Lord Stranleigh Abroad

Bright as was the moonlight outside, the cavern was pitch dark, so Stranleigh determined on another expedition to the house, and he brought back a bunch of candles and an armful of bedclothes.

“Now for the night’s work,” he said to himself, and having lit a candle, which he placed at the remote end of the cave, he began picking up stones, and with them building a wall across the mouth of the pit. No Roman wall was ever built with such care, and no Roman wall ever contained within itself such possibilities of wholesale obliteration, because the structure was intersticed with sticks of dynamite, which Stranleigh carried with the most cautious tenderness from the rear to the front of the cavern. When his task was completed the moon had gone down, and the misty, luminous grey of the eastern sky betokened the approach of dawn. The young man was thoroughly tired, and with a sigh of relief he stretched himself out on the bedclothes he had brought from the house.

The early sun shining on his face awakened him. He knew from experience that the bunk house men were not afflicted with the vice of early rising. There was no aperture in their habitation, unless the door was open, through which the sun might shine upon them. He was therefore not surprised that no one was visible anywhere near the sleeping quarters. So he breakfasted in peace, alternating slices of bread with slices of ham, thus constructing some admirable sandwiches.

A providential jug, which doubtless in its time had contained whisky, was one of the utensils left when the mine was abandoned. Stranleigh took this, and stepping over the dangerous wall, filled it three or four times at the rushing cataract, rinsing out all indication of its former use. He brought it back, filled with very clear and cold water. He could not help thinking as he returned what an excellent place the waterfall would be for the washing of dishes, if a person ran the risk of standing upon spray-drenched, slippery rock ledges.

Stranleigh sat down where he could see the enemy’s quarters, and carefully examined his rifle, assured himself that the magazine was full, then with the weapon over his knees in the fashion adopted by his recent gaolers, watched the bunk house patiently, wishing he had a morning paper to while away the time.

The laggard sentinel was the first to rouse himself. The broad door opened, and Jim Dean, palpably bewildered, stepped out. With hand shading his eyes he minutely examined the landscape, slowly turning his head from left to right as he scrutinised the distant horizon and the ground intervening. Stranleigh, kneeling, rested his rifle on the top of the wall, and as Jim’s left ear, a rather prominent feature, became fully visible, the young man fired.

Jim’s action instantaneously verified the Indian romances of Stranleigh’s youth. He sprang clear up into the air and clapped a hand upon his wounded ear. He was at that moment the most astonished man on the western hemisphere. His first instinct being to bolt for cover, he did so without pausing to close the door, which opened outwards, and this broad piece of woodwork now offered a much more prominent target than Jim’s ear had done a moment before.

Stranleigh, exercising a care that seemed unnecessary with so big a target, fired out the cartridges of his magazine, then immediately restocked it, and shot away the second charge. Putting in a third load, he sat there with his customary nonchalance, awaiting the turn of events. In that clear atmosphere, and with his sharp vision, he saw that he had accomplished his intention, and had punctured the letter “S” on the panel of the open door.

Meanwhile, there was commotion in the bunk house. The first sharp report, accompanied by Jim’s yell, woke every man within. The subsequent fusilade engendered a belief that the enemy was in possession of a Maxim gun, and brought every man to the floor, thankful that he was under better cover than if he stood behind the door, through the panel of which all the bullets had penetrated.

“How did he escape?” demanded one, addressing Jim, who was holding his left hand to his ear.

“I don’t know,” said the wounded man ruefully. “You can search me.”

“Seems from that shooting that we’d better search outside. What in the fiend’s name made him batter the door?”

“Sorry he left us, I suppose,” muttered Dean, grimly. “Knocking because he wanted to come in again.”

“How did he get his gun?”

“Hanged if I know,” said the questioned man, impatiently.

“But you were on guard. You ought to know something about it.”

“Look here,” said Jim. “There’s no use in talking. He got out some way, and he’s got his gun some way. He’s holding us up, and we must make terms with him.”

“But where is he?”

“I tell you I don’t know! The bullet came from the direction of the mine. Now, one of you boys throw up your hands, and go outside and hail him.”

At this command, Jim met the first rebellion against his authority.

“Go outside yourself. It is you who have brought all this upon us. You shot him through the shoulder; you proposed capturing him, and it was you who fell asleep last night and let him escape.”

