THE ENEMY MAKES A MOVE.
Three days passed, and of course during that time I heard much about the
two girls and their singular disappearance.
At night, after work was done, and supper disposed of, Mrs. Ballou would
send some one to the post-office. This duty had usually fallen to Miss
Grace Ballou, or been chosen by her, but since the night when Nellie
Ewing rode away from the door, never again to be seen, Mrs. Ballou had
vetoed the evening canters that Grace so much loved, and so the
post-office was attended to by Master Fred, the spoiled son and heir,
aged thirteen, or by the "hired man."
On the evening of the third day of my service, I saddled one of the farm
horses, and rode to the post-office to fetch the widow's mail, and great
was my surprise when the grim postmistress presented me with a letter
bearing my assumed name, Chris Ollern, and directed to the care of Mrs.
Ballou.
Stowing away the widow's papers and letters in a capacious coat pocket,
and my own letter in a smaller inner one, I rode thoughtfully homeward.
Who had written me? Not the men at the office; they were otherwise
instructed; besides, the letter was a local one, bearing only the
Groveland mark. Could it be that Farmer Rutger or 'Squire Ewing had
forgotten all my instructions, and been insane enough to write me?
I hurriedly put my horse in his stable, unburdened my pocket of the
widow's mail, and mounted to my room.
Locking my door and lighting a tallow candle--the widow objected to
kerosene in sleeping rooms,--I opened my letter.
It was brief, very, containing only these words:
CHRIS OLLERN--As you call yourself, unless you wish to
disappear as effectually as did Nellie Ewing and Mamie Rutger,
you will abandon your present pursuit. A word to the wise is
sufficient.
Here was an astonisher, and here was also a clue. I was betrayed, or
discovered. But the enemy had showed his hand. I had also made a
discovery.
There was an enemy then; there had been foul play; and that enemy was
still in the vicinity, as this letter proved.
It was a wily enemy too; the letter would betray nothing as regarded
identity. It was _printed_; the letters were smooth and even, but
perfectly characterless. It was a wily enemy, but not quite a wise one,
as the sending of such a letter proved.
I did not leave my room again that night, but sat for hours thinking.
The next morning as I came from the barn-yard with a pail of milk, I
encountered Miss Grace Ballou. She was feeding a brood of chickens, and
seemed inclined to talk with me.
"Did you ever see such fine chicks, Chris?" she asked; "and they are
only two weeks old."
I stopped, of course, to admire the chickens and express my admiration
in broken English.
Suddenly she moved nearer me, and said, in a lower tone:
"Chris, did you bring any letters for any one except mother, last
night?"
[Illustration: "Chris, did you bring any letters for any one, except
mother, last night?"--page 18.]
Promptly and unblushingly, yet somewhat surprised, I answered, "No."
Her eyes searched my face for a second, and then she said, falling back
a step:
"Well, don't say anything about my asking you, Chris. I--I expected a
letter."
That night I went to the post-office as usual, and the next morning Miss
Grace repeated her question:
"Did you bring no letters for _any one, positively_?"
"No, there were only papers that night."
The third night after the receipt of my mysterious warning, however,
there came a letter for Grace, which, a little to my surprise, was
promptly handed over by her mother. Whether this was the expected
missive or not it threw the young lady into unmistakable raptures.
Amy was coming! Amy Holmes; she would be at the station to-morrow, and
Grace must go in the carriage to meet her.
Everybody was pleased except Fred Ballou. Mrs. Ballou heartily expressed
her satisfaction, and announced that I should drive with Grace to "the
station;" and Ann, the "help," became quite animated.
But Fred scornfully declined his mother's proposition, that he should
ride to town with his sister and myself.
"Catch me," he sniffed, "for that stuck-up town girl; she was always
putting ideas into Grace's head; and--he hated girls anyway. And hoped
some one would just carry Amy Holmes off as they did Nellie Ewing."
Whereupon Grace turned, first pale, then scarlet, and lastly, flew at
her brother and boxed his ears soundly.
The next day we went as per programme to the town, ten miles distant,
where Miss Holmes would be. She had arrived before us, and was waiting.
She was a handsome, showy-looking girl, stylishly dressed, and very
self-possessed in manner; evidently a girl who knew something of town
life.
We found her beguiling the time of waiting by conversation with a
well-dressed, handsome young fellow, who was evidently a prime favorite
with both young ladies. He accompanied them while they went about making
certain purchases that Mrs. Ballou had charged her daughter not to
forget, and then he assisted them into the carriage, while I stowed away
their bundles, shook their hands at parting, and stood gazing after them
as the carriage rolled away, the very model of a young Don Juan, I
thought.
I had hoped to gain something from my ten-mile drive with the two young
ladies sitting behind me. I had learned that Miss Holmes was a friend of
the Ewings, and also of Mamie Rutger, and as she had not been in the
vicinity since these young ladies had vanished, what more natural than
that she should talk very freely of their mysterious fate, and might not
these girl friends know something, say something, that in my hands would
prove a clue?
But I was disappointed; during the long drive the names of Nellie Ewing
and Mamie Rutger never once passed their lips. Indeed, save for a few
commonplaces, these two young ladies, who might be supposed to have so
much to say to each other, never talked at all.
I had driven the steady old work horses in going for Miss Holmes, and so
when night came, a feeling of humanity prompted me to buckle the saddle
upon a young horse scarcely more than half broken, and set off upon his
back for the post-office.
It was a little later than usual, and by the time I had accomplished
the first half of my journey, stowed away the usual newspapers, and
remounted my horse, it was fully dark; and I rode slowly through the
gloom, thinking that Groveland was ambitious indeed to bring the mail
every day from a railway ten miles distant, and wondering what it would
be like to be the mail boy, and jog over that same monotonous twenty
miles of fetching and carrying every day.
