The Merry Anne

“What’s your name, my friend?” asked the special agent.

“Van Deelen. I don’t see what you want here. There ain’t nobody here but us.”

“We ‘ll see about that.” Beveridge, as he spoke, threw his weight on the door and forced it open so abruptly that the farmer was thrown back against the wall. He entered with Smiley close at his heels. “Of course,” he went on, as he shut it behind him, “if there isn’t anything really the matter here, you won’t mind my looking around a little.”

“Why, no – oh, no – only – ”

“Only what?”

“My wife’s down sick, and any noise or excitement might upset her.”

“Nervous trouble, maybe.”

“Yes, something of that sort.”

“Has to keep her room, I suppose?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Room shut up so noise won’t disturb her?”

“Yes, we keep it shut.”

“Place got on her nerves a little, maybe. Should think it would be sort of monotonous here. No doctor, I suppose?”

“No, not this side of Hewittson.”

“How long has she been troubled?”

“Why – ”

“Sudden attack, to-day or yesterday? Sick headache, and all that?”

“Yes – she has a bad headache.”

“Good deal of nausea, too? Sight of food distasteful?”

“Oh, yes, she doesn’t want anything to eat.

“Can’t keep anything on her stomach? Lost interest in living – no enthusiasm for anything? Is that the form it takes?”

“Why, yes – yes – ”

“Curious thing. Seems to prevail in this neighborhood. Young Lindquist, back up the road, has the same trouble.”

Van Deelen’s stolid face wore a puzzled expression. He seemed not to know how far to resent this inquisition. “Say,” he asked, “what do you want?”

“I want to know if you always receive folks with a shot-gun?”

“Why – ”

“Bad characters in the neighborhood, maybe. Have they been giving you trouble to-night?”

“Who’re you talking about?”

“McGlory and the rest. When did they come?”

“There hasn’t anybody been here.”

“Oh, all right. That’s first-rate – would you mind stepping up and telling your wife the doctor has come?”

“You ain’t a doctor.”

“Come, my friend, don’t contradict. I’m afraid we ‘ll have to take a look into her room.”

“Oh, you will!”

“Yes. We ‘ll walk around this floor a little first. Will you entertain him a minute, Smiley?”

Beveridge slipped away, leaving the two standing at the foot of the stairs. He moved from room to room, carrying a lamp which he had found in the front room and had lighted. Soon he returned, set down the lamp where he had found it, and joined Smiley and the farmer. “So Estelle’s had her hair cut,” he observed.

Van Deelen shot a glance at him, but Beveridge went easily on. “Now we ‘ll go upstairs, Dick.”

Van Deelen, gun in hand, retreated upward a few steps and barred the way. Beveridge looked at him, then he stepped quickly up and seized the gun by barrel and stock. The farmer could easily have shot him, but he made no attempt. And now the two men silently wrestled there, Van Deelen in the more advantageous position, but Beveridge showing greater strength than his figure seemed to promise. Finally, with a quick wrench, the special agent got possession of the weapon and passed it down to Smiley. “Now, Mister van Deelen,” he said, “will you please stand aside?”

For reply the farmer began retreating backward up the stairway, always facing Beveridge, who followed closely. Dick drew the shells from the gun, tossed it into the front room, and came after. The upper hall was square, and of the three doors around it only one was closed. Beveridge stepped into each of the open rooms, and then tried the door of the third, while Van Deelen stood sullenly by.

“Will you open this door?” Beveridge asked, with the beginnings of impatience.

No reply from the farmer. Smiley drew Beveridge aside and whispered, “Maybe it’s true that she’s sick in there.”

“Not much.”

“But we haven’t found her anywhere around the house.”

“If she is there, she isn’t alone.”

“But I kind of hate to break into a woman’s room this way.”

“Don’t get chicken-hearted, Dick.” He turned to the farmer and asked again, “Will you open this door?”

There was no reply.

Without another word Beveridge threw himself against it; but it was stoutly built and did not yield. All three heard a gasp of fright from within.

“Hold on, Bill,” Smiley exclaimed. “No use breaking your collar-bone. I ‘ll get a rail.”

He said this with the idea of bullying either the farmer or the persons within the room into opening the door, but Van Deelen remained sullen and motionless. Beveridge, however, caught up the idea; and with a “Wait here, Dick,” he ran down the stairs. In entering the house they had closed the door after them, and now Beveridge had to stop and fumble a moment with the lock.