Jim did not combat their charges.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll go out, and you sit here and shiver while I enjoy a little conversation with him.”

Raising his hands above his head, Dean stepped across the threshold into the open, and stood like an oriental about to begin his prayers. He saw at once the wall that had been built during the night, and then caught sight of Stranleigh standing behind it. Pulling out a white handkerchief, and waving it, Dean proceeded towards the mine.

“Have you got a revolver?” shouted Stranleigh.

“No,” answered Dean.

“Then put down your hands, and approach as a Christian should.”

Jim obeyed.

“Now stand where you are,” said Stranleigh, when the other was within four or five yards of the wall. “I see your ear is bleeding. That was rather a neat shot of mine, don’t you think?”

“It was,” admitted Dean, without enthusiasm.

“When you shot at my shoulder, you had a bigger mark.”

“Oh, not so very much,” growled Dean. “My ears are celebrated for their size.”

“You’d better wrap it up in this handkerchief,” commented Stranleigh, rolling it up in a ball, and flinging it towards Jim. The wounded man tied it round his voluminous ear.

“And now,” said Stranleigh, “get through with your parley as soon as possible, then go to Miss Armstrong, who will very expertly attend to your hurt. But in order to win the privilege of surgical treatment, you must recognise that you are a prisoner.”

“A prisoner?” echoed Dean.

“Certainly. You must give me your word you will say nothing to Miss Armstrong to show that I have had a hand in the game. Make whatever excuse you like for the disaster, and then get back to the bunk house, tell your fellows the condition of the game as far as we have gone. I will allow you five minutes after your return to show those chaps the letter ‘S’ I have perforated in the door. They are a very unbelieving lot, and I wish to gain their affection and respect. Without hurting anybody I mean to prove that I am a dead shot. I’m well provisioned here, and prepared to stand a siege. Until Mr. Armstrong returns, not one of you will be allowed outside the châlet. Don’t be misled by the fact that you outnumber me six to one. I hold a magazine rifle, possess an ample supply of ammunition, and have just given evidence of the rapidity with which reloading can be performed.”

“Yes,” said Dean, meditatively, “your position would be bull strong and hog tight, if you had a chum with you who could shoot as well as you do. But as it is, you’ve nobody to relieve you, and a man must sleep. It will only take one of us to defeat you. We’ve no magazine rifles and don’t need none. I’ll undertake the job myself.”

“How do you propose to do it?”

“That would be telling,” said Jim, craftily.

“Why not?” answered Stranleigh. “I’m placing my cards on the table. Why don’t you do the same? I’m not yearning for war and bloodshed, but have inaugurated a sort of Hague tribunal. There were two things I determined to accomplish when I broke jail. I hope that wounded ear hasn’t impaired your hearing, so that you may listen with attention. It’s always as well to know what your enemy desires.”

“I’m listening,” said Jim.

“The first thing was to shoot you through the leg or the arm or the ear, choosing some spot that was not vital. This in return for your shooting me. One good turn deserves another, you know. That part of my programme I have accomplished.”

“What’s the other part?”

“The second is to keep you gentlemen in prison just as long as you kept me in prison. One good imprisonment deserves another. Now will you tell me what you intend to do?”

“No; I won’t.”

“That’s mean of you, Jim; secretive, over-cautious and that sort of thing. I’m not so chary and so will give you the information. There are only two portions of the night during which you can come out unnoticed; before the moon rises and after it sets. You will steal out and take up a position where you can see the barricade when day begins to dawn. You’ll need to chose a spot a long way off, because the explosion, when it comes, will wreck everything in the neighbourhood.”

“What explosion?”

“The dynamite explosion. This wall is built of rock intersticed with those dynamite cartridges of yours. It is very likely you will obliterate the farm-house.”

“I’ll obliterate you, anyway.”

