M^cANDREW SAVES A LIFE.
From what occurred later McParlan believed his friend Sweeney had been
waiting for his coming, when he found that person on the street, near
the lamp-post. But he said nothing, and gave no marked attention to the
manner in which McAndrew’s premises were watched, but entered as if
everything had been about as usual. McAndrew received him graciously,
and yet with a degree of constraint, probably, as McKenna thought,
perfectly consistent with the changed relations now existing between
them. After greetings, Sweeney came into the room, looked carefully
around, said a few words, in a joking way, and went outside again. He
remarked as he left the doorway that he was going home, but could not
have done so, for, in a little while, he reentered the bar, having a bit
of snow in his hand. Watching closely the movements of the man, while,
to all outward intents and purposes, earnestly engaged in smoking his
pipe and reading a newspaper, McKenna saw Sweeney toss the piece of snow
toward McAndrew, who was sitting by the stove. McAndrew looked up,
stretched out his legs, yawned a little, gazed for one moment on the
face of the detective, then said: “My feet are sore! I guess I’ll take
off my brogues!”
The Bodymaster suited action to his words and proceeded to doff his wet
and heavy miners’ boots, and replace them with a pair of easy slippers.
At this, still silently and carefully observed by the seemingly absorbed
McKenna, Sweeney curled his lip disdainfully, and once more left the
apartment. From the movements he had seen the agent was almost sure that
something had been arranged—felt suspicious of everybody and
everything—and the snow tossed by Sweeney, and the taking off of
McAndrew’s boots, were, to his excited imagination, signals having some
reference to his own case. But he had no desire to let those about him
think he was in fear of his life. It seemed far better to put on a bold,
defiant front and face the music, which he did. At last, his pipe being
out, he asked:
“Well, McAndrew, what about the matin’ for the morrow? Be every thing
all ready?”
“Yes! I’ve engaged the hall and it is all right! I hope there’ll be a
large attendance!”
“So do I! An’ I don’t care how soon the lies on me are disposed of! It’s
mighty upsettin’ to me nerves to have such charges restin’ again me
reputation as an Ancient Order man!”
McAndrew was, like Sweeney, not in a talkative mood, and, after vainly
attempting to draw him into a conversation, the accused man bid his glum
companion good night, left the house and started on his journey toward
Cooney’s residence, where he then made his temporary home. Once well in
the street, he cast his eyes anxiously around in the darkness, expecting
to find Sweeney, or some other Mollie, lingering in the vicinity. But he
did not. Everything was quiet, somber, and in doubt. Something seemed to
say to him, “Do not go home by the usual route, but take some other!”
and he accepted the suggestion as sensible, struck boldly into the
swamp, at the risk of losing his footing, getting wet and muddy, finally
crossed over, and came out in front of his boarding-house. His heart
felt appreciably more buoyant when he saw a light shining from the
window at Cooney’s, and he knew the family were expecting him. He
entered, was cordially received, but soon retired to his room. He
afterward confessed to not sleeping much that night. After an
unrefreshing season in bed, he arose early, swallowed his breakfast, and
went over to see McAndrew. Thence he took a walk up-town, meeting Ned
Monaghan and a fellow named Carlin, the latter being Bodymaster at St.
Nicholas. Florence Mahony, of Turkey Run, was also seen, but the hall
was otherwise deserted. Nobody seemed to come to the convention, and it
struck the accused Mollie that Kehoe was surely playing him false, and
had never forwarded the notifications prepared at his house. A little
after ten o’clock, a couple of drunken men arrived from Mt. Laffee—or at
least one was a little intoxicated and the other feigned to be so. These
fellows, Dennis Dowling and Mickey Doyle—not Michael J. Doyle, the
Sanger and Uren murderer, but another person and no relative—said they
had just stepped off the cars, when everybody in town knew no trains of
any sort came in at that hour. They were Mollies, and Dowling was a big,
red-complexioned man. After a time, all present made up their minds
there would be no convention, and those in the hall adjourned to
McAndrew’s saloon, where Dowling asked McKenna what the meeting was
about.
“Don’t you know? Didn’t you understand what you were called together
fur?”
“No!”
“Well, somebody, I don’t know who, have said that I am a detective—which
is a lie—and I demanded a trial before the assembled Bodymasters of the
county. Kehoe granted it, sent the orders, and here the hour is past and
no convention comes. Even Kehoe himself kapes away!”
“I won’t believe the story about you, McKenna,” exclaimed Dowling.