But it was only a moment, and pulling it open he plunged out.

A breathless man with his hat pulled down was starting up the steps. Beveridge stopped short; so did the breathless man. For an instant they stood motionless, one staring down from the top step, the other staring up from the bottom. Then Beveridge saw, in the shadow of the hat-brim, a black mustache; and at the same instant the owner of the mustache recognized the figure above him.

Not for worlds would Beveridge have called out. He had McGlory fairly in his hands, – the moment he had been hoping for, almost praying for, had come, – and he could never have resisted the desire to take him singlehanded. McGlory was heavy, muscular, desperate – these were merely additional reasons. Beveridge had known little but plodding work for weeks and months – here was where the glory came in. And glory was what he craved – a line in the papers, the envy of his associates, the approbation of his superiors.

And so, when he saw McGlory before him in the flesh, silently tugging at something in his hip pocket, he not only sprang down on him as a mountain lion might leap on its prey, – not only this, but he took pains, even in this whirling moment, to make no noise in the take-off. McGlory got the revolver out, but he was a fifth of a second too late. Just as he swung it around, the special agent landed on him, caught his wrist, gripped him around the neck with his other arm, and bore him down in the sand of the dooryard. Neither made a sound, save for occasional grunting and heavy breathing. They rolled over and over, Beveridge now on top, now McGlory. McGlory was hard as steel; Beveridge was lithe and quick. If McGlory gripped him so tight around the body that it seemed only a question of seconds before his ribs must go, one after another, Beveridge never slackened his hold of that bull-like neck. McGlory struggled to turn the revolver toward Beveridge; but Beveridge held to his wrist and bent it back – back – until any other man must have dropped the weapon for the sheer pain of it.

The door had swung to behind Beveridge as he went out; the horse was thrashing in the barn; and Dick, leaning against the closed door of Mrs. van Deelen’s bedroom, looking at the farmer, heard nothing of the struggle that was going on outside. He was wondering what interest this farmer could have in a gang of smugglers. He decided to ask. This business of standing opposite him and exchanging the glances of two hostile dogs was not a pleasant experience for a man of Dick’s sociable humor.

“I’ve been wondering, Van Deelen, what you’re acting this way for.”

A suspicious glance was all this remark drew out.

“I don’t believe you’re mixed up with that crew, and I don’t see how you can be interested in covering their tracks. Are you sure you aren’t taking the wrong tack?”

“I ain’t covering anybody’s tracks. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Can’t you see that we don’t enjoy breaking into people’s houses and prying around in bedrooms?”

“What do you do it for then?”

“What do we do it for! Why, McGlory and his gang are Smugglers – they’re a bad lot. And this man with me is a government officer.”

“That ain’t telling why you come here.”

“Now, Van Deelen, what’s the use of keeping up that bluff? It doesn’t fool anybody. We know all about their coming here. We’ve tracked them this far. This officer will never leave the house until he has opened this door and seen who you’ve got in here. I can promise you he ‘ll act like a gentleman. Now don’t you think it would be a good deal better just to open up and be done with it?”

Having no reasonable answer to this, Van Deelen fell back into his sullen silence.

“Wonder what’s taking him so long,” Dick observed. “Would he have to go far for a rail?”

There was no answer.

Altogether, it was not a cheerful situation. Dick, who had borne up capitally so far, now experienced a sinking of spirits. He looked first at the glum figure before him, then at the dingy walls and ceiling, then down into the shadows of the stairway. Seeing nothing that could prop his spirits, he fell to humming “Baby Mine.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he broke out, interrupting himself; “maybe I’m disturbing your wife?”

There was no answer.

“You’re a hilarious old bird,” said Dick.

No answer – nothing but that glum Dutch face.

“Oh, well – go to thunder!”

Not even a gleam of anger disturbed those Dutch eyes. Dick, his feeble struggle over, succumbed to the gloom and was silent. And such silence as it was! The horse, over in the barn, had ceased kicking about; the air was still. The creakings of the old house sounded like the tread of feet. The loud breathing of the person within the closed room could be distinctly heard.