“Quite so, but at a tremendous cost, because whatever the fate of Mr. Armstrong’s residence, the doom of the bunk house is certain. You may be outside that danger, but you won’t be free of another. You suppose, doubtless, that I shall be asleep in the cavern. As a matter of fact I shall be sleeping placidly under the stars, quite out of reach of the main disaster. Your first shot will awaken me. Now, it is by no means certain that your first shot will send off the dynamite. You may have to fire half a dozen times, and your best rifle is an old breech-loader. I use smokeless powder, and you don’t. I could pepper away at you for half an hour and you’d never know where the bullets were coming from. The smoke from your rifle would give you away at once. When I fire at you next time, Jim, I shall aim at a more vital point, because, my dear boy, the person who sets off that dynamite is a murderer. So before you put your plan into operation, just consult your comrades and explain to them its disadvantages.”

Dean stood there meditating for a few moments before he spoke.

“I’m very much obliged to you,” he said at last, “for telling me what you mean to do. We’ll change that plan a little, and come out of the bunk house together. We’ll search the country for you, and so won’t need to blow up the mine.”

“That’s a much more humane expedient, and will prevent unnecessary loss of life. I shall be lying quiet under whatever cover I can find. Your crowd will perambulate the locality, and I may remind you that you are no lightfooted Cinderellas. A herd of elephants would make less noise. I shall see you long before you see me, and I leave the result to your own imagination. And now, Jimmy, take the advice of a true friend. Your time to act was when you were snoring at that door and I was climbing the chimney. Once you allowed me to get my rifle, you had permitted opportunity to pass you, because I am a good shot, and I came West in order to shoot. When a person accustomed to downy beds of ease slumbers peacefully, as I did this morning, on hard and jagged rocks thinly disguised by a blanket, with my right ear against a dynamite cartridge, there’s nothing the matter with his nerves, is there?”

“No; there isn’t,” said Dean, with conviction.

“Now, what you chaps want is not a battle, but an armistice. Leave well enough alone, I say, and accept the status quo. If you remain in the bunk house, you are as safe as in a Presbyterian church.”

Jim did not reply, but deliberated, his open palm against his bandaged ear.

“Hurt?” asked Stranleigh.

“Yes, it does,” admitted Jim, ruefully.

“Well, my shoulder hurt a good deal after you fired at me. Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Jim. Next time I shoot at you, I’ll take the other ear. You’re determined to prove yourself a brigand, or a pirate, or something of that sort, and as pirates always wear earrings, that will put you in a position to adopt them. What do you say to my proposal for an armistice?”

“I can’t answer for the rest of the boys without consulting them. If we need an armistice or a status quo, why, I suppose we ought to have them.”

“All right. If your ear hurts, the sooner you get it attended to, the better. You go directly down to the house and see Miss Armstrong, and you can reflect upon the situation while she is dressing the wound. Deep thinking will take your mind from the pain. Then go up and consult the company. Come and let me know what they decide. Meanwhile, I’ll guarantee that no one comes out of that bunk house without being shot at.”

“Mr. Stranleigh, I’ll do what you say, but I’ll change the order. I’ll go first to our shack, and warn the boys. That’s only fair, for they’re watching from that door, and if they see me going to the house they may think it’s all right, and come outside. After talking with them, I’ll visit Miss Armstrong, and then come back here to tell you what the boys say.”

“Yes, Jim; that’s a better plan than mine. But first give me your word that you will take no advantage of this respite until war. An armistice, you know, is a cessation of hostilities.”

“You mean that there will be no shenanigan? I give you my word.”

The wounded man made his way to the bunk house. Shortly afterwards Stranleigh saw him emerge, and go towards the homestead. After a longer interval he came slowly up towards the fortress, his ear neatly bandaged in white linen, which showed up, as one might say, like a small flag of truce.

“Well, what did Miss Armstrong say about the wounded ear?”

“She says it’s about as serious as the sting of a bee, and won’t hurt much longer than that would, and will be cured nearly as soon.”

“That’s first-rate, and relieves my conscience, which has been troubling me, because I’d much rather smite a man on the ear with my fist than with a bullet. For the same reason I hope you found your messmates undergoing a spasm of common sense.”

“They agreed with me that it wasn’t very healthy to take outdoor exercise for a while. If we decide to begin fighting again, we’ll give you twelve hours’ notice. Will that suit you?”

“I don’t know that it does, quite. I want you to promise that you will not break loose either until Mr. Armstrong returns, or the auction is over.”

“The boys wouldn’t agree to that, Mr. Stranleigh. We’re bound to attend that auction.”

