SOMETHING THE MOON FAILED TO SEE.
It has come at last; that night, almost the last in August, which I and
others, with varying motives and interests, have so anxiously looked
forward to.
It has come, and the moon, so lately banished from the heavens, had she
been in a position to overlook the earth, would have witnessed some
sights unusual to Trafton at the hour of eleven P. M.
A little more than a mile from Trafton, at a point where the first mile
section crosses the south road, not far from the Brookhouse dwelling,
there is a little gathering of mounted men. They are seven in number;
all silent, all cautious, all stern of feature. They have drawn their
horses far into the gloom of the hedge that grows tall on either side,
all save one man, and he stands in the very center of the road, looking
intently north and skyward.
Farther away, midway between Trafton and Clyde, six other horsemen are
riding southward at an easy pace.
These, too, are very quiet, and a little light would reveal the earnest
faces of Messrs. Warren, Harding, Benner, Booth, Jaeger and Meacham; the
last mentioned being the owner of the recently stolen matched sorrels,
and the others being the most prominent and reliable of the Trafton
vigilants.
A close inspection would develop the fact that this moving band of men,
as well as the party whose present mission seems "only to stand and
wait," is well armed and strongly mounted.
The Hill, Miss Manvers' luxurious residence, stands, as its name
indicates, on an elevation of ground, at the extreme northern boundary
of Trafton.
It stands quite alone, this abode of the treasure-ship heiress, having
no neighbors on either hand for a distance of more than a quarter of a
mile.
The road leading up the hill from the heart of Trafton, is bordered on
either side by a row of shade trees, large and leafy. All about the
house the shrubbery is dense, and the avenue, leading up from the road,
and past the dwelling, to the barns and outhouses, is transformed, by
two thickly-set rows of poplars into a vault of inky blackness.
To-night, if the moon were abroad, she might note that the fine
roadster driven by Arch Brookhouse had stood all the evening at the
roadside gate at the foot of the dark avenue of poplars, and, by peeping
through the open windows, she would see that Arch Brookhouse himself
sits in the handsome parlor with the heiress, who is looking pale and
dissatisfied, and who speaks short and seldom, opposite him.
The lady moon might also note that the new telegraph operator is not at
his post, in the little office, at eleven o'clock P. M. But then, were
the fair orb of night actually out, and taking observations, these
singular phenomena might not occur.
At half-past ten, on "this night of nights," three shadows steal through
the darkness, moving northward toward the Hill.
At a point midway between the town proper and the mansion beyond, is a
junction of the roads; and here, at the four corners, the three shadows
pause and separate.
Two continue their silent march northward, and the third vanishes among
the sheltering, low-bending branches of a gnarled old tree that
overhangs the road, and marks the northwestern corner.
At twenty minutes to eleven Arch Brookhouse takes leave of the
treasure-ship heiress, and comes out into the darkness striding down the
avenue like a man accustomed to the road. He unties the waiting horse
which paws the ground impatiently, yet stands, obedient to his low
command, turns the head of the beast southward, seats himself in the
light buggy, lights a cigar, and then sits silently smoking, and
waiting,--for what?
The dull red spark at the end of his cigar shines through the dark; the
horse turns his head and chafes to be away, but the smoker sits there,
moveless and silent.
Presently there comes a sound, slight but distinct; the crackling of a
twig beneath a man's boot, and almost at the same instant the last light
disappears from the windows of the "Hill House."
One, two, three. Three dark forms approach, one after the other, each
pauses for an instant beside the light buggy, and seems to look up to
the dull red spark, which is all of Arch Brookhouse that is clearly
visible through the dark. Then they enter the gate and are swallowed up
in the blackness of the avenue.
And now, a fourth form moves stealthily down the avenue after the
others. It does not come from without the grounds, it starts out from
the shrubbery within, and it is unseen by Arch Brookhouse.
How still the night is! The man who follows after the three first comers
can almost hear his pulses throb, or so he fancies.
Presently the three men pause before the door of the barn, and one of
them takes from his pocket a key, with which he unlocks the door, and
they enter.
As soon as they are inside, a lantern is lighted, and the three men move
together toward the rear of the barn, the part against which is piled a
monstrous stack of hay.
