Part 33 (1/2)

”Who is that Mr. Clark, anyway? How did he know who I was? Since Hallen's men found me at the farm-house this man Clark--this agent--has had a lot to say.”

”He is a man by the name of Oakes,” I said.

O'Brien, or rather Larkin, looked at me a moment.

”Quintus Oakes?”

”The same.”

”The deuce you say! No disgrace to me then. I understand things now. But I should have suspected.”

The murderer reached the bridge and, hesitating, stooped suddenly at its near side. He had evidently picked up something from under one of the logs that formed the span. He straightened up and, turning, suddenly fired at Oakes, who was rapidly approaching. The deep tones of a heavy revolver were unmistakable. Maloney had secured his murderous weapon when he stooped; he had had it in hiding under the log. He was armed now with a weapon of terrible possibilities. In another instant he was across and mounting the green sunlit slope beyond. A hundred feet behind was Quintus, untouched by the bullet that had been sent his way. A few steps, and he reached the other side, but as he struck the ground, the bridge--frail thing that it was--loosened from its centre support and went cras.h.i.+ng into the pond, leaving Hallen, who was close behind Oakes, on this side of the bridge with the rest of us. Oakes was alone, pursuing the murderer up the slope of the hill on the other side of the water, facing us. We saw him turn, as the bridge fell, and look at us; then he made a sweeping gesture toward the north and south, and turned again after the murderer, who was just half-way up the slope now; his body dotting the surface of the ground with a shadow at his side--a shadow of himself--company in the race for freedom.

We all simultaneously interpreted the gestures made by Oakes, and Hallen dashed to the north end of the pond to skirt it, while Martin and Moore dashed for the southern end, leaving Elliott, Larkin and myself standing where we commanded full view of what was coming. We were conscious of several other figures das.h.i.+ng by us, and we knew that his men were straining every nerve and muscle to reach Oakes in his dangerous position.

It was a long run to skirt either end of the pond, and to swing around the opposite sh.o.r.e, and thence up the sloping sides to Quintus's aid. We three remaining behind were anxious beyond expression. I leaned heavily on Elliott, and really prevented him from joining in the chase, where he would have been useless; the others were so much fleeter of foot.

”G.o.d--that man Oakes is alone with the murderer!” cried Larkin. ”He is too good a man to lose his life in the fight that is coming. Look!”

We saw Maloney halt and face about. Then came a slight flash, followed by the heavy report of the revolver in his hand.

Quintus was running slowly up toward him and was perhaps one hundred feet away. At the report he staggered, and dropped upon the green, slippery sward.

”He is wounded,” cried Elliott.

I felt sick at heart and weak, and sat down, Larkin by my side; we two were powerless, being only convalescent.

”An elegant shot! That Maloney is a crack one,” cried the detective.

”Yes,” said Elliott; ”it was determined before that Mark's murderer was a good shot.”

Then came another report, and we saw that again the murderer had fired.

Oakes remained quiet. His body showed sprawled on the hill-side.

”d.a.m.nation!” cried Elliott. ”Is Oakes dead? He does not answer with his revolver.”

”No,” cried Larkin. ”I saw him move, and see--he is braced to prevent himself slipping down the hill. He knows he is a poor target, and is not anxious to move lest he slide into the pond. That gra.s.s is frosty and very slippery.”

Then came the delayed crack of Quintus's weapon, and Maloney sprang into the air as he ran. He now went slowly and painfully, lurching forward along the crest of the hill.

”Slightly wounded, thank Fate--but Oakes could have killed him had he wished,” cried Larkin.

We saw Quintus rise and follow Maloney, then drop to his chest again, as the latter wheeled and fired three shots rapidly at him in delirious excitement.

Oakes remained quiet and huddled, and despite the fact that Maloney was now an excellent target, he did not fire.

”Oakes is. .h.i.t badly,” exclaimed Elliott. Then the speaker did an unexpected thing. Seizing his revolver, he discharged the weapon again and again in the direction of Maloney. ”A long shot,” he muttered, ”but I'll keep him guessing.”

We could see the bullets. .h.i.t somewhere near the fugitive, for he seemed disconcerted and turned toward the northern end of the pond, to run in that direction; he was now outlined on the crest of the hill. We heard another shot ring out--a shot sharp, staccato it was; and we then emitted a yell, for we knew by it that Oakes was alive. Maloney fired again, and again Elliott, by our side, tried two more long shots with his revolver.