Out of a Labyrinth. Lynch Lawrence L.

It was a miracle that I did not lose my seat, for at first I reeled, and feeling the flow of blood, feared a loss of consciousness. But that swift rush through the dewy evening air revived me, and rallied my scattered senses.

      As we dashed on, I realized that my life had been attempted, and that the would-be assassin, the abductor or destroyer of the two missing girls, had been very near me; that but for the unruly beast I rode I might perhaps have returned his little compliment; at least have found some trace of him.

      My horse kept his mad pace until he had reached his own barn-yard gate, and then he stopped so suddenly as to very nearly unseat me.

      I quickly decided upon my course of action, and now, dismounting and merely leading my horse into the inclosure, I went straight to the house. I knew where to find Mrs. Ballou at that hour, and was pretty sure of finding her alone.

      As I had anticipated, she was seated in her own room, where she invariably read her evening papers in solitude. I entered without ceremony, and much to her surprise.

      But I was not mistaken in her; she uttered no loud exclamation, either of anger at my intrusion, or of fright at sight of my bleeding arm. She rose swiftly and came straight up to me.

      Before she could ask a question, I motioned her to be silent, and closed the door carefully. After which, without any of my foreign accent, I said:

      "Mrs. Ballou, a woman who can manage a great farm and coin money in the cattle trade, can surely keep a secret. Will you bind up my arm while I tell you mine?"

      "What!" she exclaimed, starting slightly; "you are not a – "

      "Not a Swede? No, madame," I replied; "I am a detective, and I have been shot to-night by the hand that has struck at the happiness of 'Squire Ewing and his neighbor."

      The splendid woman comprehended the situation instantly.

      "Sit there," she said, pointing to her own easy chair. "And don't talk any more now. I shall cut away your sleeve."

      "Can you?" I asked, deprecatingly.

      "Can I?" contemptuously; "I bleed my cattle."

      I smiled a little in spite of myself; then —

      "Consider me a colt, a heifer, anything," I said, resignedly. "But I feel as if I had been bled enough."

      "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