The Black Box Part 57

"It seems more like a dream--or rather a nightmare--than anything," he admitted. "I was sitting opposite Craig when the crash came. I was unconscious for a time. When I came to, I was simply pinned down by the side of the car. I could see a man working hard to release me, tugging and straining with all his might. Every now and then I got a glimpse of his face. It seemed queer, but I could have sworn it was Craig. Then other people pa.s.sed by. I heard the shriek of a locomotive. I could see a doctor bending over some bodies. Then it all faded away and came back again. The second time I was nearly free. The man who had been working so hard was just smas.h.i.+ng the last bit of timber away, and again I saw his face and that time I was sure that it was Craig. Anyway, he finished the job. I suddenly felt I could move my limbs. The man stood up as though exhausted, looked at me, called to the doctor, and then he seemed to fade away. It might have been because I was unconscious myself, for I don't remember anything else until I found myself in bed."

"It would indeed," the Professor remarked, "be an interesting circ.u.mstance--an interesting psychological circ.u.mstance, if I might put it that way--if Craig, the arch-criminal, the man who has seemed to us so utterly devoid of all human feeling, should really have toiled in this manner to set free his captor."

"Interesting or not," Quest observed, "I'd like to know whether it was Craig or not. I understand there were about a dozen unrecognisable bodies found."

The nurse, who had left the room for a few minutes, returned with a small package in her hand, which she handed to French. He looked at it in a puzzled manner.

"What can that be?" he muttered, turning it over. "Addressed to me all right, but there isn't a soul knows I'm here except you people. Will you open it, Miss Laura?"

She took it from him and untied the strings. A little breathless cry escaped from her lips as she tore open the paper. A small black box was disclosed. She opened the lid with trembling fingers and drew out a sc.r.a.p of paper. They all leaned over and read together:--

"You have all lost again. Why not give it up? You can never win.

"THE HANDS."

Lenora was perhaps the calmest. She simply nodded with the melancholy air of satisfaction of one who finds her preconceived ideas confirmed.

"I knew it!" she exclaimed softly. "I knew it at the depot. Craig's time has not come yet. He may be somewhere near us, even now."

She glanced uneasily around the ward. Quest, who had been examining the post-mark on the package, threw the papers down.

"The post-mark's all blurred out," he remarked. "There's no doubt about it, that fellow Craig has the devil's own luck, but we'll get him--we'll get him yet. I'll just take a stroll up to police head-quarters and make a few inquiries. You might come with me, Lenora, and Laura can get busy with her amateur nursing."

"I shall make inquiries," the Professor announced briskly, "concerning the local museum. There should be interesting relics hereabouts of the prehistoric Indians."

3.

A man sat on the steps of the range cook wagon, crouching as far back as possible to take advantage of its slight shelter from the burning sun. He held before him a newspaper, a certain paragraph of which he was eagerly devouring. In the distance the mail boy was already disappearing in a cloud of dust.

"FAMOUS CRIMINOLOGIST IN ALLGUEZ

"Sanford Quest and his a.s.sistants, accompanied by Professor Lord Ashleigh, arrived in Allguez a few days ago to look for John Craig, formerly servant to the scientist. Craig has not been seen since the accident to the Limited, a fortnight ago, and by many is supposed to have perished in the wreck. He was in the charge of Inspector French, and was on his way to New York to stand his trial for homicide. French was taken to the hospital, suffering from concussion of the brain, but is now convalescent."

The man read the paragraph twice. Then he set down the paper and looked steadily across the rolling prairie land. There was a queer, bitter little smile upon his lips.

"So it begins again!" he muttered.

There was a cloud of dust in the distance. The man rose to his feet, shaded his eyes with his hand and shambled round to the back of the wagon, where a long table was set out with knives and forks, hunches of bread and tin cups. He walked a little further away to the fire, and slowly stirred a pot of stew. The little party of cowboys came thundering up. There was a chorus of shouts and exclamations, whistlings and good-natured chaff, as they threw themselves from their horses. Long Jim stood slowly cracking his whip and looking down the table.

