Dangerous Ground; or, The Rival Detectives

by Lawrence L. Lynch

  Produced by Harry Lame, Suzanne Shell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

  +------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES | | | | * The original work contains some text in italics and in bold- | | face. These are represented here as _text_ and =text=, respec- | | tively. Small capitals in the original work have been changed | | to capitals for this e-text. | | * The oe-ligature from the original work has been transcribed as | | [oe], as in man[oe]uvre. | | * Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have only been | | corrected where one variant was clearly used more often than | | the other (aint was changed to ain't, etc.). 'Warburton place' | | has been changed to 'Warburton Place.' Note that both 'Joe | | Blakesly' and 'Joe Blakesley' occur in the text. | | * Minor typographical errors have been corrected silently. More | | important changes made to the text: | | - page 90: 'Mrs. Follinsbee' changed to 'Mrs. Follingsbee'; | | - page 173: 'Lerchen' changed to 'Leschen'; | | - page 194: 'And won't do' changed to 'And it won't do'; | | - page 220: CHAPTER XX changed to CHAPTER XXX; CHAPTER LXVI | | and CHAPTER LXVIII changed to CHAPTER XLVI and XLVIII, | | respectively; | | - page 449: Beal changed to Beale. | | * Some pages had poorly printed parts; here a 'best guess' has | | been used to complete the text (page 159, some parts of the | | advertisements at the end of the book). | | | +------------------------------------------------------------------+

  "Not just yet; I ain't quite ready!"--page 410.]

  THE GREAT DETECTIVE SERIES.

  DANGEROUS GROUND;

  OR,

  THE RIVAL DETECTIVES.

  BY

  LAWRENCE L. LYNCH,

  (OF THE SECRET SERVICE.)

  Author of "Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter;" "Out of a Labyrinth;" "Shadowed by Three;" "The Diamond Coterie," etc., etc.

  CHICAGO: ALEX. T. LOYD & CO., PUBLISHERS. 1886.

  COPYRIGHT, 1885, BY ALEX. T. LOYD & CO., CHICAGO. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Dangerous Ground.

  "Mamma brings the candle very near to the closed eyes,waving it to and fro, rapidly."--page 309.]

  DANGEROUS GROUND.

  PROLOGUE.

  TIME: The month of May. The year, 1859; when the West was new, and thelife of the Pioneer difficult and dangerous.

  SCENE: A tiny belt of timber, not far from the spot where not longbefore, the Marais des Cygnes massacre awoke the people of south-easternKansas, and kindled among them the flames of civil war.

  I.

  It is a night of storm and darkness. Huge trees are bending their might,and branches, strong or slender, are swaying and snapping under a fierceblast from the northward.

  Night has closed in, but the ghostly light of a reluctant camp firereveals a small group of men gathered about its blaze; and back of them,more in the shelter of the timber, a few wagons,--prairie schooners ofthe staunchest type--from which, now and then, the anxious countenanceof a woman, or the eager, curious face of a child, peers out.

  There has been rain, and fierce lightning, and loud-rolling thunder; butthe clouds are breaking away, the rain has ceased: only the strong gustsof wind remain to make more restless the wakeful travellers, and rob theweary, nervous ones of their much needed sleep.

  "Where's Pearson?" queries a tall, strong man, who speaks as one havingauthority. "I have not seen him since the storm began."

  "Pearson?" says another, who is crouching over the flickering fire inthe effort to light a stubby pipe. "By ginger! I haven't thought of thefellow; why, he took his blanket and went up yonder," indicating thedirection by a jerk of the short pipe over a brawny shoulder--"beforethe storm, you know; said he was going to take a doze up there; he tooka fancy to the place when we crossed here before."

  "But he has been down since?"

  "Hain't seen him. Good Lord, you don't suppose the fellow's beensleepin' through all this?"

  Parks, the captain of the party, stirs uneasily, and turns his facetowards the wagons.

  "There's been some fearful lightnin', sir," breaks in another of thegroup. "'Tain't likely a man would sleep through all this, but--"

  He stops to stare after Parks, who, with a swift impulsive movement ofthe right hand, has turned upon his heel, and is moving toward thewagons.