There was a shot outside – then silence – two more shots – again the silence. It is curious how a revolver shot, in the stillness of the night, can be at once startling and insignificant. Curious, because it is not very loud – no deafening report – no reverberation – but merely a dead thud, as if the sound were smothered in a blanket. And yet it was loud enough to raise goose-flesh all over Dick’s body and send the creepy feeling that we all know through the roots of his hair, as if a thousand ants had suddenly sprung into being there. At the first report he stiffened up; the second and third met his ears halfway down the stairs. Van Deelen, frightened, bewildered, ran down close after him.

Dick paused at the foot of the steps and looked around. In an instant he made out the familiar figure of Beveridge a dozen yards away. The special agent was standing over a prostrate man, one hand gripping a revolver, the other fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. The sweat was glistening on his face, his collar and tie hung down his breast, his coat was torn clear across the back.

Dick joined him, and knelt over the man on the ground.

“We’ve wasted time enough on him,” said Beveridge, catching his breath.

“Who – oh, it’s McGlory! Is – is he – ”

“Shouldn’t wonder. Help me get a rail, will you?”

They started without further words toward the barn-yard fence.

“Hold on,” said Dick. “There’s that cord-wood we used on the front door.”

“That will do.”

So they went back and picked up the heavy stick. At this moment Harper came running up, his shoe in his hand. “I didn’t know you was going to be in such a thundering hurry to begin the shooting, Mr. Beveridge. I ‘most cut my foot to pieces running up here.”

“Come along, Dick,” said Beveridge.

“Good Lord!” gasped Harper, suddenly taking in the figure of the special agent. “What they been doing to you?”

But Beveridge gave no heed to the question. “Stay here at the steps, Harper, and if any more come up, don’t let ‘em get away from you.” With the cord-wood on his shoulder, he entered the house and started up the stairs. But Van Deelen hurried after him and caught his arm.

“Well, what do you want?”

“You needn’t use that.”

“You ‘ll let me in?”

“Yes.”

Beveridge promptly set down his burden on the stairs, and stood aside to let the farmer take the lead.

Van Deelen tapped at the door, and softly, called, “Saskia!”

“What is it?”

“You have to open the door and let this gentleman in.”

“Mercy, no!”

“But you have to!”

“Then, – ” the voice was very fluttery and agitated – “then wait a minute after I unlock the door.”

The bolt was slipped, and they could hear a frantic rustling and scampering. Van Deelen opened the door and entered the room with Beveridge and Smiley at his heels. As they entered, another door, evidently leading to a closet, was violently closed.

The three men stood a moment in the middle of the room without speaking, then Beveridge walked over to the bed. The woman lying there had turned to the wall and drawn the coverlet over her face. Beveridge bent over and jerked it back. “Smiley,” he called, “come here and see if this ain’t your old friend, Estelle!”

The woman struggled to hide her face again, but Beveridge rudely held her quiet. Dick would have turned away but for the special agent’s impatience. As it was he made him speak twice. Then he went slowly and shamefacedly to the bed. “Yes, I guess this is Estelle, all right.”

They saw her shudder. Her face was flushed with fever. Dick took Beveridge’s arm and whispered, “For heaven’s sake, Bill, don’t be a beast.” But Beveridge impatiently shook him off.

“Well, Estelle,” he said, “the game’s up. We’ve got them.”

Her eyes were wild, but she managed to repeat. “You’ve got them?”

“Yes. You ‘ll never see McGlory again.”

“And Pete – have you got Pete?” Beveridge glanced inquiringly at Smiley, who, after a moment of puzzling, nodded, and with his lips formed the name “Roche.”

“Yes, we’ve got Roche. Pretty lot they were to leave you here.”

But Estelle had fainted.

“Here, Dick,” said Beveridge, “bring some water.”

Van Deelen indicated the washstand, and Smiley fetched the pitcher. Beveridge sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her forehead with the cool water. He asked Van Deelen for some whiskey, and forced a little between her teeth. Finally her eyes opened.

“There,” said Beveridge, “that’s better. You ‘ll be all right in a minute. Now tell me why they left you.”

“Look here, Bill,” said Dick, “I can’t stand this.”

Beveridge paid no attention, but went on stroking her forehead. “Tell me why they left you, Estelle. They weren’t very square with you.”

“It was Pete – ” The whiskey had revived her a very little.

“Yes, I know. You were mistaken in Pete. He never meant to stand by you.”

“He said – ”

“Yes – go on.”

“He said we – we could get away – and – ”

“Yes?”

“ – and they were asleep and – and then we saw the house, and – oh, I can’t think – ”

“Bill, – for heaven’s sake!” cried Dick. “Yes, it’s all right, Estelle. You’re all safe now. Try to think.”