Thereupon, to express his peculiar satisfaction, McKenna, as was
expected, invited the crowd to drink with him. None refused the chance.
Then McAndrew took McKenna into a rear room and left him there. Doyle,
who was drinking very hard, was soon very drunk and some one had to take
him away and put him to bed.
The failure of the convention was a great disappointment to the agent.
He readily charged the non-arrival of the delegates to Kehoe’s door. It
was more than probable he never intended to grant an investigation, but
had held out the inducement in order to quiet McKenna, keep him in the
locality, and manage, through some of his cut-throats, to have him
murdered. The suspected Mollie made up his mind that he would pay the
County Delegate a visit and institute strict inquiry as to the cause of
the late adjournment. McAndrew insisted upon accompanying him, and, in
order that he might have witnesses, he went out with his Bodymaster,
hired horses and a sleigh, and paid for another cutter and horse for
Monaghan. Dowling accompanied the ex-constable, McAndrew and McKenna
leading the way over the snow-covered road to Girardville.
“How is this thing, any way, Frank?” asked McKenna of McAndrew, as the
latter laid the lash upon the horses and they sped away swiftly over the
hills. “I can’t understand it at all! I am charged with guilt, am given
an investigation before a county committee, the matin’ fails, an’ now
Ned Monaghan and Dennis Dowling are goin’ wid us to see Kehoe! What have
they to do wid the subject when there’s no convention? It’s all a muddle
to me enthirely!”
McAndrew was driving over a particularly rough piece of road at the
moment and did not answer until smooth traveling was reached, then, when
well out of the hearing of the others, he said:
[Illustration: “_‘That man, who is riding in the sleigh behind you,
calculates to take your life!’_”]
“Look here, McKenna, let me say a word to ye in confidence, while I have
the opportunity! You had better look out, for that man, who is riding in
the sleigh behind you, calculates to take your life! Dennis Dowling is
the one! Have you got your pistols ready?”
“Faith an’ I always hev them, but little use will they be to me if I get
in a crowd an’ Dowling lets on that I am to be killed! Fur I know that
he’ll find plenty to help him! Innocent or guilty, it makes no
difference!”
“Well, I have me revolver here, an’ I mean to stand by you! I’ll lose my
life for ye! I don’t know whether you’re a detective or not, but I have
nothing against you! I always knew you to do the right thing by me an’
those you were with, an’ until proven a traitor, which I can’t believe
ye are, I’ll keep with you! Why don’t they try a man fairly, an’ not
seek to take his life on mere suspicion?”
“I thank ye, Frank McAndrew!” was all the detective could say as the
slim hold he had upon the things of this world was suddenly realized.
“I’ll sell me life dearly, as the miscreants shall find if they make a
movement to attack me. I’ll kape a sharp eye out for Mr. Dowling! That
will I!”
From that moment, while riding, McParlan sat a little sideways, in the
cutter, with one eye upon the couple behind them.
When they came to Anthony Munley’s tavern, the four men alighted and
entering enjoyed something to refresh the inner man. But McKenna avoided
talking with Dowling, who, more than once, endeavored to draw him into a
wordy dispute. With his eye constantly upon the the burly fellow and his
hand in his overcoat pocket, where slept snugly one of his brace of
trusty repeaters, he mixed with the crowd and chatted unconcernedly
about the general topics of the day. He was closely attended by
McAndrew, and this was particularly noted by Dowling, who had no desire
to interfere with the Bodymaster’s charge while thus under his immediate
care.
After leaving Munley’s, McAndrew positively informed McKenna that he had
saved him from death, and that Kehoe, instead of keeping the detective
company on the cars, as he had promised, came to Shenandoah by himself
the previous afternoon. He gathered together all the Mollies in the
place, spent a great amount of money among them, and, in the presence of
others, begged him, McAndrew, for God’s sake, to have that man, McKenna,
killed, or he would “hang half the people in Schuylkill County!”
“Did he say that?”