  "Mrs. Krutzer," he calls, halting beside the one most remote from thecamp fire.

  "What is wanted?" answers a shrill, feminine voice.

  "Is the little one with you?"

  "Yes." This time there is a ring of impatience in the voice.

  "Have you seen Pearson since the storm?"

  "My gracious! No."

  "How is Krutzer?"

  "No better; the storm has doubled him up like a snake. Do you want him?"

  "Not if he can't walk."

  "Well he can't; not a step."

  "Then good-night, Mrs. Krutzer." And Parks returns to the men at thefire.

  "There's something wrong," he says, with quiet gravity.

  "Pearson has not been near the child since the storm. Get your lanterns,boys; we will go up the hill."

  It is only a slight elevation, with a pyramid of rocks, one or twowide-spreading trees; and a fringe of lesser growth at the summit.

  A moment the lanterns flash about, while the men converse in low tones.Then one of them exclaims:

  "Here he is! Pearson; Heavens, man, wake up!"

  But the still form outstretched upon the water-soaked blanket, anddoubly sheltered by the great rocks and bending branches, moves not inresponse to his call.

  They crowd about him, and Walter Parks bends closer and lets the fulllight of the lantern he carries, fall upon the still face.

  "Good God!"

  He sinks upon one knee beside the prostrate form; he touches the face,the hands; looks closer yet, and says in a husky voice, as he puts thelantern down:

  "He's _dead_, boys!"

  They cluster about that silent, central figure. One by one they touchit; curiously, reverently, tenderly or timidly, according as theirvarious natures are.

  Then a chorus of exclamations, low, fierce, excited.

  "How was it?"

  "Was he killed?"

  "The storm--"

  "More likely, Injuns."

  "No, Bob, it wasn't Indians," says Parks mournfully, "for here's hisscalp."

  And he tenderly lays a brown hand upon the abundant locks of his deadcomrade, sweeping them back from the forehead with a caressing movement.

  Then suddenly, with a sharp exclamation that is almost a shriek, thehand drops to his side; he recoils, he bounds to his feet; then, turninghis face to the rocks, he lets the darkness hide the look of unutterablehorror that for a moment overspread it, changing at
length to anexpression of sternness and fixed resolve.

  Meantime the others press closer about the dead man, and one of them,taking the place Parks has just vacated, bends down to peer into thestill, set face.

  "Boys, look!" he cries eagerly; "look here!" and he points to a tinyseared spot just above the left temple. "That's a burn, and here, justabove it, the hair is singed away. It's lightning, boys."

  Again they peer into the dead face, and utter fresh exclamations ofhorror. Then Walter Parks, whose emotion they have scarcely noticed,turns toward them and looks closely at the seared spot upon the temple.

  "Boys," he asks, in slow, set tones, "did you, any of you, ever _see_ aman killed by lightning?"

  They all stare up at him, and no one answers.

  "They cluster about that silent, central figure. One byone they touch it; curiously, reverently."--page 12.]

  "Because," he proceeds, after a moment's silence, "I never saw theeffects of a lightning stroke, and don't feel qualified to judge."

  "It's lightnin'," says the man called Bob, in a positive voice; "I'venever seen a case, but I've read of 'em. It's lightnin', sure."

  "Of course it is," breaks in another. "What else can it be? There ain'tan Injun about and besides--"

  A sharp flash of lightning, instantly followed by a loud peal ofthunder, interrupts this speech, and, when they can hear his voice,Parks says, quietly:

  "I suppose you are right, Menard. Now, let's take him down to thewagons; quick, the rain is coming again."

  Slowly they move down the hill with their burden, Walter Parkssupporting the head and shoulders of the dead. And as they go, one ofthem says:

  "Shall I run ahead and tell the Krutzers?"

  "No," replies Parks, sternly; "we will take him to my wagon. I willinform Mrs. Krutzer."

  So they lay him in the wagon belonging to their leader, and before theyleave him there Parks does a strange thing. He takes off the oil-skincap from his own head and pulls it tight upon the head of the dead man.Then he strides over to the wagon occupied by the Krutzers.

  II.