“I guess I fainted – Pete was gone – and I – I don’t know – how I got to the house – ”

“That will do. Go to sleep, Estelle. We ‘ll take good care of you.” Beveridge rose, and looked significantly toward the closet door. “Now, Mister,” he said, addressing the farmer, “we ‘ll just take a look in that closet before we go, and – ”

A protesting voice, muffled by hanging garments, but shrill nevertheless, came from the closet, and Beveridge smiled. “Is it your wife?” he asked. Van Deelen nodded. And then, the smile lingering, Beveridge led the way out of the room.

As they started down the stairs, Dick observed: “You were awful quiet down there with McGlory, Bill. I’d heard your second shot before I knew anything was happening.”

“You never heard my second shot.”

“I didn’t? I’d like to know why I didn’t.”

“Because I only fired once.”

“Then who did the rest of it? By Jove! Where’s Wilson?”

Beveridge turned sharply at the question. “That’s a fact,” he muttered. They had reached the front steps by this time, and could see Harper ostentatiously standing guard with drawn revolver. “Say, Pink, have you seen Bert anywhere?”

“No. Thought he was inside with you.”

“Step around the house, quick. We ‘ll go this way.”

They found Wilson lying on the ground, not far from the front of the house. He had plunged forward on his face, with his arms spread out before him. Apparently he had been running around from the rear to join Beveridge when the ball brought him down. In an instant the two men were kneeling by him.

“How is it, Bill? Can you tell?”

“He isn’t gone yet. Get a light, will you?” Dick ran back into the house and brought out Van Deelen with a lamp and some improvised bandages. Beveridge had some practical knowledge of first aid to the injured; and the farmer seemed really to have some little skill, as a man must who lives with his family twenty-five miles from a physician. And so between them they managed to stanch the flow of blood while Dick and Pink were carrying a small bed out of doors. With great care not to start the flow again, they carried him into the front room.

“Did you notice,” said Beveridge to Smiley, when they had made him as comfortable as they could, “where he was hit?”

“In the back, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, and a little to the right. Now if he fell straight, – and I think he did, because the way he went shows that he was running, and that he simply pitched forward, – the shot must have come from near the bridge, maybe from those trees a little down-stream from the bridge. Now there’s just one man could have done it, to my notion. He was an old hand, because it was a pretty shot at the distance and in that light.”

“Who do you think?”

“Well, now, there’s Roche. He skipped out some time ago and left Estelle in the woods. He wouldn’t have done that unless he was badly scared, would he? Isn’t he a pretty poor lot, anyway – no nerve, just bluster?”

“That’s Pete. If he is fairly started running, he won’t stop to-night.”

“That’s about what I thought about him. It’s pretty plain he would never have come back here with McGlory after him – you see McGlory had come after him, – he was chasing Roche because he had run off with Estelle – and made such a cool shot as that was. So we ‘ll rule out Roche. And McGlory is ruled out too, and Estelle.”

“Oh – ”

“So that leaves just ‘the boss’ – Spencer.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“He has nerve enough for anything, hasn’t he?”

“He looks as if he had.”

“Now I ‘ll tell you what we ‘ll do. We ‘ll get this Dutch woman to nurse Bert here, and then the four of us will step down to the bridge and see what we can make of it – or hold on; I ‘ll take Van Deelen and go to the bridge, and you and Harper can go down to the creek below the barn and work up to the bridge. What do you think of that?”

“First-rate.”

“You aren’t too fagged?”

“Not me – not while the rest of you are on your pins.”

“That’s the talk. I ‘ll see about the woman here.”

“Say, Bill, wait a minute. You aren’t planning to walk right up to the bridge, are you?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“If I was you, I’d work around through the trees a little. He may be there yet, and we know how he can shoot.”

“What’s the use? It’s all a gamble anyhow. The thing to do is to go on the run. A man is a good deal like a dog, you know. If you run right at him and show all over you that you mean business, why, even if he thinks he is ready for you, it’s likely to bother him. Upsets his nerve – starts him thinking he is on the losing side.”

CHAPTER XIII – WHISKEY JIM

BEFORE the four men left the house Wilson revived and asked for his chief. Beveridge, his torn coat thrown aside, hurried back and bent over the bed. “What is it, Bert?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you. I don’t remember – exactly – ”

“You were running around the house when somebody winged you. It doesn’t amount to anything – you ‘ll be around in a day or so.”