Meanwhile the watcher outside glides close to the wall of the building,
listening here and there, as he, too, approaches the huge hay pile.
And now he does a queer thing. He begins to pull away handfuls of hay
from the bottom of the stack, where it is piled against the barn. He
works noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening, into which he
crawls. Evidently this mine has been worked before, for there is a long
tunnel through the hay, penetrating to the middle of the stack. Here the
watcher peeps through two small holes, newly drilled in the thick boards
of the barn. And then a smile of triumph rests upon his face.
[Illustration: "He works noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening,
into which he crawls."--page 404.]
He sees a compartment that, owing to the arrangement of the hay against
the rear wall, is in the very heart of the barn, shut from the gaze of
curious eyes. On either side is a division, which our spy knows to
contain a store of grain piled high, and acting as a complete
non-conductor of sound. In front is a small room hung about with
harness, and opening into a carriage room. The place is completely
hidden from the ordinary gaze, and only a very inquiring mind would have
fathomed its secret.
The spy, who is peering in from his vantage ground among the hay, _has_
fathomed the secret. And he now sees within six horses--two bay Morgans,
two roans, and two sorrels.
The three men are there, too, busily harnessing the six horses. They are
working rapidly and silently.
The watcher lingers just long enough to see that the harness looks
new and that it is of the sort generally used for draft horses, and then
he executes a retreat, more difficult than his entrance, inasmuch as he
can not turn in his hay tunnel, but must withdraw by a series of
retrograde movements more laborious than graceful.
A moment more, and from among the poplars and evergreens a light goes
shooting up, high and bright against the sky; a long, red ribbon of
fire, that says to those who can read the sign,
"The Trafton horse-thieves are about to move with their long-concealed
prey. Meacham's matched sorrels, Hopper's two-forty's, and the bay
Morgans stolen from 'Squire Brookhouse."
It was seen, this fiery rocket, by the little band waiting by the
roadside more than a mile away.
"There it is!" exclaims young Warren, who is the leader of this
party--"It is the red rocket. They _are_ going with the wagons; it's all
right, boys, we can't ride too fast now."
The seven men file silently out from the roadside and gallop away
southward.
At the four corners, not far from the house on the hill, where, a short
time before, a single individual had stationed himself, as a sentinel in
the darkness, this signal rocket was also seen, and the watcher uttered
an exclamation under his breath, and started out from underneath the
tree that had sheltered him.
He could never remember how it happened, but his next sensation was
that of being borne to the ground, clutched with a tiger-like grip,
crushed by a heavy weight.
And then a voice, a voice that he had not heard for years, hissed above
him,
"Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunity for eight long
years, and it won't be worth your while to trifle with Harvey James
_now_."
[Illustration: "Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunity
for eight long years, and it won't be worth your while to trifle with
Harvey James _now_."--page 408.]
And something cold and hard is pressed against the temple of the fallen
sentinel, who does not need the evidence of the accompanying ominous
click to convince him that it is a revolver in the hand of his deadliest
foe.
"You did not use to be a horse-thief, Joe," continues the voice, and the
speaker's words are emphasized by the pressure of a knee upon his chest,
and the weapon at his forehead. "They could not trust you to do the fine
business, it seems, and so you are picketed here to give the alarm if
anything stirs up or down the road. If it's all right, you are to remain
silent. If anything occurs to alarm you, you are to give the signal.
Now, listen; you are to get up and stand from under this tree. I shall
stand directly behind you with my revolver at your head, and I shall not
loosen my grip upon your collar. When your friends pass this way, _you
had better remain silent_, Joe Blaikie."
Arch Brookhouse, waiting at the avenue gate, has not seen the red
rocket. The tall poplars that overshadow him have shut the shooting
fiery ribbon from his vision; besides, he has been looking down the
hill. Neither has he seen the form that is creeping stealthily toward
him from behind the tree that guards the gate.
Those within the barn have not seen the rocket, of course; and presently
they come forth and harness the six horses to two huge wagons that stand
in readiness. Four horses to one wagon, two to the other. The wheels are
well oiled, and the wagons make no unnecessary rumbling as they go down
the dark poplar avenue.
At the gate the foremost wagon halts, just long enough to enable the
driver to catch the low-spoken word that tells him it is safe to
proceed.