"Say, boys, I think he's fixed things up all right," he remarked. "Come on with the grub, cookie."

Silently the man filled each dish with the stew and laid it in its place.

Then he retired to the background and the cowboys commenced their meal.

Long Jim winked at the others as he picked up a biscuit.

"Cookie, you're no good," he called out. "The stew's rotten. Here, take this!"

He flicked the biscuit, which caught the cook on the side of the head. For a moment the man started. With his hand upon his temple he flashed a look of hatred towards his a.s.sailant. Long Jim laughed carelessly.

"Say, cookie," the latter went on, "where did you get them eyes? Guess we'll have to tame you a bit."

The meal was soon over, and Jim strolled across to where the others were saddling up. He pa.s.sed his left arm through the reins of his horse and turned once more to look at Craig.

"Say, you mind you do better to-night, young fellow. Eh!"

He stopped short with a cry of pain. The horse had suddenly started, wrenching at the reins. Jim's arm hung helplessly down from the shoulder.

"Gee, boys, he's broken it!" he groaned. "Say, this is h.e.l.l!"

He swore in agony. They all crowded around him.

"What's wrong, Jim?"

"It's broken, sure!"

"Wrong, you helpless sons of loons!" Jim yelled. "Can't any of you do something?"

The cook suddenly pushed his way through the little crowd. He took Jim's shoulder firmly in one hand and his arm in the other. The cowboy howled with pain.

"Let go my arm!" he shouted. "Kill him, boys! My G.o.d, I'll make holes in you for this!"

He s.n.a.t.c.hed at his gun with his other hand and the cowboys scattered a little. The cook stepped back, the gun flashed out, only to be suddenly lowered. Jim looked incredulously towards his left arm, which hung no longer helplessly by his side. He swung it backwards and forwards, and a broad grin slowly lit up his lean, brown face. He thrust the gun in his holster and held out his hand.

"Cookie, you're all right!" he exclaimed. "You've done the trick this time. Say, you're a miracle!"

The cook smiled.

"Your arm was just out of joint," he remarked. "It was rather a hard pull but it's all right now."

Jim looked around at the others.

"And to think that I might have killed him!" he exclaimed. "Cookie, you're a white boy. You'll do. We're going to like you here."

Craig watched them ride off. The bitterness had pa.s.sed from his face.

Slowly he began to clean up. Then he crept underneath the wagon and rested....

[Ill.u.s.tration: CRAIG WINS THE COWPUNCHER'S ADMIRATION BY HIS SKILL AS A VIOLINIST.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE COWBOYS CONSULT A MAP WHILE ARRANGING FOR CRAIG'S ESCAPE.]

Evening came and with it a repet.i.tion of his labours. When everything was ready to serve, he stepped from behind the wagon and looked across the rolling stretch of open country. There was no one in sight. Softly, almost stealthily, he crept up to the wagon, fetched out from its wooden case a small violin, made his way to the further side of the wagon, sat down with his back to the wheel and began to play. His eyes were closed. Sometimes the movements of his fingers were so slow that the melody seemed to die away. Then unexpectedly he picked it up, carrying the same strain through quick, convulsive pa.s.sages, lost it again, wandered as though in search of it, extemporising all the time, yet playing always with the air of a man who feels and sees the hidden things. Suddenly the bow rested motionless.

A look of fear came into his face. He sprang up. The cowboys were all stealing from the other side of the wagon. They had arrived and dismounted without his hearing them. He sprang to his feet and began to stammer apologies. Long Jim's hand was laid firmly upon his shoulders.

"Say, cookie, you don't need to look so scared. You ain't done nothing wrong. Me and the boys, we like your music. Sing us another tune on that fiddle!"

"I haven't neglected anything," Craig faltered. "It's all ready to serve."