“I consented,” continued McAndrew, not noticing the inquiry, “and Kehoe
went home satisfied. I didn’t know but you might be guilty, and, at
first, I intended to act in good faith toward my agreement with Jack,
but my heart afterward misgave me, and I couldn’t do the thing! I
wouldn’t do it! But others did prepare for your arrival at the crossing,
and as they were afraid to shoot you, because it would make too much
noise, twelve or fourteen of the fellows gathered at the bank, knowin’
you’d be up by the late train—fur Kehoe had told us you were comin’—but
you did not get off then—your life was spared; and I was very thankful
it was so; and, from that moment, decided I would have nothing to do
with the affair. Some of the boys had hatchets and clubs and axes, picks
and iron bars, and others such sledges as they use in the mines. If you
had stepped off the train, at that place, you would surely have been
killed, cast into a wagon, which was in waiting for the purpose, and
then tossed down a deserted shaft, where, had your body ever been
discovered, it would have been supposed, by all exceptin’ your
oath-bound murderers, that you had fallen in, in the darkness, and met
an accidental death. Kehoe planned the whole thing, inspired the men
with spirits, an’ then informed ’em you had no relatives or friends in
the world, an’ you would never be inquired for! But, Jim, to save my
sweet sowl, I couldn’t hev any hand in it, an’ I staid at me house, an’
when you jist popped in upon me there, last night, and I learned you had
escaped the evil gang, an Sweeney hadn’t been able to kill you while ye
were walkin’ wid him to my place, I blessed God that I hadn’t stained me
hands wid yer innocent blood! An’ as Sweeney tossed the bit o’ snow to
me—I believe you saw it—I gave him answer, by the takin’ off me boots,
that, so long as you were wid me, you should be protected, and come to
no harm; an’ more’n that, I’d have no share in the affair from that
moment forward. Sweeney went away mad! I couldn’t help it! I was afraid
they would wait for ye over night, or go to Cooney’s an’ kill ye, so,
after ye were out, I watched ye, an’ saw ye go across the swamp; and
then I knew ye were safe! Jim, I mane to stand by ye to the last drop of
my blood! If Dowling undertakes the job, this day, or Jack Kehoe himself
interferes, they’ll have to get to ye over my dead body!”
McParlan warmly pressed the hand of his friend, could not speak his
gratitude, but determined that, thereafter, if he could do Frank
McAndrew a good turn he would. But there was little time for talk, and
none for forming schemes.
“You’ll find I’m telling ye the truth, and that ye are in queer company
this very minute!”
“I don’t give a cent!” exclaimed the detective. “I’m in fur it, an’ I am
able, backed by you, to defend meself! They have accused me wrongfully,
an’ I mane to have justice! I’m goin’ to Jack Kehoe’s to face him down
in it!”
McAndrew smiled.
“An’ why do ye laugh? It may be fun for some, but I’m in no jesting
humor!”
“I meant no harm, and was only thinkin’ what Jack Kehoe will say or
believe when he sees ye marchin’ into his house, all alive an’ well,
when he at this time supposes ye are lyin’ at the bottom of the auld
shaft, food for the rats!”
“I can’t help what he may say or think! I’m goin’ there, sure, an’ if he
wants me killed perhaps he’ll have the bouldness to try the job with his
own two hands!”
In a few minutes the four persons alighted from their respective
conveyances in front of Kehoe’s house, in Girardville, and McKenna
suddenly made his appearance before the County Delegate, with McAndrew
at his side. Monaghan and Dowling were not far away. Never was a man
more surprised than Kehoe. He had twice essayed to clear that
troublesome McKenna from his path, and the last time invoked, and
thought he had secured the assistance of so many good men at the
business that he believed he could not fail. Still, here was the man,
McKenna, in the flesh, unharmed, and sternly confronting him. Evidently
his plans had not worked well. McKenna still lived, and was in company
with one of the very men who had promised him to aid in the assassin’s
bloody work. The County Delegate’s crafty, narrow face was as white as a
sheet of paper, and his whole body shivered with an ague fit. It needed
the sound of McKenna’s voice to recall him to himself.
“Well, Mister Kehoe, what about that county matin’? It seems the
Bodymasters did not get together—at laste only a few of them—an’ me
trial seems to be a total failure!”
Jack placed some tumblers on the counter, in a crooked row. took down a
bottle, spilled much of its contents untidily over the counter,
succeeded in controlling his anger, resentment, and disappointment, and
answered:
“Well, you see, I came to the conclusion that there was no use in tryin’
you——”
“That’s what _I_ thought at the start!” interrupted McKenna.
“There was little use in gettin’ together a crowd at Shenandoah!”
“So you have taken a good deal of trouble to see that no crowd was
gathered?”
“There’s no use talkin’,” answered Kehoe. “The trial can’t take place!”
“What am I to do, then? Rest under this suspicion as long as you may
choose to keep me down? I’ll not do it!”
“If you don’t desire to wait, you can go to Father O’Connor about it!
Maybe he’ll tell you something!”
“I’m only wantin’ to find out who makes up these lyin’ charges! That I
want to know! The story of the conductor on the train is a downright
lie! It’s too thin! You never heard such a thing, but have got it up in
order to have me put out of your way!”