  A flickering, sputtering candle, lights up the interior of a largecanvas-covered wagon. On a narrow pallet across one side of the vehicle,a man tosses and groans, now and then turning his haggard face, andstaring, blood-shot eyes, upon a woman who crouches near him, holdingupon her knees a child of two summers, who slumbers peacefully throughthe storm, with its fair baby face upturned to the flickering candle. Inthe corner, opposite the woman, lies a boy of perhaps ten years, ragged,unkempt, and fast asleep.

  A blaze of lightning and a rush of wind cause the man to cry outnervously, and then to exclaim, peevishly:

  "Oh, I wish the morning would come; this is horrible!"

  "Hush, Krutzer," says the woman, in a low, hissing whisper; "you actlike a fool."

  She bends forward and lays the sleeping child beside the dirty boy inthe corner. Then she lifts her head and listens.

  "Hush!" she whispers again; "they are astir outside; I hear themtalking. Ah! some one is coming."

  "Mrs. Krutzer."

  It is the voice of Walter Parks, and this time the woman parts the tentflap and looks out.

  "Is that you, Mr. Parks? I thought I heard voices out there. Is thestorm doing any damage?"

  "Not at present. Is Krutzer awake?"

  She glances toward the form upon the pallet; it is shivering as with anague. Then she says, unhesitatingly:

  "Krutzer has been in such misery since this storm came up, that I'vejust given him morphine. He ain't exactly asleep, but he's stupid andflighty; get into the wagon, Mr. Parks, and see how he is for yourself.Poor man; this is the fifth day of his rheumatism, and he has not stoodon his feet once in that time."

  The visitor hesitates for a moment, then drawing nearer and lowering histone somewhat, he says:

  "If Krutzer is in a bad state now, he had better not know what I havecome to tell. Can he hear me as I speak?"

  "No; not if you don't raise your voice."

  "Pearson is dead, Mrs. Krutzer."

  She starts, gasps, and then, with her head protruding from the canvas,asks, huskily:

  "How? when? who?--"

  "We found him up by the rocks, lying on his blanket--"

  "Killed?"

  "Killed; yes."

  "How--how?" she almost gasps.

  "There is a burn upon his head. Menard says it was a stroke oflightning."

  "Oh," she sighs, and sinks back in the wagon, turning her head to lookat the form upon the pallet.

  "Mrs. Krutzer."

  She leans toward him again and listens mutely.

  "We--Menard, Joe Blakesly, and myself--will watch to-night with thebody. We know very little about Pearson, and the little one; what canyou tell us?"

  "Not much;" clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. "It was likethis: Pearson joined our train just before we crossed Bear Creek--beyondthe reserve, you know. That was three weeks before we left the others,to join your train. The child was ailing at the time, and so Pearson putit in my charge, most of the other women having more children than I totake care of. I liked the little thing, and it did not seem a trouble tome; so after a while Pearson offered to pay me, if I would look afterit until we struck God's country. But I would not let him pay me, forthe baby seems like my own."

  "And _now_, Mrs. Krutzer?"

  "I am coming to that. Pearson told us, at the first, that the littlegirl was not his; that its father was a miner back among the mountains.Its mother was dead, and the father, who was an old friend of Pearson's,had put it in his care, to be taken to New York, where its relativeslive. Pearson was obliged to quit mining, you know, on account of hishealth."

  "Yes; do you know the address of the child's friends?"

  "Yes; it's an aunt, her father's sister. About two weeks ago--I thinkPearson must have had a presentiment or something of the kind--he cameto me, and gave me a letter and a package, saying that if anythinghappened to him during the trip, he wanted me to see the little girlsafely in the hands of her relatives. The letter was from the baby'sfather, and the packet contained the address of the New York people, andenough money to pay my expenses after I leave the wagon train. Ipromised Pearson that I would take care of the child and put her safe inher aunt's hands, and so I will--but, Oh, dear! I never expected to beobliged to do it."

  A hollow groan breaks upon her speech; the man upon the pallet iswrithing as if in intensest agony. The woman makes a signal ofdismissal, and drops the canvas curtain.

  Walter Parks hesitates a moment, and then, as a second groan greets hisear, turns and strides away.

  III.

  The clouds hang overhead like a murky canopy. The wind is sighing itselfto sleep. The rain has ceased, but large drops drip dismally from thegreat branches that lately sheltered Arthur Pearson's death-bed.