"All right," Arch Brookhouse says, softly, and the two wagons pass out
and down the hill, straight through the village of Trafton.
At the foot of the hill, where the four roads cross, the drivers peer
through the darkness. Yes, their sentinel is there. The white
handkerchief which he holds in his hand, as a sign that all is safe,
gleams through the dark, and they drive on merrily, and if the sound of
their wheels wakens any sleeper in Trafton, what then? It is not unusual
to hear coal wagons passing on their way to the mines.
Should they meet a belated traveler, no matter. He may hear the rumble
of the wheels, and welcome, so long as the darkness prevents him from
seeing the horses that draw those innocent vehicles of traffic.
Meanwhile, his duty being done, Arch Brookhouse heaves a sigh of
relief, gathers up his reins, and chirrups to his horse.
But the animal does not obey him. Arch leans forward; is there something
standing by the horse's head? He gives an impatient word of command, and
then,--yes, there is some one there.
Arch utters a sharp exclamation, and his hand goes behind him, only to
be grasped by an enemy in the rear, who follows up his advantage by
seizing the other elbow and saying:
"Stop a moment, Mr. Brookhouse; you are my prisoner, sir. Gerry, the
handcuffs."
The man at the horse's head comes swiftly to my assistance, Arch
Brookhouse is drawn from his buggy, and his hands secured behind him by
fetters of steel. Not a captive to be proud of; his teeth chatter, he
shivers as with an ague.
"Wh--who are you?" he gasps. "Wh--what do you want?"
"I'm a city sprig," I answer, maliciously, "and I'm an easy fish to
catch. But not so easy as _you_, my gay Lothario. By-and-by you may
decide, if you will, whether I possess most money or brains; now I have
more important business on hand."
Just then comes a long, low whistle.
"Gerry," I say, "that is Long. Go down to him and see if he needs help."
Gerry is off in an instant, and then my prisoner rallies his cowardly
faculties, and begins to bluster.
"What does this assault mean? I demand an explanation, sir!"
"But I am not in the mood to give it," I retort. "You are my prisoner,
and likely to remain so, unless you are stolen from me by Judge Lynch,
which is not improbable."
"Then, y--you are an impostor!"
"You mistake; I am a detective. You shot at the wrong man when you
winged Bethel. You did better when you crippled widow Ballou's hired
man."
"What, are you?--" he starts violently, then checks his speech.
"I'm the man you shot, behind the hedge, Mr. Brookhouse, and I'll
trouble you to explain your conduct to-morrow."
My prisoner moves restlessly under my restraining hand, but I cock my
pistol, and he comprehending the unspoken warning, stands silent beside
his buggy.
Presently I hear footsteps, and then Gerry comes towards me, lighting
the way with a pocket lantern, which reveals to my gaze Dimber Joe,
handcuffed and crest-fallen, marching sedately over the ground at the
muzzle of a pistol held in the firm clutch of Jim Long, upon whose
countenance sits a look of grim, triumphant humor.
"Here," says Gerry, with aggravating ceremony, "is Mr. Long, with
sentinel number two, namely: Mr. Dimber Joe Blaikie, late of Sing Sing."
"And very soon to return there," adds Jim Long, emphatically. "What
shall we do with these fellows?"
"We must keep everything quiet to-night," I say, quickly. "If you and
Gerry think you won't go to sleep over the precious scamps you might
take them to the barn and let them pass the night where they have hidden
so many horses. We will take them there now, and bind them more
securely. Then one of you can look after them easily, while the other
stands guard outside. All must be done quietly, so that they may not
take the alarm in the house. If your prisoners attempt to make a noise,
gag them without scruple."
"But," gasps Brookhouse, "you can not; you have no power."
"No power," mocks Jim Long. "We'll see about that! It may be
unparliamentary, gentlemen, but you should not object to that. If you
give us any trouble, we will convince you that we have inherited a
little brief authority."
Ten minutes later we have carried out our programme. The two prisoners
are safely housed in the hidden asylum for stolen horses, with Jim Long
as guard within, and Gerry as sentinel without, and I, seated in the
light buggy from which I have unceremoniously dragged Arch Brookhouse,
am driving his impatient roadster southward, in the wake of the honest
coal wagons.