“Oh, yes – that’s it. It was some fellow behind, wasn’t it? I remember I didn’t see anybody ahead.”

“Yes – he was a little below the bridge, as I figure it.”

“Yes – yes – don’t you see, Bill? That’s where Harper was – he stayed behind with some yarn about his shoe – had a stone in it.”

“Keep quiet, Bert! don’t get worked up – ”

“But think of it, Bill! What you going to do now?”

“I’m going to find the man that hit you.”

“Not with those two, Smiley and Harper?”

“Why, certainly.”

“But don’t you see, Bill? That’s just what they want. They’ve got rid of me – now they ‘ll draw you off into the woods – why, you’re putting yourself right in their hands!”

“You’d better try to think of something else, Bert. Mrs. van Deelen here is going to take good care of you. I ‘ll stop in on the way back.” And Beveridge slipped out the door without giving Wilson further opportunity to protest.

The others were waiting impatiently at the steps. Smiley and Harper at once started off toward the creek below the barn; and Beveridge set out on a run for the bridge, telling the farmer to follow.

When he reached the creek, Beveridge searched through the trees for some distance down-stream and then up-stream, but found no sign of a man. “Well,” he said, joining Van Deelen at the end of the bridge, “he got away all right.”

“Did you look under the bridge?”

“Yes. Nothing there.”

The farmer stood still for a moment, thinking; then he clambered down the bank and peered into the shadow under the bridge floor. “Come down here,” he said. And when Beveridge had reached his side, standing ankle-deep in the muddy water, he went on, “See that?”

“No – wait a minute, I can’t see anything yet. What is it?”

“Feel this rope. It’s been cut.”

“Oh,” murmured Beveridge, “I see. A boat.”

“Yes. He has stolen my boat.”

“Of course – and slipped off down-stream as easy and quiet as you like. He’s a cool hand, that Spencer. Come back up here – we ‘ll go on down and meet Smiley. Wait, though, he might be hiding anywhere down the stream here. Are there many bushes and such along the bank?”

“Yes, it’s grown up pretty heavy. I never had any reason for keeping it cleared.”

“Well, then, we ‘ll keep down here close to the water where we can see things.”

“It ‘ll be pretty wet. Will you wait while I get my boots? My rheumatism’s been pretty bad this year – ”

“Go back, then. I can’t wait for you.”

And with this, Beveridge pushed off down the stream. Van Deelen, after a moment’s hesitation, followed. They met the other party just above the barn.

“See anything?” asked Dick.

“Yes. He has gone down in a boat.” Beveridge turned to the farmer. “Does the creek go on far in this direction?”

“No, it turns off south pretty soon.”

“Would it take him anywhere especial?”

“No – just into the woods.”

“No houses south of here?”

“Not for a long way.”

“And it’s sluggish like this all along, isn’t it? Full of snags and shallows?”

“Oh, yes, he couldn’t go very fast.”

“All right. Come on, boys.”

On they went, walking over the spongy ground below the bank or splashing softly through the water. They did not speak, but followed their leader eagerly through the moving shadows. The trees arched over their heads, the water slipped moodily onward, blacker than the shadows. Now and then they stumbled over projecting roots, or stepped down knee-deep in some muddy hole; all the while their eyes strove to pierce the dark, searching for a boat in the gloom of the opposite bank, or for a man among the bushes above, even glancing overhead into the trees, where a desperate man might have hidden. At length they reached an opening in the trees of the right bank, and Beveridge, stepping up, found that the road here paralleled the creek.

“Which way now?” asked Dick.

“No sign of a boat, is there?”

“No.”

“Then keep on down-stream.”

They divided now in order to watch both banks, for the creek had widened a little and the shadows were dense. It was Smiley and Harper who waded across, stepping down waist-deep in the water and mud. Not a word was spoken. The only sound was the low splash-splash of four pairs of feet, with now and then the noise of heavy breathing or a muttered exclamation as one or another stumbled into a hole.

“Hello – ouch!”

The voice was Pink Harper’s. At this point the trees had shut in overhead, and the dark was impenetrable. Beveridge and Van Deelen could see nothing across the creek, not even the blot of denser black which told Smiley, only a few feet behind, where his companion had stopped.

“What is it?” came in a low voice from Beveridge.