“Go to Father O’Connor! It’s all I have to say!”
And Kehoe turned aside and spoke to others. But he kept his unsteady eye
on McKenna.
“Well, I’ll go to Father O’Connor! He’ll do me justice widout doubt!
An’, Misther Kehoe, look here a little!” and the detective pulled his
two heavy pistols from behind his back and again thumped the counter
with their butts, loudly enforcing attention to his speech:
“I don’t care for you, or fur any wan here, or in the county! I’m an
innocent, ill-used man, an’ ye are tryin’ to have me shot; but listen to
this! I’m all ready, an’ will sell me chances at the highest! I’ll go
see Father O’Connor, an’ then possibly I’ll have a settlement wid you,
Jack Kehoe!”
Seeing that McKenna was becoming excited, and not knowing but Dowling
might pluck up courage to shoot while in the room, McAndrew seized his
friend by the arm, advised him to put up his pistols, and walked with
him out of the place. He was right in this, as Phil Nash, Dave Kelly and
Tom Donahue, beside Dowling and Monaghan, had gathered there, any one of
whom, had Kehoe said the word, would have finished the trouble with a
pistol shot from the rear. McAndrew talked the matter over with the
others, after McKenna was once in the sleigh, and it was determined to
drive to Father O’Connor’s house at once.
When the four men, McKenna, McAndrew, Monaghan, and Dowling, reached
Callaghan’s place, at Mahanoy Plane, who should be there ahead of them
but Phil Nash and Tom Donahue. It was suspicious, the detective thought,
but said nothing. They had heard that McKenna was going to see Father
O’Connor, but might possibly have had other business at the Plane.
Donahue and Nash took McAndrew some distance away, and held quite a talk
with him. The agent was on the alert, and saw, from their
gesticulations, that the two men were endeavoring to induce his friend
to do something, but he obstinately refused. Dowling and Monaghan
finally joined the group and the remonstrances with McAndrew were
resumed.
While the rest were talking, McKenna went to Father O’Connor’s house
with Callaghan, but was told the priest was absent in Philadelphia, and
not expected back until the next day. By the time he got back the sleigh
was ready. Dowling was very drunk and McAndrew in haste to leave. They
entered the cutter and started, followed by Monaghan alone, as Dowling
was too much overcome to take along.
“What was the matter at Callaghan’s?” inquired McKenna.
“The same thing,” was McAndrew’s reply. “They wanted to kill you right
here! Dowling tried hard to have me lend him my revolver! But I wouldn’t
allow it! Had they succeeded in disarming me, you could not have lived
one minute. I would be unable to defend you, and not another in the
crowd would interfere. Dowling was armed, but he didn’t want to hurt me,
and I told them sternly they couldn’t have their way wid you while I
lived.”
“I was on the watch for Dowling,” said the operative, “and had he made a
motion toward me, I’d have shot him! My life is as dear to me as that of
another man to him, an’ I’ll not be murdered widout hurting some of
them!”
But Dowling was too much intoxicated to do anything, and Monaghan,
becoming disgusted, drove off and left him. Having failed to extract any
satisfaction from Kehoe, or see Father O’Connor, McAndrew and McKenna,
still accompanied by Monaghan, drove directly to Shenandoah. By the time
they reached McAndrew’s saloon, after putting up their teams and
settling the livery bill, it was night. McAndrew took the operative to
his home, where he remained undisturbed until his bedtime, when he
started up to return to Cooney’s, thinking he would again take the route
through the swamp.
“Good night, Frank!” said McKenna. “It’s time for me to be joggin’!”
“Where to?”
“To me boarding-house, av coorse!”
“Not to-night!” replied McAndrew, earnestly.
“An’ why not?”
“Never mind why not; but you are to sleep wid me! My wife is away from
home. There’s plenty of room, an we are to be bedfellows!”
And the detective did sleep at McAndrew’s, and, as the reader may well
suppose, was very glad of the opportunity. Nothing occurred, however, to
disturb the two men.
The ensuing morning, by the first train, McParlan returned to
Pottsville, made out and mailed his report, and found a chance to
communicate privately with Capt. Linden. He had appointed to meet
McAndrew at Mahanoy Plane the afternoon of that day. Once more Linden
urged him not to go without being shadowed by him, as he was sure they
were laying plans for killing him. The operative said he would make one
more attempt to prove his character good before the priest. Then, if
unsuccessful, he could either abandon that course or allow his friend to
keep him under surveillance.
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