I had now reached a high hedge that assured me that my homeward journey
was half accomplished, when, from an imaginary inland mail boy, I was
suddenly transformed into an actual, crippled John Gilpin. From out the
blackness of the hedge came a flash and a sharp report; my horse bounded
under me, my left arm dropped helpless, and then I was being borne over
the ground as if mounted upon a whirlwind!
[Illustration: "From out the blackness of the hedge came a flash and a
sharp report; my horse bounded under me, my left arm dropped
helpless."--page 23.]
It was useless to command, useless to strive with my single hand to curb
the frightened beast. It was a miracle that I did not lose my seat, for
at first I reeled, and feeling the flow of blood, feared a loss of
consciousness. But that swift rush through the dewy evening air revived
me, and rallied my scattered senses.
As we dashed on, I realized that my life had been attempted, and that
the would-be assassin, the abductor or destroyer of the two missing
girls, had been very near me; that but for the unruly beast I rode I
might perhaps have returned his little compliment; at least have found
some trace of him.
My horse kept his mad pace until he had reached his own barn-yard gate,
and then he stopped so suddenly as to very nearly unseat me.
I quickly decided upon my course of action, and now, dismounting and
merely leading my horse into the inclosure, I went straight to the
house. I knew where to find Mrs. Ballou at that hour, and was pretty
sure of finding her alone.
As I had anticipated, she was seated in her own room, where she
invariably read her evening papers in solitude. I entered without
ceremony, and much to her surprise.
But I was not mistaken in her; she uttered no loud exclamation, either
of anger at my intrusion, or of fright at sight of my bleeding arm. She
rose swiftly and came straight up to me.
Before she could ask a question, I motioned her to be silent, and closed
the door carefully. After which, without any of my foreign accent, I
said:
"Mrs. Ballou, a woman who can manage a great farm and coin money in the
cattle trade, can surely keep a secret. Will you bind up my arm while I
tell you mine?"
"What!" she exclaimed, starting slightly; "you are not a--"
"Not a Swede? No, madame," I replied; "I am a detective, and I have been
shot to-night by the hand that has struck at the happiness of 'Squire
Ewing and his neighbor."
The splendid woman comprehended the situation instantly.
"Sit there," she said, pointing to her own easy chair. "And don't talk
any more now. I shall cut away your sleeve."
"Can you?" I asked, deprecatingly.
"Can I?" contemptuously; "I bleed my cattle."
I smiled a little in spite of myself; then--
"Consider me a colt, a heifer, anything," I said, resignedly. "But I
feel as if I had been bled enough."
"I should think so," she replied, shortly. "Now be still; it's lucky
that you came to me."
I thought so too, but obedient to her command, I "kept still."
She cut away coat and shirt sleeves; she brought from the kitchen tepid
water and towels, and from her own especial closet, soft linen rags. She
bathed, she stanched, she bandaged; it proved to be only a flesh wound,
but a deep one.
"Now then," she commanded in her crisp way, when all was done, and I had
been refreshed with a very large glass of wine, "tell me about this."
"First," I said, "your colt stands shivering yet, no doubt, and all
dressed in saddle and bridle, loose in the stable-yard."
"Wait," she said, and hurried from the room.
In a few moments she came back.
"The colt is in his stable, and no harm done," she announced, sitting
down opposite me. "How do you feel?"
"A little weak, that is all. Now, I will tell you all about it."
In the fewest words possible, I told my story, and ended by saying:
"Mrs. Ballou, you, as a woman, will not be watched or suspected; may I
leave with you the task of telling 'Squire Ewing and Mr. Rutger what has
happened to me?"
"You may," with decision.
"And I must get away from here before others know how much or little I
am injured. Can your woman's wit help me? I want it given out that my
arm is broken. Do you comprehend me?"
"Perfectly. Then no one here must see you, and--you should have that
wound dressed by a good surgeon, I think. There is a train to the city
to-morrow at seven. I will get up in the morning at three o'clock, make
us a cup of coffee, harness the horses, and drive you to Sharon."
"_You?_" I exclaimed.
"Yes, I! Why not? It's the only way. And now, would you mind showing me
that letter?"
I took it from my pocket-book and put it in her hand. She read it
slowly, and then looked up.
"Why did you not heed this warning?" she asked.
[Illustration: "Why did you not heed this warning?" she asked.--page
28.]
"Because I wanted to find out what it meant."
"Well, you found out," sententiously. "Now, go to bed, but first let me
help you remove that coat."
"Mrs. Ballou, you are a woman in a thousand," I exclaimed, as I rose
to receive her assistance. "And I don't see how I can ever repay you.
You are your own reliance."
As I spoke, the coat fell from my shoulder and my hand touched the
weapon in my pistol pocket.
She saw it, too, and pointing to it, said:
"I have never owned a pistol, because I could not buy one without
letting Fred know it; he is always with me in town. If you think I have
earned it give me that."
"Gladly," I said, drawing out the small silver-mounted six-shooter; "it
is loaded, every barrel. Can you use it?"
"Yes; I know how to use firearms."
"Then when you do use it, if ever, think of me." I laughed.
"I will," she said, quite soberly.
And little either of us dreamed how effectively she would use it one
day.
The next morning, at half-past three, we drove out of the farm yard, _en
route_ for the railway station.
During our drive, we talked like two men, and when we parted at Sharon
we were very good friends. I dropped her work-hardened hand reluctantly,
and watched her drive away, thinking that she was the only really
sensible woman I had ever known, and feeling half inclined to fall in
love with her in spite of the fact that she was twenty-five years my
senior.