Stranleigh sighed.

“Very good,” he conceded. “I must content myself with what you offer. I accept your proposal, for I feel certain that Mr. Armstrong will return before the ranch is sold. So good-bye. Give my love to the boys.”

Stranleigh watched the retreating figure until it disappeared into the bunk house. A moment later the perforated door was drawn shut, and then he rolled up the bedclothes into a bundle, and deposited it at the further end of the cavern. This done, he took his rifle under his arm, crossed the barricade, and strolled down to the farm-house. Miss Armstrong greeted him with surprise.

“I thought you had gone to New York,” she said.

“I took the train east, but only to the next station from Bleachers.”

“You’ve not been stopping at that wretched hotel in Bleachers ever since?”

“Oh no; I received a pressing invitation from some friends of mine to be their guest, with a prospect of a little shooting, so I’ve been staying with them ever since.”

“Did you have a pleasant time?”

“Oh, excellent, and I heard more entertaining stories than ever I listened to in a similar period.”

“Good shooting?”

“First rate. Limited in quantity, but of finest quality. Indeed, I may boast of a record; I hit everything I aimed at. Camp fare, however, left a good deal to be desired, so you may imagine how glad I am to return.”

“I’m very pleased to have an opportunity of giving you something better. How would you like some nice broiled trout, freshly caught this morning?”

“Oh, heavenly!” cried Stranleigh, enthusiastically. “I haven’t had anything but bread and salt pork since I saw you. Who caught the trout?”

“I did. I went down the river early this morning. I must have had a premonition that you would return, famished for trout, and I had quite an adventure, or rather, plunged into a mystery which I have not yet solved. I heard the sound of firing; first a single shot, then a fusilade. I could not tell from whence the sound came. I hurried home with my basket, but there was no one in sight. After a while Jim came in, very much crestfallen, it seemed to me, with his ear tied up clumsily in a handkerchief. He had been shot through the ear, and of course I came to his aid at once. With a woman’s curiosity, I asked him how the accident happened. Now, one of Jim’s infirmities is that he can only tell the truth when it suits his convenience.”

“Many of us are like that,” said Stranleigh.

“Well, this time it didn’t suit his convenience.”

“What did he say?”

“That the boys were having a sort of shooting match. I told him I had heard the firing, and feared that there had been a battle of some sort. He said it was the first shot that did for him. They had some bet on as to who could fire the quickest at a flying mark. In his hurry to get ready he had mishandled his gun, and sent a bullet through his ear. The other men had then fired almost simultaneously.”

“Miss Armstrong, I fear you are too sceptical. Why shouldn’t that be a true story?”

“Mr. Stranleigh, you quite underrate my intelligence. The wound in Jim’s ear was not caused by the gun he held. In the first place, his ear would have been blackened with gunpowder, and likely would have been partly torn off. Secondly, a mishandled gun would have fired upwards. The bullet that wounded him was fired from a distance by someone higher up than the spot where Jim stood. The wound was clean cut, slightly inclining downwards. Besides all that, Jim’s bullet, coming from an old-fashioned rifle, would make a bigger hole. I know that, for you remember I tended your shoulder, through which his bullet had gone.”

“By Jove, Miss Armstrong, if Sherlock Holmes had a daughter, she would be just about your age. Was there anything else?”

“Yes; I looked at the handkerchief in which he had bound his ear. It was of a finer cambric than we have ever seen in this district, or indeed, than I have seen anywhere else. The corner was embroidered with a very delicately-worked crest.”

“A crest?” said Stranleigh, rather breathlessly.

“I asked Jim where he had got this handkerchief. He seemed confused, but said he had always had it. Bought it once at a five-cent store in Denver.”

Stranleigh could not refrain from laughing.

“You think it cost more than five cents?”

“Yes; I am sure it cost more than twenty-five.”

“Perhaps he stole it?”

“Jim might shoot a man, but he’d never steal.”

“I think that when you discover the owner of that handkerchief, you will have solved the mystery,” remarked Stranleigh calmly.

“I think so, too,” said the girl quietly. “Now I am going to cook your trout.”

