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"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.
"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.
CHAPTER III.
SCENTING A MYSTERY
That is how I chanced to be rolling city-ward on that phlegmatic, oft-stopping, slow going, accomodation train, and that is why I was out of temper, and out of tune.
My operation had been retarded. Instead of working swiftly on to a successful issue, this must be a case of waiting, of wit against wit, and I must report to my chief a balk in the very beginning.
Nevertheless, as I said in the outset, fifty miles of monotonous rumble, together with the soothing influence of a good cigar, had blunted the edge of my self-disgust; my arm was quite easy, only warning me now and then that it was a crippled arm; I was beginning to feel phlegmatic and comfortable.
I had formed a habit of not thinking about my work when the thinking would be useless, and there was little room for effective thought in this case. My future movements were a foregone conclusion. So I rested, and fell almost asleep, and then it was that the single passenger of whom I made mention, came on board.
I had not noticed the name of the station, but as I roused myself and looked out, I saw that we were moving along the outskirts of a pretty little town, and then I turned my eyes toward the new passenger.
He was coming down the aisle towards me, and was a plain, somewhat heavy-featured man, with a small, bright, twinkling eye. Certainly it was not a prepossessing countenance, but, just as certainly, it was an honest one. He was dressed in some gray stuff, the usual "second best" of a thriving farmer or mechanic, and might have been either.
By the time I had arrived at this stage in my observations, there was rustle and stir behind me, and a man who had been lounging, silent, moveless, and, as I had supposed, asleep, stretched forward a brown fist, exclaiming:
"Hallo, old boy! Stop right here. Harding, how are ye?"
Of course the "old boy" stopped. There was the usual hand shaking, and mutual exclamations of surprise and pleasure, not unmixed with profanity. Evidently they had been sometime friends and neighbors, and had not met before for years.
They talked very fast and, it seemed to me, unnecessarily loud; the one asking, the other answering, questions concerning a certain village, which, because it would not be wise to give its real name we will call Trafton.
Evidently Trafton was the station we had just left, and where we took on this voluble passenger. They talked of its inhabitants, its improvements, its business; of births, and deaths, and marriages. It was very uninteresting; I was beginning to feel bored, and was meditating a change of seat, when the tone of the conversation changed somewhat, and, before I could sufficiently overcome my laziness to move, I found myself getting interested.
"No, Trafton ain't a prosperous town. For the few rich ones it's well enough, but the poor – well, the only ones that prosper are those who live without work."
"Oh! the rich?"
"No! the poor. 'Nuff said."
"Oh! I see; some of the old lot there yet; wood piles suffer?"
"Wood piles!"
"And hen roosts."
"Hen roosts!" in a still deeper tone of disgust.
"Clothes lines, too, of course."
"Clothes lines!" Evidently this was the last straw. "Thunder and lightning, man, that's baby talk; there's more deviltry going on about Trafton than you could scoop up in forty ordinary towns."
"No! you don't tell me. What's the mischief?"
"Well, it's easy enough to tell what the mischief is, but where it is, is the poser; but there's a good many in Trafton that wouldn't believe you if you told them there was no such thing as an organized gang of marauders near the place."
"An organized gang!"
"Yes, sir."
"But, good Lord, that's pretty strong for Trafton. Do you believe it?"
"Rather," with Yankee dryness.
"Well, I'm blessed! Come, old man, tell us some of the particulars. What makes you suspect blacklegs about that little town?"
"I've figured the thing down pretty close, and I've had reason to. The thing has been going on for a number of years, and I've been a loser, and ever since the beginning it has moved like clock-work. Five years ago a horse thief had not been heard of in Trafton for Lord knows how long, until one night Judge Barnes lost a valuable span, taken from his stable, slick and clean, and never heard of afterwards. Since then, from the town and country, say for twenty-five miles around, they have averaged over twenty horses every year, and they are always the very best; picked every time, no guess work."
The companion listener gave a long, shrill whistle, and I, supposed by them to be asleep, became very wide awake and attentive.
"But," said the astonished man, "you found some of them?"
"No, sir; horses that leave Trafton between two days never come back again."
"Good Lord!"
There was a moment's silence and then the Traftonite said:
"But that ain't all; we can beat the city itself for burglars."
"Burglars, too!"
"Yes, burglars!" This the gentleman emphasized very freely. "And cute ones; they never get caught, and they seldom miss a figure."
"How's that?"
"They always know where to strike. If a man goes away to be absent for a night or two, they know it. If a man draws money from the bank, or sells cattle, they know that. And if some of our farmers, who like to go home drunk once in a while, travel the road alone, they are liable to be relieved of a part of their load."