  Beside the rocks, three men are standing. It is three o'clock in themorning. Two of the three men bend down to examine something which thethird, lighted by a lantern, has just taken from the wet ground at hisfeet.

  It is a small thing to excite so much earnest scrutiny; only the halfburned fragment of a lucifer match.

  "Boys," says Walter Parks, solemnly, swinging the lantern upon his armand carefully wrapping the bit of match in a paper as he speaks, "poorPearson was never killed by lightning. That sear upon his forehead wasmade by the simple application of a burning match. _I've_ seen menkilled by lightning."

  "But you said--"

  "No matter what I said _then_, Joe; what I _now_ say to you and Menardis _the truth_. You have promised to keep what I am about to tell you asecret, and to act according to my advice. Menard, Blakesly, _ArthurPearson has been foully murdered_!"

  "No!"

  "Parks, you are mad!"

  "You will believe the evidence of your own senses, boys. I am going toprove what I assert."

  "But who? how?--"

  "Who?--ah, that's the question! There are ten men of us; if the guiltyparty belongs to our train, we will
ferret him out if possible. If wewere to gather all our party here, and show them how poor Pearson methis death, the assassin, if he is among us, would be warned, and perhapsescape."

  "True."

  "Boys, I believe that the assassin _is_ among us; but I have not thefaintest suspicion as to his identity. We are ten men brought togetherby circumstances. We three have known each other back there in themining camps. The others are acquaintances of the road; good fellows sofar as we know them: but nine of us ten are innocent men; _one is amurderer_! Come, now, and let me prove what I am saying."

  As men who feel themselves dreaming; silently, slowly, with anxiousfaces, they follow their leader to the wagon where the dead man liesalone.

  "Get into the wagon, boys; here, at this end, and move softly."

  It is done and the three men crouch close together about the body of thedead.

  "Hold the lantern, Joe. There, Menard lift his head."

  Silently, wonderingly, they obey him.

  Then Walter Parks removes the cap from the lifeless head, andshudderingly parts away the thick hair from about the crown.

  "Hold the lantern closer, Joe. Look, both of you; do you see _that_?"

  They bend closer; the lantern's ray strikes upon something tiny andbright.

  "My God!" cries Joe Blakesly, letting the lantern fall and turning awayhis face.

  "Parks, what--_what_ is it?"

  "A _nail_! Touch it, boys; see the hellish cleverness of the crime;think what the criminal must be, to drive that nail home with one blowwhile poor Pearson lay sleeping, and then to rearrange the thick hair soskillfully. That was before the storm, I feel sure. If we had found himsooner, there might have been no mark upon his forehead. Then we, in ourignorance, would have called it heart disease, and poor Pearson wouldhave had no avenger. After the storm, the cunning villain crept back,struck a match, and applied it to his victim's temple. And but for anaccident, we would all have agreed that he was killed by alightning-stroke."

  Menard lays the head gently back upon the damp hay and asks,shudderingly:

  "How did you discover it, Parks?"

  "In examining the sear, you may remember, I brushed the hair away fromthe temple. As I ran my fingers through it, I touched--that."

  They look from one to the other silently for a moment, and then JoeBlakesly says:

  "Has he been robbed?"

  "Let us see;" Menard says, "he wore a money-belt, I know. Look for it,Parks."

  Parks examines the body, and shakes his head.

  "It's gone; has been cut away. The belt was worn next the flesh; theprint of it is here plainly visible. The belt has been taken, and theclothing replaced!"

  "What coolness! what cunning! Shall we ever run the fellow down, Parks?"

  "_Yes!_ Boys, you know why I am leaving the mountains. I am going hometo England, to be near my father who must die soon. I am not a poorman; I shall some day be richer still. If _we_ fail to find thismurderer, I shall put the matter in the hands of the detectives, _and Iwill never give it up_. Arthur Pearson met his death while traveling forsafety with a party which calls me its leader, and _I will be hisavenger_! It may be in one year, or two, or twenty; it may take afortune, and a lifetime; _but Arthur Pearson shall be avenged_!"

  "Hold the lantern closer, Joe. Look both of you; do yousee _that_?"--page 19.]