The three days following were among the most enjoyable Stranleigh had ever spent. He asked Miss Armstrong to show him the portion of the river in which she had caught those delicious trout. Heretofore, she had used a baited hook when fishing, landing her spoil with a trout pole, but now she was to be initiated in the delicate mysteries of fly fishing. Stranleigh remembered the story told of an English official sent to view the debateable land adjoining the far western boundary of Canada who reported the territory useless, because the fish wouldn’t rise to the fly. He wondered what lure the official used, for here they rose readily enough, and fought like demons until Miss Armstrong deftly lifted them from the water in the new-fangled landing net, the like of which she had never seen before.

But in spite of the excellent sport he was enjoying, Stranleigh became more and more anxious as time went on. Nothing had been heard from Stanley Armstrong. The fisher began to fear that the detective had failed in his search. On the morning of the fourth day he dressed in his ordinary tweed suit. The riding costume attracted more attention than was altogether convenient. He put in his pocket an automatic revolver of the latest construction; light, accurate and deadly. The day of the auction was drawing uncomfortably near, and he was determined that his journey should not be interrupted, as his former ride had been. Aside from this, he expected to carry with him a large amount of money, and if any word of that got abroad, he knew a holdup was quite within the range of possibility. The coterie confined in the bunk house would doubtless learn that they were their own gaolers, and with that gang once free upon the landscape, he anticipated interruption which, if successful, would completely nullify his plans.

“Are you going fishing to-day?” asked Miss Armstrong, when he came downstairs. He had appeared unexpectedly soon that morning. The young woman was always an early riser.

“Fishing!” echoed Stranleigh. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. Isn’t there a text which refers to fishers of men? I’m going fishing for your father. We should have had him here before this, but now the need of him becomes imperative. I imagine that a telegram awaits me in Bleachers. If not, I must communicate with New York, and wait for a reply.”

Stranleigh walked up the hill to the bunk house, and rapped at the panel with the butt of his riding whip. Dean himself threw open the door, and he could not conceal his astonishment at seeing the young man standing there, apparently unarmed.

“Good morning, Jim,” said Stranleigh cordially.

“I wish to enjoy a few minutes’ conversation with the company before leaving for Bleachers.”

“None of the company are out of their bunks yet, except myself, but I guess they’re wide enough awake to hear what you say. Won’t you come inside?”

“Thank you,” said Stranleigh, stepping across the threshold; then, to the sleeping beauties – “The top of the morning to you! Early to bed and late to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. Has wisdom come to you since I left? Do you still intend to shoot up Bleachers on auction day?”

“You bet we do,” said Dean.

Stranleigh seated himself upon the chair he had formerly occupied.

“How did you propose to get out?”

“By the same way you escaped,” responded Dean with determination.

“What an inconvenient exit! I speak from sooty experience. Why not have gone by the doorway?”

“We didn’t want to get shot,” said Jim.

“There was no danger of that. I have been spending my days in fishing, and my nights in sound sleep.”

“Do you mean to say,” cried Jim, “that there’s been nobody on guard?”

“No; you’ve been as free as air to go where you pleased.”

Dean laughed heartily, and the others joined him. The joke was on them, but they seemed to enjoy rather than resent it.

“You were right about brain and muscle,” observed Jim at last.

Stranleigh ignored the compliment.

“I’ve got a proposal to make to you men,” he went on. “I’m off to Bleachers to do some telegraphing, trying to learn the whereabouts of Mr. Armstrong, who has not yet put in an appearance. The sale takes place day after to-morrow.”

Stranleigh paused in his recital. He noticed a stealthy movement among the bunkers. He had observed that the first to sit up cast a longing glance at the rifles stacked in the corner, and it seemed to him that a simultaneous rush towards them was going to take place.

“As you know, gentlemen,” he went on, “I have an objection to shooting as a settlement of any legal question, but if shooting has to be done, I am quite prepared for it, and the inhabitants of Bleachers will regret provoking me to a fusilade.”

He took from his pocket the neat little automatic pistol.

“I don’t suppose,” he went on, “that you ever saw anything exactly like this. It will simply rain bullets, and I can re-load before any of those Bleachers men can get his hand to his hip pocket. Next to the Maxim gun, it’s the most deadly object in existence.” Casually he cast his eye along the bunks. Each man had withdrawn the leg that had been quietly reaching for the floor. Stranleigh still fondled his weapon.