"And who do the folks suspect of doing the mischief?"
"They talk among themselves, and very carefully, about having suspicions and being on the watch; but very few dare breathe a name. And after all, there is no clear reason for suspecting anyone."
"But you suspect some one, or I miss my guess."
"Well, and so I do, but I ain't the man to lay myself liable to an action for damages, so I say nothing, but I'm watching."
Little more was said on the subject that interested me, and presently the Traftonite took leave of his friend, and quitted the train at a station, not more than twenty miles east of Trafton; the other was going to the city, like myself.
When quiet was restored in my vicinity, I settled myself for a fresh cogitation, and now I gave no thought to the fate of Mamie Rutger and 'Squire Ewing's daughter. My mind was absorbed entirely with what I had just heard.
The pretty, stupid-looking little town of Trafton had suddenly become to me what the great Hippodrome is to small boys. I wanted to see it; I wanted to explore it, and to find the mainspring that moved its mystery.
The words that had fallen from the lips of the Trafton man, had revealed to my practiced ear a more comprehensive story than he had supposed himself relating.
Systematic thieving and burglary for five years! Systematic, and always successful. What a masterful rogue must be the founder of this system! How secure he must be in his place, and his scheming, and what a foeman to encounter. It would be something to thwart, to baffle, and bring to justice a villain of such caliber.
After a while my thoughts turned back to Groveland. Certainly the mystery there was quite as deep, and the solution of it of more vital importance. But – Groveland was the mystery that I had touched and handled; Trafton was the mystery unseen.
So my mind returned to the latter subject, and when, hours later, we ran into the city, Groveland was still absent, and Trafton present, in my thoughts.
CHAPTER IV.
CHARTERING A DUMMY
By the time I reached the city my arm, which needed fresh bandages, began to pain me, and I went straight to the office of a surgeon, well-known to fame, and to the detective service. He had bound up many a broken bone for our office, and we of the fraternity called him "Our Samaritan." Some of the boys, and, let me confess it, myself among the number, called him "Our old woman," as well, for, while he bandaged and healed and prescribed, he waged continued warfare upon our profession, or rather the dangers of it.
Of course, the country needed secret service men, and must have them, but there was an especial reason why each one of us should not be a detective. We were too young, or too old; we were too reckless, or we were cut out for some other career. In short, every patient that came under the hand of good Dr. Denham, became straightway an object of interest to his kindly old heart; and – strange weakness in a man of his cloth – he desired to keep us out of danger.
"So ho!" cried "our old woman," when I appeared before him with my bandaged arm, "here you are! I knew you'd be along soon. You've kept out of my clutches a good while. Arm, eh? Glad of it! I'll cut it off; I'll cut it off! That'll spoil one detective."
I laughed. We always laughed at the talkative soul, and he expected it.
"Cut it off, then," I retorted, flinging myself down in a chair and beginning to remove my sling. "I don't need a left arm to shoot the fellow that gave me this, and I'm bound to do that, you know."
"So! Got shot again? Go on, go on, sir! I'll have the pleasure of dissecting you yet. You'll come home dead some day, you scoundrel. Ah! here we are. Um! flesh wound, rear of arm, under side; close, pretty close, pret-ty close, sir!"
All this was jerked out in short breaths, while he was undoing and taking a first look at my arm. When the actual business of dressing commenced, "our old woman" was always silent and very intent upon the delicate task.
"Pity it wasn't a little worse," he sniffled, moving across the room and opening a case of instruments. "You chaps get off too easy; you don't come quite near enough to Death's door. There's Carnes, now; got a knife through his shoulder, and fretting and fuming because he can't put himself in a position to get another dig."
"Is Carnes in?"
"Yes. And was badly cut."
"Poor fellow! I'm sorry for that, but glad of the chance to see him; he's been on a long cruise."
"Well, I'm not so sure about his going on another. Now then."
And the doctor applied himself to business, and I sat, wincing sometimes, under his hand, but thinking through it all of Carnes.
He was the comique of the force; a man who was either loved or hated by all who knew him. No one could be simply indifferent to Carnes. He was a well-educated man, although he habitually spoke with a brogue. But I knew Carnes was not an Irishman; although he professed to have "hailed from Erin," he could drop the accent at pleasure and assume any other with perfect ease, – a feat rather difficult of accomplishment by a genuine Irishman.
Nobody knew much about Carnes; he had no confidants, although he had his favorites, one of whom I chanced to be.
He was older than myself by ten years, but when the mood seized him, could be younger by twenty. He had been absent from the office for nearly a year, and I mentally resolved that, after making my report and attending to business, I would lose no time in seeing him.
