, and I’ll have nothing to say.”
Barker grated his teeth.
“May break him, but never bend him,” he muttered to himself. “I never
saw his equal for pure spunk.”
“What did you hear down-stairs?” went on the man, shifting his tactics.
Instead of replying, Bob gazed up to the ceiling, and began to whistle.
Again Barker raised his hand.
“Stop that.”
“Does it annoy you?” asked Bob, coolly.
“You don’t seem to realize your situation.”
“Don’t want to if it’s going to scare me to death.”
But Bob did realize matters very plainly, and his chaff was only
uttered to keep up his courage.
“Look here, I’ll----” began Barker, when a crash of thunder drowned out
his voice and made him shrink back in awe.
“How long are you going to be up there?” called Casco, from the foot of
the stairs.
“I’ll be down in a little while,” replied Barker. “Why?”
“Mavelt is here.”
“What news does he bring?”
“The money will be on the express to-night.”
“To-night?”
“Yes. We have just time to get ready and no more. Finish with that boy
and come down.”
“That’s all right, too, but----”
A crash of thunder close at hand made both Barker and Bob jump.
The crash was followed by one of a different sort, as a tree which had
stood close at hand was split from top to bottom, and one side smashed
in the entire window-sash.
“Oh!” howled Barker. “I can’t stand this!”
Pale as a ghost he made for the door, and ran down the stairs.
“Now is my chance,” thought Bob. “It’s a great risk, but it’s the only
chance I have to save my life.”
Bound though he was, he managed to reach the broken window and climbed
up on the sill.
The tree, the top of which was on fire, still rested against the house,
and upon this Bob threw himself and rolled to the ground.
Some bushes were not far off, and as soon as he reached the soil the
young photographer rolled over and over, until he was out of sight.
Then came another streak of lightning which almost blinded the youth.
The air was filled with the smell of sulphur, while the noise was
terrific.
“Help I help!” came from the interior of the red house, accompanied by
the crash of falling walls.
The lightning had struck the chimney, and run down the centre of the
structure, ruining it completely.
For the moment Bob thought the end of the world had come. He lay still,
a strange sensation darting like needles through his whole system.
“Come on out, if you value your lives!” he heard Casco cry. “Sure,
an’ Horning is kilt!” howled Grogan as he came rushing forth. “The
loightning shtruck him, so it did. Come away!”
Bob heard no more. Another crash of thunder roared in his ears,
followed by a tremendous downpour of rain, and the crowd moved away to
seek a new shelter.
Poor Bob felt as weak as a sick kitten. He tried to move, but the shock
to his nerves had been too much, and presently his senses left him, and
all became a blank.
When he returned to consciousness, it was beginning to grow dark.
The rain had ceased, and the sky overhead was once more a deep blue,
flecked with white clouds.
For a while the young photographer could not remember where he was,
nor what had happened. But gradually he recalled the scene in the upper
chamber of the red house, and what had followed, and raising his head
he looked around.
The cottage was a mass of ruins, burnt and water-soaked, and beside it
lay the tree the lightning had split, the top charred and blackened.
“Thank Heaven for that escape!” murmured Bob. “My! what a close shave!”
He was still bound, but by working steadily at the rope he, after an
hour’s labor, managed to free himself.
He ached in every joint, but to this he scarcely gave attention. His
one thought was of the gang and what they intended to do.
Approaching the cottage, he examined the ruins, but could see nothing
of Horning’s remains. Whether or not the gang had buried the man the
youth could not tell.
Bob knew that the express of which the men had spoken would leave
Stampton at eight o’clock and would arrive in Dartinville at
eight-thirty, making no stop excepting on flag.
It must now be seven or half-past. He must hurry. If the train and its
passengers were to be saved, there was no time to lose.
Bob knew it was at least a mile and a half to the railroad track, and
two miles to the nearest way station. Could he cover that distance in
time?
“I’ll do it or die in the attempt!” muttered the brave youth. “If I
only had a horse!”
But there was no horse in sight, nor, indeed, any farm-house where one
might be procured. All was dark and lonely.
Bob set out at a brisk gait. He felt like groaning at every step,
but ground his teeth together and kept on. Either he would cover the
necessary distance or drop dead on the road.
“They will find that I am not so easily overcome as they expected,” he
muttered, grimly. “And now, with hundreds of lives at stake, what sort
of a chap would I be to show the white feather?”
Bob had to make a guess as to which was the shortest way to the nearest
station, and praying that he was right and would arrive in time he
pushed on and on.
Over the rough fields and through the brooks, now swollen high from the
recent rain, went Bob, half walking and half running. He was hatless,
and the jump from the window had nearly sprained his ankle, but what
did he care? If those lives were to be saved, he alone must accomplish
the task.
At last a long, low rumble reached his ears.
“The track can’t be far off, and that is a train.”
Bob paused for only a second to listen and to locate the sound. He was
right. It was a train, going in the opposite direction.
“It’s the last train through that way to-night,” he said to himself.
“Now the only one to pass the other way is the express, and that must
be almost due.”
Off through a patch of woods Bob heard the train slow up, come to a
stop, and then start off again.
“That means a station of some sort most likely,” was his mental
comment. “Oh, if I can only reach it in time!”
Through the woods, the brush sweeping his face and scratching his skin,
went Bob, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He was almost played
out.
At last the woods were passed. Then came an open field, and beyond lay
the iron tracks.
Bob looked up and down. The little station was a good hundred yards off.
“Stop the train!” cried the youth as he dashed up.
Then he gave a cry of dismay--the place was deserted--the
station-master had locked up and gone home for the night.
And now came a rumble from the distance, and looking down the tracks
Bob saw the gleaming head-light of the express as it came thundering
along at the rate of fifty miles an hour.
“If I only had a red-lantern!” groaned the youth.
He looked around. Was there no lantern in sight? Hither and thither he
rushed, growing more frantic every second.
Ah! here was an old lantern at last. But it was a common affair with a
white glass and unlit.
With nervous haste Bob felt for a match and drew it forth. It was wet
from the rain and refused to burn. He threw it away and pulled out
another and then another, and at last the lamp was lit and burned
brightly. But, alas! the light was white, and the danger signal must be
red! And now the express was almost upon him. In ten seconds it would
be gone, and then what dire disaster would follow!
Suddenly Bob gave a jump. In his vest pocket was a small ruby
lantern-slide of red glass, such as nearly every professional
photographer possesses.
In feverish haste Bob drew forth the bit of glass and held it in front
of the white light.
Then the red light was waved wildly to and fro as the express dashed
past.
Had his signal been seen?