A GATHERING OF THE FRAGMENTS.
There was a meeting of the vigilants that night and Gerry Brown, Mr.
Harris, Justice Summers and myself, were present with them.
I gave them the details of my investigation, and related the cause of
Doctor Bethel's troubles. When they understood that the outlaws had
looked upon Bethel as a detective, and their natural enemy, the
vigilants were ready to anticipate the rest of my story.
When everything concerning the male members of the clique had been
discussed, I entered a plea for Adele Lowenstein, and my audience was
not slow to respond.
Mr. Harris arose in his place, and gave a concise account of the visit
paid by his wife and Miss Barnard to the dethroned heiress, as he had
heard it described by Mrs. Harris.
Adele Lowenstein had been sincerely grateful for their kindness, and
had consented to act precisely as they should advise, let the result be
what it would. She would give her testimony against the horse-thieves,
and trust to the mercy of the Traftonites. Her story may as well be
completed here, for there is little more to tell.
She was not made a prisoner. Mrs. Harris and Louise Barnard were not the
women to do things by halves. They used all their influence in her
favor, and they had the vigilants and many of the best citizens to aid
them. They disarmed public opinion. They appealed to men high in power
and won their championship. They conducted their campaign wisely and
they carried the day.
There were found for Adele Lowenstein, the counterfeiter's daughter,
"extenuating circumstances:" what the jury could not do the governor
did, and she went out from the place, where justice had been tempered
with mercy, a free woman.
The Hill was sold, and Miss Lowenstein, who had avowed her intention of
retaking her father's name, sullied as it was, prepared to find a new
home in some far away city.
One day while the trial was pending, Gerry Brown came to me with fidgety
manner and serious countenance.
"Old man," he said, anxiously, "I've been thinking about Miss
Lowenstein."
"Stop it, Gerry. It's a dangerous occupation for a fellow of your age."
"My, age indeed! Two years, four months and seventeen days younger than
your ancient highness, I believe."
"A man may learn much in two years, four months, and seventeen days--,
Gerry. What about Miss Lowenstein?"
"I'm sorry for the girl."
"So am I."
"Don't be a bore, old man."
"Then come to the point, youngster."
"Youngster!" indignantly, "well, I'll put that to our private account.
About Miss Lowenstein, then: She is without friends, and is just the
sort of woman who needs occupation to keep her out of mischief and
contented. She's ladylike and clever, and she knows the world; don't you
think she would be a good hand on the force."
I paused to consider. I knew the kind of woman that we sometimes needed,
and it seemed to me that Adele Lowenstein would "be a good hand." I
knew, too, that our Chief was not entirely satisfied with one or two
women in his employ. So I stopped chaffing Gerry and said soberly:
"Gerry, it's a good idea. We'll consult the lady and if she would like
the occupation, I will write to our Chief."
Adele Lowenstein was eager to enter upon a career so much to her taste,
and our Chief was consulted. He manifested a desire to see the lady, and
she went to the city.
The interview was satisfactory to both. Adele Lowenstein became one of
our force, and a very valuable and efficient addition she proved.
I had assured Jim Long,--even yet I find it difficult to call him
Harvey James,--that his name should be freed from blot or suspicion. And
it was not so hard a task as he evidently thought it.
Blake Simpson, like most scamps of his class, was only too glad to do
anything that would lighten his own sentence, and when he found that the
Brookhouse faction had come to grief, and that his own part in their
plot had been traced home to him by "the detectives," he weakened at
once, and lost no time in turning State's evidence. He confessed that he
had come to Trafton, in company with Dimber Joe, to "play detective," at
the instigation, and under the pay of Brookhouse senior, who had visited
the city to procure their services. And that Arch Brookhouse had
afterward bribed him to make the assault upon Bethel, and planned the
mode of attack; sending him, Simpson, to Ireton, and giving him a note
to the elder Briggs, who furnished him with the little team and light
buggy, which took him back to Trafton, where the shooting was done
precisely as I had supposed after my investigation.
Dimber Joe made a somewhat stouter resistance, and I offered him two
alternatives.
He might confess the truth concerning the accusations under which
Harvey James had been tried and wrongfully imprisoned; in which case I
would not testify against him except so far as he had been connected
with the horse-thieves in the capacity of sham detective and spy. Or, he
might refuse to do Harvey James justice, in which case I would put
Brooks on the witness stand to exonerate James, and I myself would
lessen his chances for obtaining a light sentence, by showing him up to
the court as the villain he was; garroter, panel-worker, counterfeiter,
burglar, and general utility rascal.
Brooks or Brookhouse was certain of a long sentence, I assured Blaikie,
and he would benefit rather than injure his cause by exposing the plot
to ruin and fleece James. Would Mr. Blaikie choose, and choose quickly?
And Mr. Blaikie, after a brief consideration, chose to tell the truth,
and forever remove from Harvey James the brand of counterfeiter.
The testimony against the entire gang was clear and conclusive. The
elder Brookhouse, knowing this, made very little effort to defend
himself and his band, and so "The 'Squire" and Arch Brookhouse were
sentenced for long terms. Louis Brookhouse, the two Briggs, Ed. Dwight,
the festive, Larkins and the two city scamps, were sentenced for lesser
periods, but none escaped lightly.
Only one question, and that one of minor importance, yet lacked an
answer, and one day, before his trial, I visited Arch Brookhouse in his
cell, my chief purpose being to ask this question.
"There is one thing," I said, after a few words had passed between us,
"there is one thing that I should like you to tell me, merely as a
matter of self-gratification, as it is now of no special importance; and
that is, how did you discover my identity, when I went to Mrs. Ballou's
disguised as a Swede?"
He laughed harshly.
"You detectives do not always cover up your tracks," he said, with a
sneer. "I don't object to telling you what you seem so curious about.
'Squire Ewing and Mr. Rutger went to the city to employ you, and no
doubt you charged them to be secret as the grave concerning your plans.
Nevertheless, Mr. Rutger, who is a simple-minded confiding soul, told
the secret in great confidence to Farmer La Porte; and he repeated it,
again in great confidence in the bosom of his family."
"And in the presence of his son, Johnnie?"
"Just so. When we learned that a disguised detective was coming into the
community, and that he would appear within a certain time, we began to
look for him, and _you_ were the only stranger we discovered."
"And you wrote me that letter of warning?"
"Precisely."
"And undoubtedly _you_ are the fellow who shot at me?"
"I am happy to say that I am."
"And I am happy to know that I have deprived you of the pleasure of
handling firearms again for some time to come. Good morning, Mr.
Brookhouse."
That was my final interview with Arch Brookhouse, but I saw him once
more, for the last time, when I gave my testimony against him at the
famous trial of the Trafton horse-thieves.
When the whole truth concerning the _modus operandi_ of the
horse-thieves was made public at the trial, when the Traftonites learned
that for five years they had harbored stolen horses under the very
steeples of the town, and that those horses, when the heat of the chase
was over, were boldly driven away across the country and toward the
river before a lumbering coal cart, they were astounded at the boldness
of the scheme, and the hardihood of the men who had planned it.
But they no longer marveled at their own inability to fathom so cunning
a plot.