Dyke Darrel the Railroad Detective Part 13

"I don't call to mind the name, now."

Lights in the distance showed that the village contained one public-house at least. So there the two men repaired.

Mr. Elliston quaffed a gla.s.s of wine, while the detective would take nothing but a cigar. Repairing to a room, the two men sat and conversed for some time in the most confidential way.

d.y.k.e Darrel gave his friend an account of his adventure on the train, which had induced him to stop off and investigate.

The reader may imagine that it was extremely indiscreet for the detective to give away his plans to Elliston, but d.y.k.e Darrel had known this man for more than a year, had visited him in New York, and found him to be well thought of there, and he had more than once confided in him, to find him as true as steel.

At this time the detective believed Elliston to be the best friend he had in the world. He knew the New Yorker to be a man of great ability and thoroughly acquainted with the world, and more than once he had done a good turn for Darrel. Why then should he not trust him? In fact, d.y.k.e Darrel had noticed the growing interest Mr. Elliston took in his sister, and it pleased him. Looking upon him as almost a brother, it is little wonder that d.y.k.e Darrel took the man from Gotham into his confidence to a considerable extent.

"I think you did the right thing in leaving the train to look after this villain," said Elliston, when he had heard the detective's story; "but you must be aware that you run a great risk in going about the country without disguise, avowedly in search of the perpetrators of the express robbery. Of course, this man has friends, and they will not hesitate to shoot or stab, as they did in the case of the express messenger."

"Certainly--"

"But, my dear d.y.k.e, had I not happened at the station you might have run into a trap. I have reason to believe there are many lawless characters in this neighborhood. It strikes me that the man knew what he was about when he a.s.saulted you at this point on the road."

To this, however, d.y.k.e Darrel did not agree. He believed that the villain who attempted his murder sought the first favorable opportunity for his fell work, regardless of time and place.

Early the next morning the detective and his friend hired a horse and buggy of the hotel proprietor, and set off down the road to the scene of the "accident."

d.y.k.e Darrel was confident that he could find the spot, and, sure enough, he was not far out in his reckoning. When in the vicinity of where he believed the man had left the train, Darrel's quick eye caught sight of a group of men standing under a shed, on the further side of a distant field.

"There is some cause of excitement over yonder," remarked d.y.k.e Darrel, as he drew rein, and pointed with his whip.

"It seems to mean something," admitted Elliston.

"I propose to investigate."

Securing his horse, d.y.k.e Darrel vaulted the fence, and, closely followed by Elliston, made his way across the field.

A dozen men and boys stood about, regarding some object with commiserating glances.

d.y.k.e Darrel pushed his way into the crowd, and was not disappointed in what he saw--a man lying prostrate on some blankets, with white face and blood-stained garments.

"We found him jest off the railroad, in a fence-corner," said one of the countrymen. "He'll never git up an' walk agin."

"Has he said anything?"

This last question was put by Harper Elliston.

"Nary word. He fell off 'n ther train last night, I reckon."

Elliston knelt and felt the man's pulse.

"He lives," said the New Yorker, "but there isn't much life; he cannot last long."

"A little brandy might revive him," said d.y.k.e Darrel. "I would like to have him speak; it is of the utmost importance."

"Indeed it is," cried Elliston. "Where is the flask of brandy you brought from the train, d.y.k.e?"

"In the buggy."

"Send a man for it."

"I will go myself;" and d.y.k.e Darrel set off at a rapid walk across the field. At the same moment the man on the blanket groaned and opened his eyes.

"How do you feel, my man?" questioned Elliston.

"I--I'm used up."

"It looks so."

Elliston bent lower.

"You're going to die, Sam, sure's shooting," he said in a whisper at the ear of the prostrate wretch.

A groan was the only reply.

"Do you hear me, Sam?"

"Yes, I--I hear," was the faint answer.

Placing his lips to the ear of the man, Elliston continued to whisper for some seconds.

Soon the detective returned with a flask of brandy, which he at once placed to the lips of the bruised and helpless wreck. A few sips seemed to revive the man wonderfully.

"Tell me your name, my man," questioned the detective, eagerly.

"Sam Swart."

"Do you realize your condition? You have but a few hours to live, and if you wish to free your mind, we will listen."

Elliston stood at the man's feet, facing him with folded arms, while the kneeling detective addressed himself to the apparently dying man.

"I haven't nothing to tell."

"See here, Mr. Swart, it is better that you tell what you know. Do justice for once, and it may be better with you in the hereafter. You attempted to murder me last night, and I believe you had a hand in the death of Arnold Nicholson and the robbery of the express."

"I--I did, but he coaxed me into it," articulated the poor wretch in a husky voice. Elliston caught the words, and his cheek suddenly blanched. He was outwardly calm, however.

d.y.k.e Darrel bent low to catch the faint words of Swart. It was evident that the man was rapidly sinking, and the detective was terribly anxious to get at the truth.

"Speak!" he cried, hoa.r.s.ely, "WHO coaxed you to commit this crime?"

"HE did. The boy and--and Nick was with--with me."

"But who was the leader--the instigator of the foul deed?"